It's Organic

I was a healthy eater before I became an organic eater.

After all, I've always liked whole grains, brown rice, lentils, green veggies, and fresh fruit.

I used dairy, fats, and meat sparingly, and I always bought lean cuts, etc.

But still, things kept nagging at me.

How cattle was raised. How chickens were cooped.

How the food we ate was filled with protein. And hormones.

How the vegetation I munched on was filled with vitamins. And chemicals.

And this was after I had read all the research linking certain pesticides, chemicals, and injected hormones - all things used in United States food sources to grow and produce our figurative meat and potatoes - to behavioral issues in children, to infertility, to cancer, to autistic-spectrum disorders, and to a shortened life span.

While Americans were busy fighting fat and calories, we were ignoring other hidden factors that were killing us faster than (and sometimes aiding and abetting) obesity.

And I knew it. After all, I'd seen the documentaries. I'd done the research.

And, yet, I hadn't made the switch.

I still bought the cheapest eggs. The most affordable cuts of meat. And the veggies that had been sprayed with God knows what but were distinctly cheaper than the shelf of food tucked away in the corner of our grocery store that cost an arm and a leg simply because they were labelled "organic."

Why? Why the heck did I ignore what my mind and heart knew to be true?

Cost. Price. The almighty dollar.

Committing to a locally grown, organic diet can be ridiculously expensive.

And, as a young single woman and then as a newlywed, I thought, without a doubt, that I couldn't afford it.

So, I didn't. I dismissed what I knew and moved on.

It was only later, when the hubs and I started talking about having kids, that I remembered all that research I'd read. On how my fertility could be affected by the hormones used to plump up our chickens and how my baby was more likely to have behavioral disorders and issues if she was exposed to too many pesticides both in and out of the womb.

So, I did it. I made the jump.

We are, according to my estimations, a 90-percent organic household. All our meat is locally grown/grass-fed and/or organic. Our dairy, which we eat very, very little of, is all organic. And about 90-percent of the produce and grains we buy are organic.

It was, and still is, surprisingly easy for us to maintain this lifestyle. And, trust me, we don't make a ton of money. In fact, we are on the strictest of budgets.

So, it makes sense that I get asked a lot about how we do it. How we afford it. How we finally made a change that, dollars-and cents-wise, seemed to guarantee we'd be a bit more broke at the end of the month.

Today, I wanted to share with you a few of my tips. For those of you who asked. And for those of you are considering making a few switches in your food sources. I promise you, it's easier (and cheaper) than you think.

***

1. Make it a priority

When it comes down to it, and you're staring at ground beef that costs you $3 a pound compared to $6 a pound, it's hard to turn down the cheaper item, even if it's not as good for you.

To resist that cheap temptation, you first have to make eating organically a priority. You have to budget for it. You have to decide you want to do this for your body and the bodies' belonging to your family members.

Remind yourself that eating this way will cost you less in health-care. Remind yourself that it's a pro-active step toward a healthy lifestyle rather than a re-active step, like medication, radiation, or hormone injections. Remind yourself that your child will be more successful in a classroom, social circles, and as an adult.

Do what you have to do. Decide why it's important to you. And then repeat that to yourself over and over until you believe it.

It's easier, then, to cut corners in your budget elsewhere, or accept the fact that you may have to say good-bye to your deli-cut turkey and ham, which just happens to be filled with cancer-causing nitrates and nitrites.

Realize it's a gift you're giving your family and yourself, and then go make your shopping list.

2. Buy in bulk

Our local Costco carries organic beef, chicken, blueberries, carrots, juices, chicken broth, cheese, milk, nuts, rice, butter, pasta, canned tomatoes, oatmeal, etc. And my membership there costs less than $60 a year.

But I can buy organic, grass-fed beef for under $4 a pound. And I can buy organic brown rice cheaper than I can buy plain rice at a regular store.

Bulk stores take planning and time, granted. After a trip, I divide up my meat into meal-sized portions, store my grains in air-tight containers, and freeze what veggies and fruits we can't eat quickly enough.

But it's worth it, as many bulk stores are realizing the market they have with organic-minded shoppers and are offering deals on things that regular grocery stores are charging upwards of $2 to $3 more a unit for.

3. Find a local source

Our farmer's market always has vendors boasting organic produce. We even have a meat guy, who takes orders for what you want one week, and bring back steaks, ground beef, and sausages all made from locally raised, grass-fed cattle the next.

Almost every city I know has some kind of co-op, where you can pay a certain amount of month, and a farmer will supply you with a box of locally grown produce. (Some co-ops incorporate dairy, eggs, and meat, too. And there are dry-foods co-ops, where you can buy grains, cereals, etc.)

Local sources cans sometimes be a bit more expensive than a grocery store, but it's still cheaper than many health-food sources, and it's always locally grown. (Even if food isn't organic, locally grown food normally has less chemicals and pesticides used on it, so it's a better option than those carrots grown in Guatemala you'll find sitting on your grocery store shelves.)

4. Use coupons at health-food stores

I love me a good health-food store. But man, are they expensive.

In fact, I partially blame the snooty, better-than-you-because-my-cereal-costs-7-bucks-a-box mentality of chains like Whole Foods for the reason eating healthy and organically has gotten such an expensive rap.

Still, you can find bargains at most health-food chains.

I, for one, use coupons. The stores often have booklets of them throughout the aisles, and you can also find them online.

Also, sign up for any rewards program they have. You'll get e-mails about deals and sometimes, at some places, build up points.

And always ask for discounts. Our chain health-food store offers a military discount, a senior discount, and a student discount. With coupons and our military discount, I've bought grass-fed steaks for less than I'd pay for a cheap, hormone-injected cut of meat at a Super Wal-Mart.

Lastly, use a health-food store as a last resort. I only shop at them when they have items I need that I can't get anywhere else or when I have coupons I know will get me a steal. Other than that, I leave my organic hunting for stores elsewhere.

5. Don't count out big business

I mock Wal-Mart, and really, I'm not a huge fan.

But they, too, are hopping on the organic band-wagon. Last time I was there, I found organic lettuce, spinach, cereal, garlic, and eggs.

Other grocery stores are following suit.

So scout them out and ask a store representative what organic product they carry and where they keep it.

6. Find an organic buddy

Sometimes, it's cheapest to buy organic product in the largest amount possible. Especially if you're buying into a co-op or at a bulk goods store.

But most of us probably don't need 50 pounds of organic quinoa.

So find someone to split it with.

Sure, you'll have to divvy it up yourselves, but you'll be saving a boatload per unit (and you'll never have to buy quinoa again.)

***

Honestly, my grocery bill is not the cheapest out there. But it's also nowhere near as expensive as other people's I've seen, organic-minded or not.

I promise you, you can do it. Even if you're only switching out a quarter of your groceries for more locally grown, organic items, you're going to notice a difference in how you feel, and you'll reap the benefits of well-grown and-raised food.

Before you know it, it will just become a way of life.

It will become second-nature.

Organic, if you will.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

I'm Back, Baby: How I Almost Threw Down for a Tank Top

I've always liked to shop.

Granted, I clip coupons, use discount codes, and generally refuse to purchase anything unless it's on sale.

But I do like to do it.

And before I was pregnant, hardly a weekend went by where there wasn't something little I picked up at a store. For myself, for my husband, for our house.

It's just kind of what I did. I don't use credit cards, and I pay for everything directly out of pocket, so in reality, I've never put us into financial jeopardy, thanks to my shopping.

I wouldn't call myself a shop-a-holic. But, still, I like to shop.

And, then, we wanted to get pregnant.

Without even realizing out, trying to conceive put my shopping habit pretty much to a halt.

I wouldn't buy clothes because "What if I get pregnant this month? I won't even be able to wear them through an entire season."

I wouldn't buy decor because "We don't need more clutter in our house when we may have to make room for baby stuff soon."

And I wouldn't even venture out to buy any of my random weekend purchases because I was too busy laying on the floor doing things like self-acupressure and other craziness that women trying to get pregnant do in blind hope that they'll enhance their fertility and such.

Well, you can blame the acupressure or the fact that I simply stopped shopping - and thus, had more time for baby-making - but we did get pregnant.

And the shopping never took back up.

True, I bought some maternity clothes, but not a ton.

And before long, when I was out on the now-rare retail trip, I was only purchasing onesies and hooded towels and booties that boasted my alma mater's mascot because obviously, those are the essentials when you're thinking about raising a child.

I started ignoring e-mails from Ann Taylor and the Gap, and instead fastidiously checked the daily deals posted on Babyhalfoff.com or Baby Steals.

It got to the point that I hadn't gone into a store in about nine months - in person or online - without literally and figuratively bee-lining directly for the baby section.

It was like a part of me was lost: I'd forgotten how to shop.

Then, a few weeks ago, we went to buy my husband some new pants for church.

As we were sorting through khakis and polo shirts, I innocently glanced over at the women's section and saw a tank top I loved.

I mean, a year ago, I'd have snapped that thing up without a second glance. It was so my style and so on sale.

But that day, I just glanced at it, wistfully.

