Keep it classy

It's been a long time but I've been percolating on a few things and while at the dentist yesterday, today's topic was fortified by the comments of two witting ladies. First, I will say that I discovered when I was pregnant with the Infant (who really isn't an infant anymore but he's still a cute little nugget which is how I will refer to him henceforth) that the verbal restraint shown by most in polite society goes out the window when speaking to a lady sporting a baby bump. For example, take the perfect stranger asking if I was planning for a traditional (I will not use the word she used) birth or another kind of birth. Or the man who rested his hand on my rotund midsection and left it there while continuing regular conversation. Gross.

Prior to becoming the size of a Shetland pony, if anyone had asked me anything about any part of my body covered by a modest bathing suit, I likely would have called the police because surely the person could be cited for lewd conduct and I would have avoided said person like the ebola virus, but once I was in the family way it was like I was surrounded with people who's manners had been attacked by the ebola virus and turned to mush. And I assure you that it does not stop once you actually have the child. Eventually it just switches to comments about your child and your apparent inability to properly feed, cloth, discipline or get the baby food stains out of white onesies which all clearly reflects your complete failure as a parent. The worst part is that these comments aren't uttered by the male species who, bless their hearts, just don't know any better but they come from the mouths of mothers themselves. For shame, baby mamas, for shame.

So while at the dentist yesterday, one of the dental hygienists was kind enough to take the Little Nugget around the office while I had a little checkup and when she returned him to me she exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! How much does he weigh?" When I told her he was a 25 pounder she proclaimed to have never carried a heavier child and surely I had back problems. One of her co-workers chimed in that she knew a three year old who only weighed 27 pounds which, I assume, was to serve as evidence that my child was indeed a porker. Now, I happen to know that the Little Nugget is right in the middle of the bell curve for weight and is therefore completly average. But what struck me is that both of these women were mothers and felt it was their duty to inform me that my child was indeed not normal.

Now, I've put together a short list of all of the things that either I've heard from perfect strangers/people I know (and used to like) or friends have reported to me that should NEVER be repeated to another mother from now until the end of time. Spread the word.

To the pregnant lady:
1. Should you really be eating/drinking/holding/looking at that?
There are no shortage of pregnancy books out there and reading the Internet is enough to scare anyone to pieces so the added questioning of choices made while pregnant is just unnecessary. And do I ask you if you should be smoking, drinking Pepsi and eating pork rinds? I didn't think so.

2. Do you plan on having natural childbirth because it is so much better for the baby?
This makes drug-loving women like myself want to start the epidural right then and there. So I guess that means the answer is no.

3. Whoa, you are HUGE!
No woman wants to hear these words EVER unless she is a female body builder named Darla. It is quite likely the woman has a mirror at home or realized her own girth when she tried to pull on her elastic waisted pants that had clearly shrunk in the wash. She knows. Tell her you've never seen a more radiant pregnant person and hope she is feeling as great as she looks. She will love you and not include snarky comments about you on her blog.

4. When I was pregnant, I ran seven miles everyday and only gained 15 pounds.
Congratulations! I have to go waddle off that chocolate cake I had for lunch.

4. How far dilated are you?
Unless you would ask this of a non-pregnant person, do not ask it of a pregnant person. At this point a woman's modesty is almost completely depleted and will be completely shredded shortly when she enters the hospital for the actual birth so let her hold onto one last little bit of it by not asking her about the state of her private business.

Actually, that is probably a really good rule to live by: if it would be socially inappropriate to say/touch a non-pregnant person, odds on favorite that it is socially inappropriate to do it to the child-bearing among us.

To the mother:
1. You only breastfed for X days/weeks/months/years? Didn't you want your baby to thrive?
No, as a matter of fact, I put my baby on the failure to thrive track from day one. You mess with the bull, you get the horns.

