A sad phone call started the morning. No June visitors. I took it well -- at first, but as the day worn on, so did my mood and my patience. By noon, I was slipping in a deep, dark and twisty place. With Middle safely at the gym for her first four-hour workout of the week, I set out to do errands with the remaining 75%. Fireplace store. Out of business. That didn't contribute to my happiness. I need a fire grate before I can start a blaze and sit on my new patio. Damnit.
Bank . . . where my deposit was off by 14 cents. Really? No, I didn't bring another form. Yes, I can initial that and sign this. Just get the damn funding into the bank. Payroll is tomorrow.
Old Navy . . . made a few returns. That was good.
Target . . . ah, retail therapy. And a return. My kids had commission money to spend. Commissions. That's the system around here . . . no allowance. Most of there chores are expectations and are unpaid. But, we have a commission chart that they can fill out at will. They complete things on the list, initial a square & I keep track in my famous magnet-on-the-refrigerator system. Plus, Mimi won the two-family Survivor pool this season, so she had (ee-gads!) THIRTY-SIX dollars!!! Midway through playing with my kids in the toy aisle at Target, my mood began to lift. There's nothing like giving your undivided attention to little people to create a new perspective. I got lost in entertainment. We played.
Among other things, like assorted produce and a couple of ingredients for REAL dinner, I bought . . . several zero-point power foods that allow guilt-free snacking during long, hot summer days. Watermelon, cantaloupe & honeydew melon. Lots and lots of lettuce. And all the stuff for homemade salsa. Yum.
And a string of solar lights for the third aspen tree. The first two look lovely.
And shorts for Big. I vividly remember shopping for her and buying things that we labeled by months. How can it be that my tween-daughter is now in the awkward transition between girls and juniors. Hmm. Juniors apparel is much more expensive. And the shorts are MUCH shorter. Gulp.
And capris for me. Yes, I know that bitch on What Not To Wear says that short people shouldn't wear capris. I can't help it. At my age, I'm coming to a harsh realization: I should probably not wear shorts. I'm digressing into fashion hell right now, so bear with me. I also can't really wear jeans, as evidenced my my multiple posts about finding jeans that aren't utterly ridiculous. I also don't really love wearing skirts. My thighs touch. I also don't love wearing skirts with spanx or spankies under them. I'm a sweaty beast. I really don't like dresses. I have a thing about flesh touching flesh. I even sleep with fabric from my nightclothes tucked into places where skin might touch skin . . . like armpits and knee pits. And there's alway a pillow between my legs . . . partially for back pain and mostly because I hate skin touching skin. Even feet touching feet. Eww. So, I can't wear dresses. I don't love skirts. I can't wear jeans all summer long (even IF I could find a pair that didn't make me feel like I might appear on www.peopleofwalmart.com). If I can't wear capris either, the option is nudity . . . which is definitely out. So, I'll have to risk a cameo appearance on peopleofwalmart.com and wear some stupid capris. Yesterday, at Target, there were NO capris in my size. There were certainly none in a reasonable price range. In the junior section I bought a pair. And I have this to say: they are frickin' huge. On the hanger, they look more like a flag that something you'd wear. I look at them and look down at myself and think, "I can't possibly be this huge?" Whatever. I feel young and vibrant and totally hip. I feel energetic and awesome and like I'm pulsing with purpose. I feel like I have a mission and a destiny and a duty and great work to do. And then I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection somewhere and I think, "What of this asymmetry? That's not what a young, hip, purposeful, awesome specimen of super-mommi-ness looks like. That lady in the refection is frumpelstillskin."
Onward. I only coughed twice and gagged once at the register. Ouch.
On the way to the car with my random purchases, Big's new shorts, my new capris and some very pretty princess barbies, this revelation came to me: Damn. For that kind of cash, I could have just bought gas and driven my ass to Montana. And back. You know it's bad when buyer's remorse sets in and your loot isn't even in your car yet. So, as I often do with profound thoughts of this nature, I called Homey. I blurted out my line and she laughed. At me. Cause guess what? She had just pulled into a parking spot at Target.
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