I turned to my husband, who was debating the oh-so-tough decision of darker or lighter tan khakis, and said, "I miss shopping for normal clothes."

I'm pretty sure he rolled his eyes at me. Because I didn't say anything else, and we bought his khakis and went on our way.

Fast-forward to the next week, when, digging through my closet for workout shorts that fit me nine months pregnant, I happened to glance up at my hangers.

My hangers full of dresses. And tops. And capri pants. And skirts.

It took me years and years to get comfortable dressing my body type. So, the collection of clothing I've amassed? I love it. And I hadn't worn a stitch of it in more than half a year.

Silly, right? Missing your wardrobe?

I thought so, too.

So, again, I moved on. I found running shorts with an elastic waist and set off for work.

Then, this weekend, I got an e-mail from my former go-to: Old Navy.

Pre-baby-belly, I was an expert Old Navy shopper. I had amassed coupon codes and discounts for their merchandise up the wazoo, plus, I'd figured out their "sale cycle," and, well, I could walk out of there sometimes with dresses and tops and shorts for $3 or $4 a piece.

But pregnancy put a halt to all that.

I'd even stopped reading their e-mails.

Still, this one caught my eye.

Their merchandise, thanks to Memorial Day, was going to be super-dee-duper marked down. Clearance, especially. But the whole store was supposedly on some sort of sale. Plus, I remembered that I had an extra discount coupon from them from when I bought maternity clothes there back in the fall.

Not to mention that we have an Old Navy outlet here in town.

So, I stopped. I re-read the e-mail. And I thought long and hard about it.

I have less than a month till this baby comes. In fact, she could come soon. Like "in a few days" soon.

And, before I can even say "push," I'm not going to be pregnant anymore.

Instead, I'm going to be toting around a baby 24-7 and breast-feeding like a mad woman.

And, as ready as I am emotionally and mentally for that, I realized I wasn't ready physically. Or, rather, aesthetically.

I mean, I have a wardrobe that is school-teacher appropriate, i.e., high-necklines, slim-cut pants, and not-so-breathable fabrics.

Nothing about the clothing I wore last year says baby-friendly or booby-accessible.

It was also likely to make me sweat bullets if I had to strap a baby to me and walk around the Deep Southern town we like to call home.

In addition, the other part of my wardrobe is all workout gear.

Tight sports bras, racerback tank tops in teeny sizes, and small yoga shorts, i.e., nothing you'd want to wear post-baby. In July. When things are still a little jiggly and your boobs are constantly on parade every two to three hours.

I literally started to panic.

I had nothing to wear (and I was already sick of my maternity clothes.)

So, when my husband came home, I all but begged him, "I think I need to go shopping. I need clothes that I can wear right after she's born and that I can breast-feed in."

I don't know if it was the look on my face or the abject fear in my voice, but he gave in rather quickly.

And no sooner had we awoken on Saturday but were we at Old Navy's Memorial Day sale.

Now, granted, shopping for your post-baby body, when you're still pregnant, isn't for the faint of heart.

Lucky for me, I've pretty much remained the same size everywhere save my waist and tummy.

So, I was able to try on things - think stretchy-waisted linen capris and sundresses - in the sizes I'd normally wear not pregnant, and most fit (even if they are just a hair too tight on the belly. For now.)

I did go up one size on a few things, like workout tank tops and some maxi dresses, mostly to allow me to shrug off one shoulder and give Baby Girl easy, modest boob access.

Now, I wasn't brave enough to try on any shorts or bathing suits. I'm not crazy enough to think my body will spring back to completely normal immediately, and I pretty much hate all shorts and bathing suits anyway.

But I did it. I went shopping. I felt like my old self again. I was actually excited that I'd managed to shop for and fit into non-maternity clothes.

And, then, it all came to a screeching halt.

As I was surveying what I'd accumulated while doing some rough "How much have I spent?" math in my head, a woman walked up to me.

And, without even a moment's hesitation, she took one of the sleeveless tops I was holding directly out of my hand.

I was bit taken aback, but almost immediately thought there must have been some simple misunderstanding.

Until she said, "I wanted that, and it's not like you're going to need that anytime soon."

I just stared at her. She stared back. For one of the few times in my life, I was literally struck dumb.

I only finally managed to end what had to be the world's longest, pregnant pause by whispering, "Well, actually, I'm looking for clothes that will fit while I get back to my normal size once my baby is born in a few weeks."

Then, in a confrontational move I didn't know I possessed, I. took. the. tank. top. back.

The woman kept staring. Or, rather, sneering. Her upper lip was raised in a look of disgust as she glanced from me, to the arm full of clothes I was holding, to my big, pregnant belly.

I thought I was going to cry.

And the urge to whimper worsened when another shopper close by snorted with laughter and looked directly at me, like I didn't know I was huge and waddling and awkwardly bending down to pick up the things I'd dropped while holding up a peasant blouse over my giant middle.

But, still, I held my ground. I tried to remain aloof and keep the tears out of my eyes.

And, in the middle of the awkward silence, I thought up about a billion retorts that I kept to myself:

"Look, lady, you're the same size as me, and I'm 37 weeks pregnant. What makes you think you'll be able to wear that any time soon?"

Or, "Do you really think you can pull off that?"

Or, "Don't you think that's a little inappropriate for a woman of your age?"

Still, I didn't. I'm a lady (and at least classy on the outside.) Plus, I was thisclose to crying - a nasty habit I have when I start to get angry.

Plus, we were obviously at a stalemate.

I stared at her, the much-coveted tank top in a vice grip. She sneered right back, making ugly eyes at my baby bump.

Until, finally, she turned around and walked away, rolling her eyes and calling me a name I shall not repeat.

The tank top was mine. The show-down was mine. Victory was mine. Huzzah!

Huge, pregnant, and all, I was back.

***

I have to say, it felt pretty good.

Granted, my self-esteem took a bit of a blow, as I've never felt more cow-like as I waddled out of the store, purchases in hand, knowing what others apparently think of pregnant women shopping for normal-sized clothing.

Still, I made out really well. Thanks to coupons and discounts and clearance, I spent under $100 and gathered two big bags full of stuff, including the now-infamous tank top.

I was relieved I didn't actually cry nor did I give into Old Navy's resident bully.

And, instead, I went home and cleaned out my closet, getting rid of three garbage bags full of clothing that I hadn't worn recently nor would ever wear as a mommy, and putting away my new finds in the drawers and sections of my closet I'd organized as "breast-feeding-friendly." (What? Not everyone organizes their wardrobes according to booby accessibility?)

Mommy body or not, I'm back, baby.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Never Let It Be Said...

...That I don't love my husband.

Because in my big consignment shopping spree last week, I put down many a cute, ruffly, sweet little dress that I would have loved-loved-loved for Baby Girl to wear.

I was trying to be reasonable and practical and not spend our life savings all in one day on 3-6 month little girl clothing.

But one of the things I did pick up? One of the things I did keep in my basket, and one of the things I did actually purchase at the end of the day?

What makes it worse is that this is actually a little boy's outfit. Sigh. Be still my pink-ruffled-loving heart.

Oh, yeah.

You read that right. Baby Girl's got her very own set of Arkansas Razorback basketball duds.

I get nauseous just looking at them, to be perfectly honest.

But when I brought them home, my husband positively beamed.

Sigh.

I'm still debating if it was worth it.

***

For those of you keeping track, this means the hubs is winning.

Currently, Baby Girl owns two Arkansas Razorbacks outfits and only one piece of clothing rep-ping my alma mater, the University of Florida Gators.

It's a crying shame.

And if I was stuck anywhere other than South Carolina, i.e., enemy territory, I would rectify this situation post haste.

Still, in the mean time, my husband's gloating.

He thinks he's won the battle.

Little does he know that I'll win the war.

Because currently? I'm on the hunt for the world's most obnoxious and spirited orange-and-blue infant tutu, which Baby Girl will be sporting on the opening day of college football season like it's her job.

This uncomfortable imbalance will not last for long.

Soon, the natural order of things will be restored (in all their orange and blue finery) and all will be right in my world once again.

***

Seriously, if you know anyone who makes baby tutus, I'm interested. Send them my way ASAP.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

A Consignment Groupie

I've never been much of a fan.

I haven't camped out for concert tickets for my favorite band.

I've never slept outside a movie theater to be the first in line on opening night.

In fact, I'll admit that I've even laughed at "Trekkies" or "Star-War-ies" or those people who dress up in character to attend a midnight showing of some cult classic. (Here's looking at you, Twilight Fans.)

It's just not my style. I've never been intense enough; I've never been into it enough to give up my precious money and time to do all that it takes to really go out of my way to make something like that happen, to be present at a moment that is semi-historical and/or momentous to any true fan worth their salt.

Until Wednesday.

On Wednesday, I ate my humble pie.

Because after getting word last month that our city was having a huge baby and children's consignment sale, I know this was something that I was interested in.

After hearing that pregnant mommies got special bonus shopping hours, my curiosity was peaked.

And after learning that several of my pregnant and new mommy friends were interested in going with me, I realized this sale was right up my alley.