2. How old is your baby? That's the biggest X month old I've ever seen. OR He's a BIG boy for X months. OR My friend's baby is the same age and only half that size.
Some babies are big. Some are small. Some are short and some are tall. Don't worry, I hear the tsk-tsk'ing under the breath implying that somehow I am to blame for his sizable size and I'll be the one to blame when he grows up to be a contestant on the Biggest Loser but honestly, he's a baby. If my four year old is 75 pounds, then you can scold me. Feel free to comment on how smart he is or how advanced he seems. Every mother on the planet will welcome comments about how her children are well above average.

3. My kids never did that.
While I do realize the power of selective memory, your kids did do that and it likely made you want to crawl under a rock when they did just like I want to right now. But thanks for the pick me up!

4. I read that feeding your kid cookies/crackers/juice/milk/parsley/ jicama sets them up for low SAT scores/D's in Spanish/minimum wage jobs/losing their retirement?
Look, there's a lot of information out there and some would lead us to believe that unless we all eat organic ginger root, mankind is headed for certain demise by 2020. If I spend my life reading every scary thing about raising children, I would surely go nuts. But as for the D's in Spanish, I guess he didn't watch enough Dora the Explorer.

This is just the tip of the iceberg people. Pandora's box has been opened and the darned thing just won't close. Let's do our part to eradicate poor manners toward pregnant people and mothers today! Write your congressman.

Closet horrors

This evening, I decided to take control off my closet which, over the past few months, has turned into a hodge-podge of clothing from various seasons which organized by neither type nor color. Order needed to be restored STAT. I also recently watched a show on obsessive hoarding and I am scared to death of becoming a hoarder. I have zero hoarding tendencies but how can I be certain that one day I won't wake up and burrow through the mountains of clothes and papers to find my child? You can never be too careful. I was also in search of items to donate to the Junior League consignment shop and thought, while I consider myself a mostly fashionable girl, surely there would be a thing or two that had overstayed its welcome in my closet. What I discovered in my very own closet nearly brought me to tears and it is with a heavy heart that I bring these items to your attention. Perhaps a public shaming would be cathartic but, maybe, just maybe, it will put your mind at ease when you go through your own closet and find similarly horrific or even less offensive items.

Now, I also happened upon those items that I'll likely never wear again but with the type of hope that sent this country into the hands of the Democrats, I tucked them away for safe keeping on the chance I could ever squeeze into them again. The label on that box reads: Small--as in you must be small to open this. Sigh.

Back to the bad stuff:
1. A black tube top that was so small it looked like it would barely serve as a neck warmer let alone a top. I cannot recall exactly when I purchased said piece of cloth but I assure you it was not in this decade. For shame.

2. White 2" inseam shorts. Really? When would I have possibly had an excuse to wear those? There isn't one.

3. A too-big Maxi dress. It was too big when I bought it but perhaps I thought I'd grow into it. I haven't. And I'm barely 5'4", Maxi dresses make me look like a pup tent with a head. Cognitive dissonance? And how.

4. A bolero sweater type thing (not a shrug). I think it was a gift but, if it was, it was a gift years ago and should have been donated to a good cause all those years ago.

5. A SHRUG! Made of metallic-gold thread. And it was kind of crocheted. There are no words.

6. White leggings. WHITE LEGGINGS? Are you kidding me?! I want to become a hermit. I must also confess that these were purchased within the last year. I KNOW! Before you judge too harshly remember that I did bring a child into the world within the last year and that clearly messes with one's decision-making and, apparently, tastes.

There were also some less offensive items that I'm sure someone will find appealing and perhaps my tragedies will be someone else's treasure. Or perhaps they will provide inspiration for a future blog post for some unsuspecting consignment shopper.

Jean diapers...yes, you read that correctly

Just when I thought the diapering market was all shored up and couldn't possibly withstand the introduction of another niche product, Huggies stepped up to the plate. A few months ago, Huggies' introduced their Limited Edition Denim diapers. I'm not kidding. Perhaps you've been subjected to their television commerical or you've visited the website which showcases a mini Danny Zuko looking too cool for school in his denim duds: http://www.huggies.com/en-US/promotions/jeans. In case there was any doubt in your mind, the Infant will NOT be sauntering down the street in a diaper, let alone a denim diaper.

