Had one of those tender verbal exchanges between husband and wife today. On our way back from church.. went a little something like this:
Me: So... honey do these pants look ok on me... you know, do they make my butt look big? Him: No..but they do accentuate them. Me: THEM!?!?! Him: Huh? Me: Is my butt soooo big you have to refer to it in plural? THEM?!? Him: No.. well you know..cheeks.. oh dammit.
As a first-time parent, you will spend nearly half of your waking hours trying to figure out How To Make Things Okay with your child. Any number of things can cause your child to launch into a crying fit and it's your job to assess Why and What to do to resolve the issue as quickly as possible. The more frustrating the issue, such as uncontrollable out of the blue temper tantrums, the greater the joy when you resolve it. Perhaps you end a tantrum by playing Watch Daddy Dance With Underwear on His Head (not that I would ever do that). And maybe the Underwear Dance stops the tantrum cold and makes Everything Okay. Well, before you get too excited and start making a mental note of how to stop the tantrums with the Underwear Dance, you might want to think twice. What worked today, will not necessarily work tomorrow. In fact, I can almost guarantee you that it won't. Your child is just as likely to scream bloody murder the next time they see you don a pair of underwear on your head. (Not that I know from firsthand knowledge).
"Nicolaus...why are you naked?" "Well you SAID I could change out of those regular clothes when we got home. This is my Indian costume." "Okay but why are you naked?" "I'm not. I'm wearing a shirt." "Right but I can totally see your -" "I'm also wearing my headband. See? That is so people will know I'm a real Indian and not just a boy with no pants."
Ya know what, Target guy, I know I look like a crazy person pushing a cart of screaming boys, wearing a black turtleneck sweater, red booty shorts with "HO HO HO" on the butt, and black boots with knee high Hello Kitty socks, but listen to me, look into my eyes, if you don't go in the back and tell me if you have toddler size 8 Lightning McQueen crocs to replace the ones the pug ate this morning, I will rip your beating heart from your chest rightfuckingnow go, go, GO!
My god, how I hate to shop for clothes. In the first place, I live in a desperately unstylish city. People here cling to the completely pointless and false notion that we are "outdoorsy" and "active" and enjoy "hiking" and "rock-climbing" and eating "gorp" and cooking over "campfires" and ... oh, sorry, for a minute there I thought I was Chris Farley. That's what happens when you're in a fitting room and see your ass in the three-way mirror. A person was not meant to look at her own ass. That's why it's in the back.
I sent the child upstairs this morning to get dressed, with the instruction "Wear pants. You're going on a field trip." She came back down in a skirt with tights (and an undershirt OVER a long-sleeved shirt, but that's another tale). I said "I told you to wear pants." "But" said she, "tights are like pants with socks attached." Inarguable.
I discovered something today at a popular department store: I don't need a new bathing suit to make me look like I just had a baby. I can do that in a bathing suit I bought last summer. Aaaaany old suit will do.
Control top pantyhose should be a girl's best friend, but they're really not. They make all types of hose, but a woman my age always goes for the control-top variety. Control top, put another way, means "cram all the fat in one neat little package so nothing wobbles around too much and hurts anybody." They should put that right on the box. I estimate I burned a hundred calories getting them on, so that's a plus. But once you're in them and the elastic band takes hold above the midsection, there is nowhere for an expanding, after-dinner stomach to go but straight out. Lovely.
Shopping for jeans is not for sissies. I spent one and a half hours yesterday trying on thirty pairs of jeans to find one that fit. Yes, thir-TEE! If jeans shopping were an Olympic event, I'd have won a gold medal.
I ran out to pick up a second bathing suit at lunch — at my only option, your friend and mine, TJ Maxx — and once again, my Darwinian failings reared their ugly head when I opted to try on some suits immediately after stuffing a cupcake in my gaping maw. Cupcake belly = not flattering, unless you’re planning on buying a Spandex muumuu, and even then, it had better be of the Miracle Suit variety, preferably with steel reinforcements.
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