Then I learned how truly awesome the sale was. How amazing the mark-downs were. How gently used all the gently used items were.

And I was sold.

Already a girl who enjoys her fair share of second-hand bargain-hunting, I now had a glean in my eye the likes of which I'd never a seen.

A glean in my eye that said, "Watch out world! I need baby gear at bargain basement prices, and I've finally found a way to get it! I am on a mission!"

Which is why, on Wednesday afternoon, I grabbed several good pregnant girlfriends of mine.

We packed coolers full of food.

We grabbed camping chairs.

And we caravan-ed over to the consignment sale site.

Four hours early.

Oh yes indeed, by 3:30 p.m., we had popped out camping chairs, broken out our snacks, and were chatting it up tail-gating-style right outside the baby sale.

By the time we went to wait in line, we were the first one's there.

Because of course, if I'm committed to something, I'm truly committed. I am plowing forward 100 percent. I don't halfway do anything, don't you know.

Which is why me and my three amigas were the first women in line, wearing matching T-shirts, mind you, and readily mapping out the best ways to get our top three needs - baby carriers, high chairs, and bouncy seats.

One woman tried to cut me, and I glared at her.

Another woman rolled her eyes at us, and my friend stared right back.

There we stood, armed with laundry baskets for stuffing and comfortable footwear for running. As one of my girlfriends said, "This isn't a battle; it's a war."

We were not messing around.

A beast I didn't know I had inside me had been unleashed.

I was like a new woman, ready to arm-wrestle another pregnant lady who dared to stand between me and that gently used bouncy seat I'd spotted from my vantage point at the door.

Those Twilight fans had nothing on me.

***

The good news is, it totally paid off.

I scored a high-end bouncy seat, a baby carrier, several outfits, and some beautiful wooden toys for all under $50.

And I didn't even make it through half of the room.

It was every bit of crazy as you can imagine.

Women were literally grabbing baby dresses by the fist fulls. Women were jockeying for the breast-feeding covers.

I even watched one very pregnant girl trying to wheel away three separate strollers.

It was crazy. And hysterical.

And if it hadn't been so financially worth it, I'd have been embarrassed to be a part of it.

But obviously I wasn't.

Because tonight? I'm going back. Me and my mommy posse in tow. We get to shop through whatever's left for 50 percent off before everything gets hauled off to Goodwill come Saturday morning.

This time, we'll likely leave the matching T-shirts at home. There won't be any pre-consignment tail-gating, either.

But I will be wearing my game face: My consignment-shopping, cheap-mom game face.

Now step away from that Boppy pillow, and no one gets hurt.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Apparently, I Am a Mom

Over the weekend, I ran into Target.

Which is basically like saying "Today, I opened my eyes."

Because let's just be honest here and admit that on any given weekend, at some point, you can find me at Target.

I'm all "I have an errand to run, so I'm gonna head out for an hour and run by Target, etc. I'll be right back, honey."

When in reality, what I actually mean is, "It's the weekend, and I like Target. So I may pick up one, two, or 10 things we don't need while I'm there, but just know that I'm really going to pace around my favorite store and relax and think about things that are not that serious or stiff or hard to talk about."

So, yeah, I went to Target this weekend. Like I always do.

I grabbed a pack of underwear - pregnancy has given my body the ability to single-handedly wreck a pair of panties after one use - and then set off for the baby section.

I paced back and forth amid the aisles of bottles and nipples and onesies and bibs. I grabbed a little sun hat and put it back. I picked up a pair of sweet little sandals I thought Baby Girl needed then put them back. I sorted through the clearance racks for something we couldn't live without and put it all back.

So, then, I moved on.

I walked all the way past the laundry detergent, art supplies, and gardening pots, and found myself in decor.

Home decor.

It had been my favorite section of Target. About six months ago.

But now, it seems, I rarely find myself there anymore.

At least that's what I've surmised, because as I walked the aisles of kitchen, bath, and bedding, I saw many a thing I'd never seen before.

And that's saying something. Because I normally know Target merchandise like the back of my hand.

Anyways, in kitchen-wares, I found an end-cap filled with a new line of dishes and serving-ware in royal blue and white.

They had a handmade, vintage-y quality about them. They were appropriate for spring time, but had a timelessness about them.

I loved them.

The pitcher. The platters. The stackable cake dishes. Even the little cow-shaped gravy boat.

I loved it all.

Furthermore, I wanted it all.

It was reasonably priced. Easily insert-able into my already-present home and kitchen decor. And just flexible enough that I could use it for a ton things.

Gah. I wanted them so bad.

I picked up every piece; I examined every price tag. I even began to budget out how I could justify buying not one, not two, not three, but four pieces of the serving-ware.

Which is what makes what happened in the next instant so surprising.

After holding up the cow-shaped, flowered gravy boat one more time, I grabbed my cart and walked away.

Empty-handed.

I didn't buy the gravy boat, a bowl, a platter, or even the four adorable little miniature dishes meant to serve grated salad toppings, etc.

I loved it all, and I didn't buy a thing.

All because, while staring at each adorable item, I just kept thinking, "But we still need a stroller. And a car seat. And a diaper bag. And a few more cloth diapers. And baby clothes. And..."

Seriously, it was like I had the constant run-down of our baby registry running through my mind, all while subliminally repeating to myself, "Babiesareexpensivebabiesareexpensivebabiesareexpensive."

I'm apparently very masochistic.

It's a new trait, one I didn't even know I had. Especially when shopping at my favorite store.

But the fact of the matter is, a year ago, that never would have happened.

A year ago, I'd probably have bought not one, not two, not three, but four pieces of that fun, royal-blue-and-white serving-ware.

A year ago, I'd have left the store with the things I wanted with barely a thought or twist of a guilty conscience.

But now, not so much.

Now, all I can think of is our baby.

Now, all I can wrap my mind around is, "Babies are expensive."

Now, it just seems selfish to buy something for myself. Something I don't really need. Something that serves no real purpose in helping further our growing little family.

So, now, I walked away.

A little haunted, but a little bit more aware that - holy cow! - I'm officially becoming a mom.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Shoppers Beware

Being a blogger has ruined me.

What with all the coupon codes, freebie deals, Etsy finds, and random tips I glean just by opening my inbox every day, I've turned into one of the laziest shoppers around.

I can sit on my couch, select and click, type in some code, and less than two weeks later, receive my purchases at my door, no questions asked.

It's a bargain shopper's dream.

Two years ago, I'd never have believed myself.

But now, it's a fact: I like online shopping.

I spend less money; my buck goes further, and I don't have to put on a bra, for fear of scaring off other shoppers with my freakishly small breasts.

Life on the Internet is good.

But sometimes - sometimes - you have to brave the real world. The actual, hands-on, bra-required stores where they sell things like toilet paper and hummus and apples and things most people can't just e-mail-order directly to their doors.

And this past weekend, I was faced with one such instance:

Baby registering.

Otherwise known as The Only Time in One's Life When You Can Justify Coveting a $20 Blanket the Size of Your Knee Because You Don't Have to Pay For It.

It seems like fun, in theory.

Unless you're a Type-A personality like me.

You see, I went in armed and dangerous.

I had a well-honed baby list of items I wanted to register for; items I wanted to buy myself; items I wanted to make myself, and items I have no real intention of ever using but feel like a bad parent if I don't at least put them on the registry.

The woman at Well-Known Baby Store thought I was insane.

Seriously, she was eye-ing me warily when she handed me the registry gun. She was giving my husband pitying looks.

She was afraid. Very, very afraid.

Meanwhile, I was resolute.

I traipsed off around the store, pointing at items to my husband, which he resolutely scanned in with the gun, while glibly checking things off my to-do list.

It was all going grandly.

Car-seat? Check. Pack-n-play? Check. Jogging stroller? Check.

And then we hit the minutiae.

The breast pads and the pacifiers and the swaddlers and the endless amounts of baby teethers.

My husband's eyes were starting to glaze over.

Meanwhile, I was beginning to sweat.

I mean, I'd done the research, but thanks to Baby Brain, I hardly remembered it all. Especially for all the little piddly stuff that a baby needs.

My head hurt from all the options, and I didn't know whether I should register for Sophie the Giraffe or the distinctly praised but less known Chan Pie Gnon nipple/mushroom/gnome teether.

I had forgotten which swaddlers and sleep sacks my friends had recommended.

And I was so confused by all my paci varieties that I simply skipped that entire aisle.

I wanted to cry right then and there.

Either that, or lay down mid-store and take a nap.

I'd suddenly become bone tired in a matter of minutes.

I kept trying to remind myself what my far more laid-back friends had told me: "You really don't have to have it all bought and arranged before the baby gets here. There will be time for that."

And I kept trying to listen to my husband, who by this time seemed to sense I was on the verge of a break-down, who kept telling me, "Both your parents and my parents will be here after the baby comes, and they'd both love nothing more than to run out and get this stuff if we decide we need it and don't have it."

But my Type-A-ness won out.

I felt like I was trapped in some impossible task. The sweating and the panicking and the crazy glances over my shoulder continued.

So, finally, we gave in.