The only reason I can see that they deemed them "limited edition" was to give the impression of exclusivity and we all know I love a good bit of exclusivity but I draw the line at jean diapers. Apparently for this grandfatherly gentleman at Babies R Us, denim diapers were EXACTLY what he was looking for and perhaps afraid they truly were "limited," bought them in bulk. I need to believe that his son or daughter graciously thanked him for the gift of the denim diaper and quickly made his/her way to the store to return them. Let me, at least, have that.

Get into my van

I have to share a story with you that didn't happen in Kansas and didn't happen to me but it did happen in one of my favorite states, Maine, to one of my kinfolk, my little sister, who we'll refer to as Lil' J. It had me laughing so hard I thought I might herniate a disc and I hope you, too, will find it as enjoyable minus the sciatica.

So, Lil' J is working at the same summer camp we both worked at in college and where I met the Husband. It's an all-girls, residential, 7 week camp located in Maine. Think of the camp in the movie Parent Trap, the first one, not the second one with Lindsay Lohan before she starting accessorizing with SCRAM bracelets. It's a glorious place to spend a summer.


Lil' J went to camp early to help get organized for the summer and was working in the front office before pre-camp started. Pre-camp is when all of the counselors arrive and learn about camp operations, set up their respective activity centers and learn the camp lingo (Greenie=bathroom; Bubbie=person who inspects bunks after clean-up and removes candy contraband; Ognog=old girl, new old girl talent show). One morning, Lil' J's boss, Nancy, asked her to run some camp-related errands. Lil' J took a camp van and rolled out.

Before returning to camp, Lil' J called Nancy to see if there was anything else she needed to do while she was out. Nancy told her that there was a wicked (I sound like an authentic Mainer!) storm moving in and there were some counselors that had signed out for a run and Nancy asked Lil' J to pick them up on her way back. Lil' J made her way back to camp and came upon two girls running on the road. Since Lil' J didn't know the girls she was supposed to pick up, she assumed these two girls running on the Maine backroads near camp were the ones she was supposed to round up so she pulled over, rolled down her window and said, "Hey, girls, sorry to interrupt your run but Nancy said there was a thunderstorm rolling in and she asked me to pick you up and take you back to camp." The girls hopped into the van and Lil' J began driving back to camp. As they drove, the conversation went a little something like this:


Lil' J: Sorry to have interrupted your run, you really looked like you were in the zone, but Nancy was really worried.
Runner #1: Umm...who is Nancy?
Lil' J (a little perplexed): Nancy M. Our boss. The lady who hired you to work at TLC.
Runner #2: We don't work at TLC.
Lil' J: Wait...WHAAAAAT?
Runner #1: We work at Fernwood.


It was at this point that Lil' J realized that she had just abducted two young women by inviting them into her mildly creepy 18 passenger van (this was the point in the story when I made several unladylike snorting sounds as I was overcome with laughter). With the thunder and lightning already booming around them, she offered to drive them to Fernwood (a different camp a few miles down the road) but they declined and asked to be let out of the van on the side of the road. The last she saw of them, they were running at a full tilt away from her van and for a moment she felt slightly ashamed but quickly recovered and wondered why the heck they got in her van if they didn't even know who Nancy was?! Seriously!

She pulled herself together and made her way back toward camp. She happened upon another runner and rolled down the window and asked if the girl worked at TLC. The runner confirmed her status as a TLC employee and again, Lil' J invited her into her van. The girl hopped in and Lil' J began to think it was just far too easy to pick up camp counselors in the backwoods of Maine. I think this serves to illustrate that we need a refresher course on not getting into vans with strangers, especially if you don't know Nancy.