I relinquished the gun and headed next door, to Well-Known Retail Store, where we also intended to register for just a few select things.

Except this time, I'd already lost my mojo.

I left my many lists in the car.

And when the sales representative handed me the gun, I simply walked onto the baby aisles and started zapping.

"This looks good." (Zap!)

"This will do." (Zap!)

"Let's just get the cheapest one." (Zapzap!)

I had lost all my luster.

My husband followed behind me, bewildered. He'd always known me as a woman who likes to shop.

But I was merely a very pregnant sliver of the girl I'd once been.

And then I met my doppelganger.

She, too, was six months pregnant.

She, too, was registering for baby stuff.

And she, too, was filled to the brim with safety specifications, advice, and handfuls of well-thought-out baby lists.

She was criss-crossing and cross-referencing and zap-zap-zap-ing to her little heart's content.

She was me two hours prior.

I took one look at her, turned to my husband, and uttered, "Let's go."

It took only one glance at the energy I'd had just hours before to fully drain me of any I'd had left.

And I didn't look back as I handed in our scanner and went home.

On the way home, I cried.

Not huge tears. But small, misty-eyed tears that came simply because I was so darn overwhelmed. And because I'm pretty sure a fresh batch of pregnancy hormones had kicked in earlier that day.

I wanted this baby more than anything, and I couldn't even pick out an appropriate pacifier for her.

The insane New Mom Guilt was at an all-time high.

***

I went home and took a nap; I felt like I'd run a marathon.

I awoke feeling much better.

So much better, in fact, that I decided to re-face my registries.

Online, this time.

Turns out, I'd done a pretty good job, anxiety attack aside.

I'd managed to get everything on my lists and then some.

I'd also avoided the dreaded registry pitfall I'd been warned off. ("Never register for clothes! Especially for little girls, people will buy them anyways, and they never actually buy the ones on your registry, so don't even waste your time!")

With a few clicks and changes, I managed to update a few funky things that had happened with the registry scanner, and all was right with my world.

I was reminded, yet again, why I prefer to shop online.

Then I took off my bra and raised it up high in a salute to all things that the World Wide Web has made so much easier for this mommy-to-be.

Now if I can only figure out how to get my toilet paper delivered with free shipping...

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Party People

I like a social gathering.

Food. Drink. Chatter. The occasional awkward dance move busted out for all to see.

Parties, as they're known in some circles, are fun.

But, recently, I've noticed an abundance of a certain type of party.

A particular kind of social gathering where only women attend.

And these women attending? They buy things.

Or, rather, they are expected to buy things.

Perhaps it's my age. Perhaps it's the fact that I live on a Navy base, and these little shindigs are super-popular among the military wives.

Heck, perhaps it's just the fact that everyone and their mother has expendable income except me.

But I swear on my mother's life, I've literally been invited to no less than 30 jewelry/cooking/candle/craft/romance/toy parties over the last two months.

Just like the Tupperware parties of yore, everyone is throwing them.

My clients. My friends. My friends of friends. My next-door neighbor. The girl down the street. A stranger I walk by in the grocery store.

If I can make it through a week without someone handing me a little primary-colored postcard inviting me to so-and-so's jewelry bash, or sending me a Facebook message reminding me to RSVP for yet another make-up party, it's been a good week.

It's catching, these parties.

And, really, I don't know what to do about it.

I mean, how many over-priced sets of costume-jewelry earrings does one girl need?

And thanks to the first candle party I attended - where I actually needed things for my home - I'm pretty much OK not buying anything that smells good and lights on fire for the next three years.

But still, I get more invitations for the exact same candle party, selling the exact same candle product, just at somebody else's house every. single. week.

Fitting these things into my social calendar alone is getting taxing.

Not to mention the fact that, sometimes, it can be downright awkward.

For instance, all the rage right now are these "romance parties," where, I imagine, they sell all sorts of things that are supposed to spice up our love lives.

Though I wouldn't know, as I've made it a patent rule not to attend any of those parties.

Especially considering so many of the people that invite me to them I don't know that well or, worse yet, are my clients.

I'm not about to sit around discussing S-E-X with relative strangers.

Especially pregnant.

Heck to the no.

Still, all manner of sexy parties aside, I'm not sure what to do about this phenomenon anymore.

You really can't attend a friend's party without buying at least something. And then, if you do attend one friend's party and buy something, then you have to attend another friend's party and buy something else.

I can only purchase so many of the "bargain" items out of the catalog before someone's going to notice my M.O.

At a $100-a-plate dinner and silent auction, I'm the girl that goes for the appetizers and makes the minimal donation to a charity.

Except it's not a charity. It's a woman, much like myself, selling foundation. And I already own three bottles of the foundation she's selling.

Frankly, I'm exhausted. This epidemic has to stop.

I can only come up with so many excuses. There aren't that many nice ways to say, "I just can't come because, frankly, I don't wanna."

I'm at a loss for what to do.

So, please, I'm begging you.

Somebody.

Anybody.

Throw me a real party. A party where there's food and drink and chatter and the occasional awkward dance move busted out for all to see.

Heck, I'll bring the awkward dance moves - are there any other kind when you're pregnant? - if someone promises to invite me over without hitting me up to buy something.

Because at this rate, I'm going to need to start a separate savings account for these parties.

Sheesh. Even in my college years, partying was never this expensive.

***

The ironic part about all of this? Months ago, I'd already agreed to host a P*mpered Ch*f party in March, mostly because it's a dear friend of mine who sells the stuff, and she is a stay-at-home mom trying to make a little extra money.

But also because, at no point during the party will anyone be attempting sell me or my guests a s*x toy.

I'm also going to be very, very clear that anyone attending does not have to feel pressured to buy a single item. They will not hurt my feelings if they simply eat and run.

In fact, if they do so, they may be me new hero.

Teach me your ways, oh wise one.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

A Shopping Discount

Hey, everyone!

Today, I'm over at my other blog, offering all Living in the Moment readers a special shopping discount.

I'll meet you over here!

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Love to Love You, IKEA

My husband is not the ultimate romantic.

Sure, he's a sweetheart. But wine and roses is not his normal M.O.

He prefers to show his affection by providing for me, listening to me, and investing in our life and future family together.

But he also belches and farts and insists on playing video games at some of the most inappropriate of times.

He loves me, but he's a man - a condition, it seems, that's incurable.

Which is why I was shocked when he surprised me a few days before our anniversary weekend with a romantic getaway.

We headed to Charlotte, N.C., where my husband had arranged for a romantic hotel room, a nice dinner, and movie tickets.

It was incredibly lovely.

But that wasn't the entire reason we went out of town - three hours away from home, at that - for just one night of romance together.

We actually went to Charlotte because it's the closest city to us that has this:
Oh, my husband. He's the only man that understands that the way to my heart is through cheap home decor and furnishings.

Now that's what I call romantic.

***

Thanks, baby, for a great weekend!

Happy Monday, everyone!

Inadvertent Shop-Lifting

While my college roomie Blair was here, we did our fair share of retail therapy.

Blair is starting work at a school up in New Jersey as a first-grade teacher this year.

And, as a newly retired teacher myself, I realized that all I own is classroom-appropriate clothing.

I needed something more casual in my wardrobe. And stat.

So, we set out shopping last week at all our favorite haunts: Old Navy, TJ Maxx, and Target.

Then, because we could, we hit the outlet stores here in town.

Blair found her weight in teacher's clothing.

And me? I found nothing.

Honestly, I was darn proud of myself, too. I made it in and out of several of my favorite outlet stores without spending a cent.

My restraint rivaled that of a nun, I tell you.

Until, that is, we headed home. And passed right by the G*p Outlet.

Admittedly, it's a personal weakness of mine. But with my chaste-like shopping abilities that day, I figured I was safe.

So we walked in the G*p's door, and I promptly fell in love with a deep-purple bohemian skirt draped on the store's front display.

Seeing as how it was positioned right in the front of the store, with nary a "Sale" sign to be found in the near proximity, I knew it wasn't marked down. It was new merchandise, in fact.

But I picked it up anyway, marveling at it's beauty, wondering how in the world the G*p had created a skirt that was so quintessentially "me."

I believe my exact words to Blair were, "It's like I just threw up and produced this skirt."

So I checked the price.

It was reasonable. A little expensive. But reasonable.

But, still, it was definitely not on sale.

Which, basically, breaks every shopping rule in my book.

I don't buy anything unless it's on sale.

Groceries? Sure. Gas? Vitamins? OK.

That stuff, I'll pay full-price for.

But clothing? Vacations? Any and all non-necessary, semi-luxury items? They better be marked down or clearance-d if they want this consumer's business.

But this skirt? I loved. I mean, I adored it. It was so cute. And so me.

So I picked it up and took it about the store with me.

I grabbed a pair of shorts and a tank top; tried the shorts on and remembered yet again why I don't wear shorts; OK-d the cute, discounted tank, and headed to the register, my rationale being that perhaps God would smile upon me and allow my precious skirt to ring up as inadvertently marked down.

I marched up to the counter with Blair in tow and handed the cashier - a young 19-year-old guy - the tank top and skirt.