Slurpees and pegging your jeans

I retrieved the latest Real Simple (RS) magazine from my mailbox yesterday and was excited to cozy up with the latest RS-identified trends and glean other information I didn't know I needed to know until I read it. Now, RS is my kind of magazine these days. It doesn't boast scandalous taglines on the cover like: "So you made out with your boss? No problem!" or "What does your underwear say about you?" or "107 New ways to seduce your man TONIGHT!" (seriously...can there really be 107, let alone 7, "new" things that those magazines haven't covered in previous installments?) or any other equally mortifying large print title you might find among the saucier mags. I can read Real Simple in a public place without wondering if the guy across from me at the airport really wonders if I made out with my boss or has any thoughts about my under pinnings.

My mag of choice includes items I find interesting like mini home improvement projects or crafty ideas, home decor, fashion articles, reviews on the best tooth whitening toothpaste, recipes, how to fashionably organize one's home, cleaning product reviews, and those human interest stories that rip your heart out and break it to pieces. Upon review, a few of those items sound hardly more interesting than dry toast but what can I say? On occasion, I've been known to be a fan of dry toast.

Back to the crux of this post... I was only a few pages into the mag when I came upon a most glorious piece of information: the 7-11 Slurpee is celebrating its 44th anniversary in July. Now, this is cause for celebration. In fact, I will be celebrating this special 44th anniversary much the same as I celebrated the 43rd and most of months in between by visiting my local 7-11 frequently and forking over the $1.39 for a refreshing, and always appropriate, Coca-cola Slurpee. In fact, participating 7-11's will be giving away free 11 oz. Slurpees in honor of this momentous occasion on July 11 (how fitting). Let us all take pause to think about what the Slurpee has meant to us through the years. Let us raise our coned cups with spoon straws to 44 more years.

This post is going to make a hard right down the road of things that shouldn't be, but apparently are. Fresh from my 44th Slurpee anniversary high, I came to the "guide to fashion" page where 1/4 of the page was devoted to step by step instructions on how to peg one's jeans. And the blurb was titled: Cuff your jeans stylishly. Stylishly? You've got to be kidding. Yes, when I pegged my jeans in 1992 when I was in the seventh grade it was indeed stylish but I'd like to think as a society, we've progressed stylistically and my horrible recollections of middle school attire could remain safely in the past. It is 2010, my friends, and I'm proud to say that I know now what I wish I'd known back then: pegging is ridiculous and does no one any favors.

The pegging article made me think of several other fashion abominations from my tragically fashioned youth that I do not want to see make a come back including:

1. Hypercolor: do we really need a blatant illustration of where people sweat? No thanks.

2. Dropped-waist jeans with pleats

3. Acid wash

4. Bangs, half teased backwards and half teased forwards

5. Pants with skirts attached. To this very day, I cringe when I think that not only did I own the skant (skirt-pants), I owned two pairs. And I loved them.

Bathing soups and feral cats

Pool season has begun in the Plains and not a moment too soon because it is hotter than a cow pie in August. Of course, before the chlorinated oasis opened, the hunt for this summer's bathing soup was on. (My darling six and four year old nieces refer to bathing suits as "bathing soups" and it is just too cute for words.) Since bringing the Infant into the world, I've decided that my bikini days are long, long gone. Not that I haven't tried. Oh, I've tried some old two-piece soups on in the privacy of my own home when the Infant was napping and the Husband was out earning the Benjamins so no one would have to witness the horrors. It was just me and the mirror and we both should have known better. It made me long for the days when donning a bikini meant it was summer time and the world was my oyster. Don't get me wrong: I never truly rocked the two-piece but I was young and blithe. Now, I'm old and am more civic-minded; therefore, for the sake of our township, I will be sporting the one-piece soup this summer. You are welcome towns people.