He looked non-plussed, so I figured I'd just be straight with him:

"Before you ring me up, can you check the price on this skirt? I'm hoping I'll get lucky, and it's marked down. But if it's not, I don't want it. I really only want to buy it if it's on sale."

The guy nodded at me and proceeded to price-check. But not before my friend Blair, always the requisite joker, spoke up:

"Actually, if you could just mark it down for us, that would be awesome. Can you do that? Do you have that kind of power? Could you just give us a discount? I mean, why not? Right?"

The cashier stopped and pondered what seemed to be our very existence.

Then, quietly, he whispered, "Actually, I can. If anyone asks, you're a Triple-A member."

And he rang the skirt up with a 20-percent discount.

I gasped and clapped my hands with glee. Blair thanked him profusely.

Then, he proceeded to total my purchases and bag up my skirt with the tank top.

Realizing what was happening, I jumped in with my fair dose of naivete.

"Oh, um, you forgot to ring up my tank top," I said.

"Shhhhh!" he exclaimed, not rectifying his mistake at all and popping the now-free shirt into my shopping bag anyway.

Blair nodded her head sagely, as if this happens to her all the time. I stared, shocked.

So, of course, I had to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As he ran my debit card, I whispered to him, "Has the G*p wronged you in some way recently or something?"

He laughed and scoffed.

"Of course they have! But I only have four more days working here and then I leave for school! What are they going to do with me now? Fire me? Bring it on!"

I laughed uproariously at this point, thanked the poor kid again, and whispered to Blair, "Lesson learned for the day: Don't work at the G*p."

We then made it out the door before bursting into shocked and semi-scared laughter.

I told Blair that the poor kid must really hate his summer job, or that we're just a lot cuter than we thought.

Blair nodded in agreement, and then we chuckled onward.

But we sobered up pretty quickly, too.

Our collective conscience, it seemed, had finally caught up with us.

I turned to Blair and asked, "Seriously, did we just aid and abet a theft?"

Blair wondered if hidden cameras had caught our semi-illicit actions.

And I worried that, just by asking for a discount, we'd led that poor young college student astray, down a path of theft and corporate deception he'd never recover from.

I don't want that kind of guilt on my head, I tell you.

Granted, we didn't turn around, head back to the store, or take back the clothing. Obviously, we weren't feeling that guilty.

Instead, we drove away, and I've wore both of my new G*p items over the past few days.

But, admittedly, not without a little bit of self-loathing.

Should I have insisted on paying for the shirt? Was I out-of-line asking for special treatment in the first place?

Or, in reality, was it just smart shopping? Is this what the Gap deserves for supposedly treating their employees so poorly?

Perhaps it never hurts to ask. Or perhaps I'll pay for this later in life.

By, say, paying full-price on all future shopping endeavors.

Oh, the shame.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

And just in time for Mother's Day...

I got to spend Saturday with my best friend, Sherri, and her newborn son, Samuel.

Samuel - the most precious little baby boy I've ever met, who stole my heart when I raced to his birth almost six weeks ago.

I am Auntie Brittany, and I am proud.

So, as his devoted auntie, when I'm with him, I spend every minute I can holding him and talking to him and whispering to him how much I love him.

Because I do.

Because he's the firstborn of my best friend, and it goes without saying that anything that comes out of her is basically half mine.

Or, at least, that's what others seem to think.

Because this Saturday - in some sort of horrible shout-out to Mother's Day - while Sherri's husband, Jesse, went to a weekend class, Samuel and I took the new momma bathing-suit shopping.

Because who wouldn't want to squeeze themselves into exposing neon Lyrca in an effort to celebrate motherhood?

Cruel as that is, though, that's not the point of today's story...

So, there we were, strolling the section of Target for the scantily clad.

While Sherri grabbed every tankini they make, I consoled a cranky Samuel.

I'm doing the whole jostle-swish-rub-pat-bounce-singsong routine that all grown women revert to when desperately trying to get an awake baby asleep, when a lovely young couple with a baby of their own walks up to inspect the 6-week-old I'm holding.

They cooed; they admired.

They were very complimentary.

They asked questions about his birth date, his weight, his length, etc.

And like any good friend, I answered the questions for Sherri while she nodded and smiled and tried to surreptitiously grab a polka-dotted one-piece while giving them her full attention.

Then, there was an awkward pause.

The husband looked at us and smiled; the wife grinned from ear to ear.

Obviously, they had something to say.

And then, the man finally got it out:

'Well, you two make a beautiful baby together."

Uh-oh.

Either the couple was trying very hard to figure out exactly what our "situation" was, or something had gone terribly wrong when they took Sex Ed 101 back in sixth grade.

Insert awkward pause here.

What to do? What to do? I thought.

So I did what I always do when the right words escape me: I laughed.

I also managed to throw out something along the lines of, "Oh no, my friends' made a beautiful baby together. Not me and her. Now I just get to enjoy him," in between giggles.

Which, come to think of it, probably made it worse.

Still, I was trying to salvage the situation.

And Sherri totally wasn't helping, as she'd ducked behind a rack of bikinis to guffaw.

So I did what I had to do.

I took one for the team.

I sucked it up and explained that he wasn't actually our baby, though technically I do claim him, just not in that way.

And then I sent the couple awkwardly shuffling away from us.

Sigh.

I should have just said "Thank You."

After all, he's half mine, anyways.

***

I hope everyone had a wonderful Mother's Day weekend! Even if you were just mistaken for a mother, like me;) Happy Monday everyone!

P.S. Some of you expressed concern about the legal issues surrounding the student of mine I blogged about on Friday. Rest assured, all proper channels were followed years ago; her situation has been reported to child-welfare authorities more than once, as well as to the school counselors, etc. I want to thank you all - who left named comments and e-mails - for caring.

P.P.S To the anonymous commenter on Friday's post: You have no right to berate me for something you just assumed I did or didn't do. Fact is, I had reported this situation with the student. I just didn't think that fact was pertinent to include in the post. (Not that reporting the problem fixes a lick of the pain that the girl has already gone through. For someone who claims to know the system, you should know how corrupt and lacking it truly is, as well.) So you can back off and stop getting all righteous and angry about me not doing my duties. Next time you feel like telling me what a lousy teacher and mandatory reporter I am, please leave an e-mail address so I can respond to you in kind. Cowardice is not attractive, my dear anonymous friend.

Own it, baby

On Sunday afternoon, I went Christmas shopping and grocery shopping.

And my husband went with me.

And no, hell did not freeze over. Pigs did not fly.

In fact, he even stood next to me in SteinMart while I lamented over what purse to purchase for a friend.

He nodded and considered several items of workout clothing I wanted to buy for his sister.

He even weighed in on a pink pair of polka-dotted pajama pants I considered getting for my mother (which I didn't. Sorry, Mom!)

The man traipsed through the mall, Old Navy, Target, Wal-Mart, TJ Maxx, Toys 'R Us, SteinMart and Sam's Club - all without a peep or complaint.

If I wasn't so fastidiously making my list and checking it twice, I'd have been worried.

Who was this man, and what was he doing following me around from store to store?

Couldn't be my husband.

No way, no how.

So, as we were checking out at our final destination - the grocery store - I thanked him for going with me. I thanked him for his help. And I thanked him for doing it all without whining like a 2 year old.

I was touched; I was impressed.

Until we exited the store, him pushing the cart and me presenting a store employee with our lengthy receipt.

The employee made a joke, which I giggled at.

We went on our merry way.

Then my husband came back to me.

Hubs: You know, if there's one thing I can always imitate about you, it's your laugh.
Me: What laugh?
Hubs: You do this little laugh. You kind of giggle really cutely, trail off, and then do a little sigh.
Me: Oh yeah?
Hubs: Yep. It's like "Hee Hee Hee Heeeeeeee...siiggghhhhh."
Me: Really?
Hubs: Yeah, it's your "thing." Like being stinky is my "thing."
Me: Wait, being "stinky" is your "thing?"
Hubs: Yep. I'm stinky. Sure, it's not a great "thing" to have, but hey, it's mine. Could be worse.

Just like that, the man I married was back. In his purest form.

Because it's true: The man does come home from a hard day at work quite smelly.

And yes, I often have to leave the house when he starts digesting anything that isn't entirely made of applesauce.

And sure, there was one time, when he was dropping me off for a hair appointment, where I refused to let him use the salon's restroom - even though he had to go "really, really bad" - because I didn't want to be embarrased by what I knew he would do to - and in - that bathroom.

But I didn't know that was his "thing."

I didn't know that his "smells," quite literally, characterized him.

I didn't know he owned "stinky" as one of this treasured personality traits.

Because if I had, I totally wouldn't have let him stand next to me in the purse section of SteinMart.

Happy Monday everyone!

Christmas v. Ill-Prepared Woman: Round One

I'm not one of those women who finishes Christmas shopping before Black Friday.

Heck, I'm not one of those women who has even finished her Christmas shopping list yet.

I'll admit, I dream of a day where I have the most organized, put-together, detail-oriented Christmas around.

But, my friends, it hasn't happened yet.

I'd like to blame my job; teaching teenagers over the Christmas season is one heck of a crazy ride.