Finding a tasteful, yet not overtly mumsy, swim soup that doesn't cost more than a trip to Target (seriously...how does anyone get out of that store without spending $100?!) is much more challenging than it sounds. I came across a Lands End catalog--I know what you're thinking "Lands End?! My mom shops there!" but bear with me--only to find that they have branched out from slightly dowdy mummy-wear to young, hip mummy-wear with a new line called Canvas. It's like a girl-on-a-budget's JCrew and the line is really basic at this point but they have swim soups that aren't terribly dowdy: http://canvas.landsend.com/canvas/?cm_re=core-canv. I purchased one and have been very happy with my selection. I don't think it to be overly mumsy, although the Husband did ask me what time swim team practice was. I've asked him to limit his assessments of my fashion choices to "Looks great!" or "I don't know how you do it, but EVERYTHING looks totally awesome on you." He said he'd work on it.

So, now that my swim attire is all taken care of, let's move onto the Infant. You'll be happy to know that he is not wearing the pink Ariel the Little Mermaid swim pants that I accidentally purchased this winter when we went to the dreaded water park. I passed those onto a mother of a wee girl and purchased some seriously masculine Nemo and Tiger swim pants. Nothing screams "MAN!" more than a cartoon tiger with a spring in his tail. But because I cannot allow the Infant to splash about in nothing more than a swim pant, (Speaking of pants-less babies walking the streets, I am both intrigued and repulsed by the limited edition jean diaper by Huggies. If you do not know to what I am referring, simply watch the ad on YouTube. Be forewarned: this just isn't right. Huggies ad: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQ0M9CBEkw0) I purchased some swim trunks for him that claimed they were sized for a 12 month old. It wasn't until I dressed him at the pool that I realized my son would not be sporting swim trunks this summer, rather, he'd be rocking swim jams. Poor little thing looks like a mini hoodlum.

On a completely unrelated note: there is a feral cat that is squatting on the deck chair on our back porch. It is gray and mangy looking and it rubbed itself on my leg yesterday and I had to take a shower afterward. It looks like it needs to eat a sandwich but if I feed it, it will never leave and, at this point, I just can't commit to cat ownership. It screams at night and, so help me, if it wakes up the Infant we're going to have to deal with this the way we dealt with things on the farm and, in the words of my father, have a little "come to Jesus meeting".

Rat tail sighting...seriously.

Today, while making my way through the mall on a mission to return some items, I spotted a woman at the Piercing Pagoda whose 'do warranted a double take. I admit, at first, I was unsure the individual was indeed female. I only saw the back of her head and thought for sure that: 1) the rat tail was eradicated in 1986, and 2) prior to 1986, most of the individuals sporting the tail were males. Piercing Pagoda lady completely upended both of my theories: it is not 1986 and SHE was sporting a mangy looking rat tail. Moreover, her bangs were platinum blond and the rest of her hair was jet black. I don't think any of this was an accident: she was intentionally sporting a rat tail and we all know the intentional rat tail is the worst kind there is. Now, let's be honest, there's been a time or two in our own lives when something went terribly awry in the stylist's chair and you walked away with Farrah Fawcett wings, a mullet, a mushroom, or a helmet, none of which you actually requested by name or implication.

I remember back in 1996, Friends was the rage and I, like every other high school girl in America, wanted Rachel's long layers. I had the long, shoulder length hair necessary for such a 'do and brought in pictures to show my stylist. An hour later I sat staring into the mirror at someone with short, two-inch layers from the crown of her head all the way to her shoulders. This was NOT the Rachel; this was a feathered mullet. It was all I could do to choke back the mixture of horror, bewilderment and panic that inched its way up my esophagus. I composed my young self and made it to the car before bursting into tears. I had to sport that stinkin' mullet for three months before it finally grew out enough to fashion into something less mullet-like. It was awful.


It was quite clear to me that the situation on the back of the Piercing Pagoda lady's head was nothing like the Botched Rachel Cut of '96. If I hadn't been in such a state of shock, I surely would have snapped a picture to post but my world was in the middle of being rocked so, alas, no picture. I will try to pull myself together next time and get the photographic evidence.