I'd like to blame my husband; being married to a man who sees outdoor lights as his only Christmas job can be frustrating.

And I'd like to blame my income; shopping for gifts may have to replace shopping for groceries, if you know what I mean.

But the fact is, I just haven't gotten Christmas down pat yet.

My house never got completely decorated last weekend.

I've bought four gifts.

I'm listening to the same music I play January through November.

No "Silver Bells" for me yet. I simply can't find the CD.

As the kids would say, Epic. Fail.

My father - a man who has a strict Christmas-decorating regimen and December calendar of perfectly timed Christmas traditions - and my mother - who helps him carry them all out - would be so ashamed.

Still, it's not like I wanted it this way.

In fact, I set out determined to do my first photo Christmas card of the hubs and I this year, since I'm a big girl who is apparently supposed to send out Christmas cards since I'm married and all.

It's part of my marital contract, I'm pretty sure.

So, with full intention of performing my marital duties to the utmost of my abilities, I planned ahead.

And by planned ahead, I mean I totally said to myself before Thanksgiving, "Brittany, you need to plan to take your Christmas card photo over Thanksgiving, OK?"

Best-laid plans.

I didn't use my camera once while visiting family for the holiday.

As the kids would say, Epic. Fail.

So imagine my glee when my cousin told me he'd snapped a shot of my whole family before the turkey feast.

I figured it wasn't ideal; I'd have to include my parents and brothers on my first big-girl, grown-up Christmas card.

But heck and holly, it was something.

Or, I thought it was something.

I'm not sure what's worse; the fact that my father looks like he's regally presiding over everything while sitting in my mother's broken wicker chair. Or the fact that we all look like possessed vampires. I'll be frank: Glowing eyes was not the motif I was going for, despite the fact that being vampire-ish is apparently what all the cool kids are doing this year.

So we're back to square one around here.

Still no decorated tree.

Still no wreath on my front door.

Still no Christmas cards to mail out.

As the kids would say, Epic. Fail.

Now, I'm left hoping and praying that I can finish decorating the house this weekend. I could have all my shopping done by next week, too, if I put my mind to it. And gosh darn it, I'll buy a new "Silver Bells" CD if I have to.

And as for the cards?

Expect a "Happy New Year!" greeting to grace your mailbox come, oh, Jan. 6.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

Turkey Talk and Other Ridiculous Things Muttered during Holiday Celebrations

When you gather with family and friends, ages in utero to 82, you're bound to hear a few doozies.
When you venture out at 3:30 p.m. on Black Friday to pick up necessities like toilet paper, you're fairly certain you're going to get a few dirty looks.

And when you force your husband to drive both ways when going to see your family for Turkey Fest 2009, you're guaranteed to get an interesting reaction.

But I'm pretty sure I'm all kinds of special because I got all of the above and more.

***

Let me bring you to Thursday night, post-carb-and-turkey-overload, when the paternal side of my family start discussing Christmas preparations, celebrations and reparations.

Amid the dull roar, the smallest person in the room - my teeny-tiny Italian grandmother - raises her hand.

Yes, the woman raised her hand as if in school, giving me serious job-flashbacks and a resulting twitch. But anyways...

When she finally has the attention of most of the family, she sing-songs, "I know what somebody can buy Grandpa this year!

My aunt and mother, who take all gift-buying suggestions as holy gospel, almost scream at her, "What??? WHAT???"

She replies, calmly and demurely, "Buy him a Snuggie. Because I am sick and tired of him stealing mine!"

Seriously, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

Apparently, my grandfather, who "couldn't be bothered to get up and get a sweater when my arms get cold" while napping on the couch, has been masquerading in my grand-mother's leopard-print Snuggie.

My friends, retirement has never looked so snazzy.

***

The next day, the women in my family seriously contemplated arising at 3 a.m., amid Florida's first cold snap, and snatching up some Black Friday sales.

We even went as far as to map out our store-to-store route around town, complete with small, mental lists of what we wanted to get at each place, before going to bed and soundly sleeping till 9:30 the next morning.

Who needs affordable gifts, anyways?

Not this girl, that's who.

That is, at least until I returned to my own home that afternoon and decided that maybe I didn't want to miss out on the Black Friday melee.

Plus, we needed toilet paper and well, COMPLETELY NECESSARY GIRL STUFF, if you catch my drift.

So off I went. At 3:30 in the afternoon

And in the beginning, I did well: I got the goods at Target, plus a few $2.99 movies that were downright steals (and dead giveaways to my husband and brother's incredibly poor taste in cinema.)

But then - and stupidly, in retrospect - I ventured over to Target's next-door neighbor, Old Navy, to check out the CRAZY GOOD DEALS their obnoxious signs were screaming about from their store window.

I was a bit taken aback, as chaos seemed to reign supreme in the place. Stacks of once-folded shirts were tossed pell-mell; piles of marked-down sweaters were falling off tables; babies were screaming in time with their mothers.

Finally, though, I found a sweater that I thought my own mother might enjoy. And I began a steady, but non-threatening, power walk in the direction of the cable-knitting.

And then, something stuck itself under my foot.

Or, more specifically, a woman slipped her shoe in front of my ankle, sending me reeling forward, then sideways, until I eventually hip-checked one of those stupid Super-Model-Quin-Thingies and torqued my knee and ankle.

I turned around to find a mother and teenager of no more than 14 staring - and pretty much smiling - cruelly at me.

Then, the teen uttered two words that make me want to tear the legs off every Super-Model-Quin-Thingie within sight.

"My bad."

The mother and child walked off, quite literally, cackling.

I then screamed after them, "MY BAD????? Seriously, honey, 'MY BAD' is not an apology or an excuse. In fact, it's rather insulting. So next time you cross my path, you both, with your poor grammar and mothering skills, respectively, better duck, because I will seriously chuck a Model-Quin leg at your behinds, sisters!"

OK, I really didn't say that. I walked - OK, skulked - away.

Because I'm chicken.

And obviously crazy since I went out on Black Friday to buy toilet paper.

***

When I returned home, my husband was there, as usual.

He kissed me when we walked in the door, as usual.

And then, he uttered a phrase that, at first, appeared to be gibberish.

"Would you like another flesh-to-flesh gift of love?"

Excuse me?

"My kisses. They're a 'flesh-to-flesh gift of love,'" he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I didn't point out that "flesh-to-flesh" didn't exactly connote "lip-to-lip," if you know what I mean.

Instead, I just laughed at him.

But my laughter didn't stop him from celebrating the season and giving out "gifts of love" whenever he could.

He'd walk into the kitchen, kiss me, and mutter, "There's another 'flesh-to-flesh' for ya," or he'd peck me good night and say, "Good 'flesh-to-flesh,' huh?"

He's taken such a liking to it I'm really hoping these little "gifts of love" don't replace an actual Christmas gift for his wife over here this year.

Because then someone is going to get a punch right in the flesh-t0-flesh-er.

***

So now that I ruined Snuggies, Old Navy, and Christmas kisses for you, tell me: How was your Thanksgiving?

Hope everyone had a great one! Here's to a wonderful week of the new Christmas season! Happy Monday!

These pants were made for babies

I may or may not have taken a slight fashion risk.

I may or may not have made a bad clothing choice.

And I may or may not have knowingly purchased maternity clothing on Sunday when I am not, in the slightest bit, pregnant.

Yes, I knowingly purchased an article of clothing that openly bore the word "maternity" on it.

In fact, I knowingly purchased pants that openly bore the word "maternity" on them.

I embraced the elastic waistband knowingly; I wore the expanded belly pants of my own accord.

And no, not because I hate myself and want to remind myself, every time I looked down at my maternity-clad legs, that I am, indeed, sans child and lacking any real reason to wear the pants I'm wearing.

That would be entirely too masochistic; that would be entirely too logical. For me, anyways.

No, I knowingly bought and wore maternity pants, because, simply put, I'm stupid.

Or, rather, inflicted with baby brain without the baby. Which is kind of like gaining the baby weight without the baby.

So, in other words, there are no real excuses.

But anyways, back to my baby pants...

After church, on Sunday, I was roaming the aisles of - where else? - Target.

I was there to purchase a toothbrush for my husband, which is basically code for "Finding an Item We Kinda-Sorta Need So I Can Manage to Sneak in a Quick Trip to the Tarjay Clearance Racks."

So, toothbrush in hand, I picked my way through the clothing Target offered.

All in an effort to find an illustrious and well-hidden pair of brown leggings.

You see, I wear a lot of leggings. In North Florida, we often wake up in the winter to freezing temperatures, but we hit the low 70s by mid-day, only to drop back below freezing at night.

Layering is essential.

And leggings are the key to layering.

So, I own a few pairs: navy ones, gray ones, black ones, even banana yellow ones, which were an admitted poor choice, in hindsight, and one I'll never make again.

But oddly enough, for a girl who wears a lot of Earth tones, I lack a pair of brown leggings.

Mostly because Target and Old Navy never managed to keep a pair in stock, and it's not as if I'm about to venture away from my old-standby clothing suppliers anytime soon.

So, I was brown-leggings-less.

But hopeful.

And so, for the 13,00th time, I was looking for these leggings, scoffing on the phone to my mother that "No, I was not about to buy the nylon ones in the underwear section. Those things are itchy and remind me of the stockings you used to make me wear under my Easter Sunday dresses, which I hated, by the way."

And then, amid blaming my mother for everything, I found them.

Right there, on the 50-percent-off rack.

Brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing leggings.

For $5.

I swooped them up, thrilled to pieces.

My legging collection was complete!

Or so I thought, until I noticed an odd little seam that swooped down toward the crotch and ran back up to the hips along the front of the leggings.

An odd, swooping little seam that I soon learned was supposed to make way for an impending baby belly.

Because the tag of my lovely, brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing leggings read crystal clear: Liz Lange Maternity Leggings.

Crap.

Without a baby on board, there was no way I could buy them. It's not like I need yet another reminder of my empty womb.

So I put them down and kept looking.

And looking and looking and looking and looking.

But for the life of me, I couldn't find another pair anywhere.

So I went back to the clearance rack and grabbed the leggings, examined them, pushed out the belly panel with my hand.

But I shook my head no again and walked away.

Was I crazy? No way was I wearing maternity pants!

Two minutes later, I turned around and headed back to the rack.

I couldn't resist.

My internal monologue was positively frantic:

What if I bought a smaller size? Am I just buying these pants because I can now say I own a pair of pants in a size small? Is my own ego driving me towards these pants?

Wait: What if I wear them up around my bra line in my regular size? Would anyone else be able to tell?

Wait, wait: What if I took them in? Do people even take leggings in? And how exactly do you take an elastic waistband in?

Wait, wait, wait: What will my husband say if I come home with maternity pants? Can I possibly pass them off as a good investment because I can wear them now and whenever I am with child?

And dear God in Heaven: Why, oh why, does Target not carry more brown leggings?

It was like Sophie's Choice, people.

Buy the Preggo Pants; don't buy the Preggo Pants. Buy the Preggo Pants; don't buy the Preggo Pants.

I even attempted to consult with some of my pregnant friends, but none of them were available via text message to answer my urgent plea of, "Help! I need preggo advice! Can a non-preggo wear preggo leggings? Yes or no? YES OR NO???"

So, I bought them.

No biggie, right?

Five bucks is worth the risk, I figured. Plus, as it turns out, in Preggo Pants, I do wear a size small. Which is basically enough to convince me to make like Michelle Duggar and remain almost constantly pregnant for the rest of my child-bearing years because, hello! I got my thighs into pants marked "small." Do I need any better reason?

So, with that in mind, I walked out of Target happy, with my toothbrush and my lovely brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing, maternity leggings.

Which brings us to the next day's wee morning hours, when I began to get ready for work.

I donned my normal sweater dress and decided to add a pair of loafers and my mommy leggings to my ensemble.

I slid them on, and they worked pretty well.

They were a little roomy around the waist and belly, but my sweater-dress hid all that.

Plus, I was rather enjoying the fact that my "size small" pants were rather roomy through the waistband.

In fact, I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband all through my morning.

I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband all through my early afternoon.

I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband all through my lunch break.

I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband right up until I stood up from my desk around 3 p.m. and noticed that below the hem of my skirt, my roomy waistband had expanded so that the crotch of my lovely, brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing, maternity leggings was popping out.

Indeed, my pants, due to what I can only imagine was a bad mix of body heat, maternity clothing stretchiness and the extra belly panel, had expanded so that the crotch area of the leggings was now stretched from my inner thigh all the way down past my knees, clearly visible below the hemline of my knee-length skirt.

I had droopy drawers.

Or, rather, droopy maternity pants.

What can I say?

I'm one classy teacher.

So classy, in fact, that I had to make yet another impossible decision.

Did I hike up my skirt right then and there so I could then hike up the never-ending crotch of these pants?

Or did I waddle down the hallway of the school, risking life, limb and a possible droopy-drawer sighting by a student or co-worker, in order to make my way to the privacy of the teacher's bathroom where I could grab and tug up my leggings with some gusto?

I was paralyzed by fear.

Paralyzed by indecision.

Paralyzed by the fact that nowhere in college or graduate school did they teach me what to do in this situation.

I mean, sure, they gave me plenty of theoretical knowledge, but what good's all that when your pant's inseam is hanging below your knees?

Not much, that's what.

In the end, I managed to duck behind my desk and do a half-hearted tug of the leggings, just enough to bring the crotch up beneath the hem of my skirt, before doing some sort of hybrid waddle-gallop down the hall to the bathroom's sanctuary, praying all the while.

I made it safely and took those suckers off, vowing then and there that they wouldn't see my legs again until I had a belly that would fill them out.

Who needs lovely, brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing maternity leggings anyways?

No, seriously, who needs them? Because I will totally send them to you.

We could all be like some married, semi-pregnant version of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Seriously, girls, this could totally work.

After all, the inseam would literally fit everyone.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Not on these legs!

Let me take you back. Back to my last days of high school and my first years of college.

Back to a day where I was surrounded by a veritable denim nightmare.

I was coming of age in a time when you couldn't be cool unless your jeans were labeled with three very distinct words: ultra low-rise.

Come on, I know you remember them. The wide, flared leg with the teeny-tiny inseam and butt region, which allowed for the most fashionable of women to wear a protruding thong right above their denim waistlines?

Yeah, those dreaded things.

I hated them.

In fact, I hated them with a vigor I normally save for the likes of such untouchables as sour cream and mass murderers.

They were my ultimate fashion nemesis.

I literally spent three years strolling through stores, unable to find a pair of jeans that actually fit my body.

I loathed those pants.

You see, I'm fairly certain 95 percent of my body mass falls below my waistline. I have what my husband affectionately calls a "bubble butt." And I have thighs that can squat more weight than most men (i.e., they are muscular and, well, downright huge.)

In fact, the only saving grace bestowed upon my gams is the fact that I don't have cankles.

So, when ultra-low rise jeans hit the scene, I found myself in a bit of a pickle: A pickle also known as the "I Can't Find Jeans that Cover More than Half of My Back End. Someone Please Help Me! Now!" pickle.

It was tragic. The only ultra-low-rise jeans that fit me were normally four sizes bigger than anything I'd normally wear, and they'd leave me with a gaping waistline, so much so that I could fit a 35-week pregnant woman inside the waistband of my jeans, but my thighs were still bursting at those stupid little "slim cut" seams.

The situation was only made worse by the fact that teeny, tiny, belly-baring tops were also en vogue, along with stick-straight, shiny hair.

And I'm short-waisted with curly hair that has natural propensity to frizz.

Let's just say I spent a few too many days (OK, years) cursing my gene pool.

I'd stare at my own thighs (and the identical pairs both my parents sport) and rue the day their Italian-Irish-German-Polish-Cherokee DNA gave me this disproportional "peasant stock" body, as a good family friend used to call it.

Not that I wanted to look like Kate Moss or anything. But I didn't want to be relegated to Mom jeans at the tender age of 20, either.

It was a rough coming of age.

Eventually, things did calm down. We all had a few good years, where the slim-cut, crack-baring styles segued into a more tailored, professional boot cut jean. I was able to wear pants again, and lo and behold, they were actually my supposed size.

In addition, bohemian chic, complete with flowing fabrics and thigh-forgiving dresses fell back into fashion, and my legs found sweet relief, hiding under layers of A-line, amorphous skirts.

Until now.

It all started last year, when I noticed my students sporting some unseasonably tight pants in a host of bright colors.

At first, I chalked it up to hormones and poor teenage fashion choices. After all, what 15 year old can resist a pair of neon purple denim pants?

I figured it was a fad, a fad that wouldn't hit my 20-somethings generation of women. We were were far too chic for neon purple denim, after all. Those ultra-low-rise days were far behind us.

But then, they didn't go away. In fact, they morphed.

They morphed into dark washes and light washes and bleach-stained washes, oh my!

The skinny jean became the new thing, the new look, the new pant, the new jean that everyone is wearing.

And with the Gap, Banana Republic and J.Crew jumping on the bandwagon, my generation was on board. And loving it, apparently.

And yes, it looks lovely on a lot of you, girls. Those of you with svelte, thin legs.

I see them everywhere, all the time. So let me say it again: It looks lovely. On you girls.

But, truth be told, while you all are walking around in your cute skinny jeans, I'm over here, sobbing and clinging to my boot cut has-beens, experiencing what I think may be diagnosable as Pants Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Pants PTSD.)

Girls, I can't do it.

I just can't.

Because when I try them on, me with my now-grown-up thighs and butt, well....it's not pretty.

It's not pretty at all.

I'm back to having to buy jeans a couple sizes too big, just so I can get my thunder thighs into these stove-pipe pant legs. I'm back to finding my waistbands gaping open with extra room, while bubble butt over here bursts at the too-small seams. I'm back to crying over denim.

Now, the rational woman inside knows it's not me, per se. I've worn the same-sized pants since I was 15. (Seriously, by 15, I had these legs. And they've never shrunk. They've also never grown. But they've definitely never shrunk.)

Still, it does a world of hurt to a girl when you can't adequately fit into something called a "skinny" jean.

Or when you stare in a dressing room mirror and find two huge, denim-clad sausages protruding out of your shirt, staring back at you.

It's just all so bad: The tapered leg; the skintight fit, the curve-clinging inseam.

Also, the sheer fact that every top out this season was designed to be worn with a skinny jean, meaning that if it's worn with anything else you're going to look downright boxy and shapeless, doesn't help, either.

It's enough to send a girl back to the year 2000.

I did try to maintain hope. Kelsey (over at The Seattle Smith's), for instance, maintained she'd found a pair that I should try, because they worked for her. I had co-worker tell me she found a pair that fit her behind and would fit mine, too. I even had one of my best friends send me a whole slew of Web links to pairs she thought would fit my lower half.

But, as I suspected, the truth prevailed.

Kelsey, my co-worker and my best friend all have better legs than I do.

My legs aren't having it.

They're just having Pants PTSD.

So, in light of their skinny-jeans-induced mental illness, I can no longer be held responsible for what's about to happen to my fashion sense this fall.

Can somebody point me in the direction of the Mom jeans?

***

Have a good weekend, everyone! Happy Friday!

To Sunday's patrons of Super Wal-Mart...

Hello there. Allow me to introduce myself, as we've never formally met, despite the the sense of familiarity you seem to feel about me and my person.

My name is Brittany. I am a teacher in our local community here. I'm basically your Average Jane. I'm married; I work, and I live in your average neighborhood.

I grocery shop on the weekends for the simple fact that I do not have enough time during the week to do so.

However, you've probably noticed this. You've been there, too, shopping at our town's only Super Wal-Mart for various forms of nourishment and household goods on Saturday or Sunday afternoons.

What you've also probably noticed is that each weekend, I don more and more layers of clothing when I grace our branch of America's favorite cheap-o retail store.

And you're also probably aware that this not because of the weather. After all, it's only September, and we live in Florida. We haven't even felt a breeze around these parts since last March. Cooler weather just isn't what we do. Not yet, anyways.

And yet, I choose to sweat through a hoodie and heavy, over-sized pants, simply in an effort to avoid what seems to be my imminent doom every time I hit up your mass-produced, product-bearing aisles:

The groping/various forms of sexual harassment that you, the local patrons of Super Wal-Mart, seem to think is some kind of extended hand of weekend friendship.

First, I thought it was accidental. Perhaps those men were simply walking a little too close, brushing up against me in a misconstrued way.

That was a month ago.

Then, I blamed the cat-calls on the age of the patrons. They, after all, appeared to be teens, who obviously should know better, but didn't. (I blamed the parents.)

That was three weeks ago.

Two weeks ago, I blamed the man's mental state. He didn't seem to be firing with all cylinders. He just didn't understand personal space, I rationalized.

Then last week, I managed to finagle my husband into coming with me. His rather large size kept me safe from everything but a few too many looks that lingered a little too long and a little too inappropriately.

My faith in (most of) humanity was restored.

Until yesterday, when my husband got all caught up in his yard work, and left me to gather the food for the week.

Alone.

On the weekend.

At Super Wal-Mart.

I donned my protective gear (several heavy layers of over-sized clothing, which rendered me so shapeless you couldn't even tell I was a woman) and headed out.

I should have known.

I should have known - that with no reasonable justification left for your behaviors - that it would happen.

The groping. The sniveling. The vulgar body and verbal language. The lack of respect for my personal space. The gross inappropriateness I imagine only happens in the sleaziest, creepiest parts of the inner cities.

So I did what any woman would do who had had enough.

I spun around and rammed my grocery cart into you, Mr. Sunglasses. I gave you "The Look" I reserve only for the worst of student behaviors. I did not back down, because I'll be honest, I'm not terribly afraid of you.

I'm more afraid of what I'll do to you the next time you, or someone like you, attempts to do something even remotely lascivious to me or another woman like me in the frozen foods section.

Let me lay it out here for you. (That way, you won't be able to say I didn't warn you.)

I will beat you with the heaviest thing I can get my hands on, which, knowing my shopping habits, will probably be an industrial-sized can of kidney beans. Which would hurt.

I will also knee you in the easiest spot I can find. And I will scream loudly for assistance (and I will scream mean words at you in my head. But not out loud. I will not sink to your level.)

I will also call the police, and I will pin you up against the case of frozen pizzas with my cart until they get there.

I am much stronger than I look, and I. will. do. it.

Because you are not to even look at me inappropriately, let alone touch me, ever again.

Consider the fact that I've waited a month to figure out that various members of Super Wal-Mart's clientele are indeed just scumbags a gift.

Because I should have done this the first time someone sniveled at me.

Let me repeat, the benefit of my doubt was a gift, my friends, so take it as such.

Because maybe, just maybe, your mother never taught you that it was rude to call people names, whisper at them, or reach for their various body parts.

Maybe, just maybe you are simply trying to make friends.

Maybe, just maybe you didn't notice the wedding ring on my finger and thought I'd make a lovely date.

I'll pretend that's the case. I'll say a little prayer for you and your sorry social skills and pretend that your reach for my rump was really a sad attempt at a reach for a friend.

Until next time.

Because next time, I will hurt you.

Thank you for your time,
Brittany

P.S. This is not directed at the various patrons who have stepped in to help in a variety of these circumstances. I want to extend a sincere thank you to the anonymous man who proceeded to jog briskly down the aisle to help me yesterday before I managed to whack the offender with my cart. You're welcome to shop next to me any day.

P.P.S. I am willing to admit that I may just be unlucky, but the fact that this has happened four separate times with four different perps, er, I mean, customers, makes me a little suspicious. So, please do not be offended if I eye you warily next week. Apparently, you can't be too careful.

Not Me! Monday: Rope burns, shopping, sweat, and such

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

***

I did NOT spend two hours Friday afternoon scouring my classroom for the master copy of a personality test I give my students every year. Frustrated, but forced to leave without it because I do NOT teach a Body Pump class on Friday nights, I did NOT return home and, with the husband NOT still at work, find an online version of the test, which, instead of enjoying my Friday night, did NOT lead to me spend another two hours recreating the test on paper for my students' Monday lesson.

And then, because I am the coolest, hippest person in the world, and I would NEVER waste a Friday night on anything short of a party, I did NOT Google about 18 other personality tests and take them all. Many were bogus, but some were NOT freakishly spot on. Apparently, two women (thanks for the catch, Kelly!) named Briggs and Myers do NOT know me so well that they always knew I should have been a teacher (an Idealist Teacher, to be exact.)

Now, if I'd only found this out before I did NOT waste two years of my life getting a master's degree in journalism and health communication. Sigh.

***

*On Friday, I did NOT tie my students up, make them stand in the blazing sun, and chuck a bag of candy across the student parking lot, which they did NOT have to retrieve it, all while tied together in one sweaty teenage bundle of fun (kind of.) This was NOT done all in the name of team-building, and not child abuse, as some would like to believe.

This did not arouse suspicion from none other than our campus cop, who did NOT give me the Cop Stare of Death, to which I did NOT reply, "Look, I did this last year. They'll be fine." (This is NOT exactly why Briggs and Myers didn't typecast me as a lawyer, people.)

However, as luck would NOT have it, at the very moment I delivered my oh-so-eloquent defense statement, one student did NOT bellow from the group, which had now NOT inched their way half way across the parking lot toward the bag of candy: "I think this rope is too tight, Mrs. C. I think my rope burn is actually bleeding."

Go ahead. Sign me up for Teacher of the Year. With an endorsement like that, I do NOT think
there's any question who'd win. Not me!

***

I was NOT talking about my husband to one of my best friends yesterday when I did NOT utter the ever-present married-lady statement, "I swear, I love him, but sometimes I think I might kill him."

She did NOT then utter the funniest, most honest analysis of husband and wife I have ever heard: "Marriage seems like a very manic state of mind to me: Love till it hurts and murderous tendencies."

I did NOT die laughing, even amid my (too serious) Sunday night introspection.

***

I did NOT buy myself new yoga pants under the guise of "These are my reward for having the best first week back to school I've ever had." This was NOT done while I was supposed to be shopping for short-sleeve tops for my not-well-air-conditioned classrooms.

This did NOT then lead me to seriously consider if I could dress up the yoga pants enough for, say, a Casual Friday?

What!?! They do NOT have a ruffle on them. And they are NOT black!

Like I said, people, Teacher. Of. The. Year.

***

I did NOT wake up in the middle of last night all sweaty because my husband had thrown his body and our heavy, not-suitable-for-summer comforter over me. I did NOT try to squirm away only to have him tell me that I did NOT smell. Considering I was NOT covered in sweat, brought on by his forced captivity, I was NOT rather miffed at this 4-in-the-morning statement, true or NOT.

Still, because I'm NOT paranoid, and despite the fact that I did NOT take a (rather unusual) morning shower, I've NOT already sniffed myself a total of 23 times today. You know, just in case.

Happy (Not Me!) Monday everyone!