Shopaholics Anonymous

Having started a new job last week as an Audio/Visual Technician Apprentice, my husband found himself in need of a selection of tools and a tool bag to put them in. This thrilled him for two reasons: he likes tools and he likes to spend money. I’m not really sure why he enjoys the power of the purchase. Sure, when I spend money I get an adrenalin rush too, but mine is a result of the “how are we going to pay the bill this month?” shakes.

My husband comes home from a long tiring day on the job, walks in the door with a tired expression on his face that so resembles the look of a man sleeping on his feet, fumbles through dinner and then goes out to the hardware store in search of these much needed tools. When he returns home from his triumphant trip he is like a new man! Energetic, happy, satisfied. The transformation is really quite astounding.

Of course he doesn’t find shopping me with at all exciting. I think I hem and haw too much about how much everything costs, how nothing fits me, and do I really need this? I suppose my husband doesn’t find it too exhilarating to chase the toddler around and under clothing racks or keep him entertained while mommy compares the value and quality of garbage cans or cleaning products.

Both of us recently signed up for Facebook accounts. There are all of these neat applications that allow a person to send their friends gifts like Hatching Eggs and pots of flowers, coffee and different types of sushi. None of this stuff is real- it’s just images on the computer screen- but it makes a person feel as though they are interacting with another human being.

Something about this experience provides for that need in my husband to shop. He will spend an hour perusing his options and sending everyone he knows Narwhal eggs or snow globes with raspberries in them. I find his conduct a little bizarre, but it makes him cheerful so I guess it’s okay. And it’s much easier on the pocketbook.

Some of Us Have It: Some of Us Don't

Reaching a height of just under five-feet and two-inches tall, I am what my father would call “vertically challenged”. This really isn’t a problem except when I need new pants (or I try to dance with my much-taller husband of six-foot-three). I hate shopping for pants. I can go to store after store after store and not find anything that fits. Or I do find something that fits, take one look at the price tag, and start to see little spots of light that require me to locate a chair ASAP so that I don’t fall over and hit my head on a nearby display table. I refuse to pay more for jeans than I do for my electric bill.

Then there is my husband. I don’t know if it is simply because he is a man, or if he asked God to give him a special gene that enables him to find pants on clearance wherever he goes. It really is infuriating. We generally only have to go to one store for him to be able to locate his size on a clearance rack where everything is an extra such-and-such percent off already reduced prices; even if the table has one lonely pair of jeans on it, chances are they’ll be just right.

I suppose I really shouldn’t complain for two reasons: one, it doesn’t require a ten-hour shopping marathon to get what we came for; and two, it sure is nice to pay ten bucks for a pair of sixty-dollar Dockers. This last week he purchased one pair of jeans and two pairs of Dockers for a grand total of $26.39. The point still stands, however, that by the time I find blue jeans for myself I am practically delirious from lack of hydration and my mental facilities are on the fritz from mission-failure-itis. As of right now, all of my pants need a belt to stay up, and some of them have holes in them and torn pockets. Nevertheless, I am going to keep wearing them until they are only strips of fabric hanging from my waist and it comes down to buying new pants or being arrested for indecent exposure. Nothing but the threat of jail could coax me into the torture that is pants shopping.

To Thump or Not to Thump

I am a self-admitted melon-thumper. Last week I came across directions in a magazine on how to choose a ripe watermelon: look for a melon that feels heavy for its size and has a nice creamy spot to show for its time spent on the ground while basking in the sun. Nothing about putting one’s ear up to it and giving it a good whack to determine how hallow it sounds.

Armed with this new knowledge, I went to the grocery store and cautiously approached the watermelon crate. Having resolved in my mind not to thump any melons, I plucked one from its resting place. As soon as I picked it up I realized something: at nine o’clock at night, after a long day, all watermelons feel heavy. I’m not really sure if it felt heavy for its size because I don’t think that I understand what that means in the first place.

There did come a point when I had to fight off the urge to revert to my melon-thumping self. It helped that there was another lady picking through the crate at the time: she didn’t seem the type to understand my tendencies.

I felt vindicated, however, when I sliced into this particular melon and it was not up to par. Most people, I’m sure, would have felt the tug of disappointment when the rind was cut away to reveal tepid pink color instead of a dark juicy red. Not me. I now feel free to go back to happily whacking my watermelons. As long as there isn’t anyone watching. I like to thump those melons in private, and don’t appreciate being sniggered at.

I'm a Slave to the Sale

I have this problem. I tend to obsess about stupid things. I buy most of the kids’ clothing at The Children’s Place because they have sales that kick some serious pa-tooty. At the end of the winter, I bought 3-in-1 coats for the kids. They cost eight dollars. The best part is- if they don’t fit when the little fluffy white stuff starts falling from the sky, I just find the receipts and take them back, as long as they still have the tags attached. You can’t beat that with a big ugly stick made out of a California Redwood.

So, what, you may ask, is the problem here? The problem is that I bought shorts and flip-flops that were on sale for the little guy today. I’m so completely enamored of the store’s clearance prices that purchasing something that is only on sale makes me insane. I am absolutely convinced that within the next two weeks, the items I just purchased will be marked down to a ridiculously low price, and that makes my head reel. My brain is fighting amongst itself: “you should have waited for the better sale” right hook to the jaw “if you wait they won’t have his size” karate kick to the chest. (It would seem that I don’t have a little angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other- I have a boxing champion and a black belt in karate.)

This scenario rather debilitates me because I feel as though I cannot exercise my own free will and purchase anything from the store save for those few times during the year when a bright-red clearance sign heralds the good news. Unfortunately, my son registered about a seven on the my-kid-needs-shorts-real-bad scale; that fact, coupled with the possession of a coupon, is what led me to my erratic behavior.

I sometimes think that coupons are a common-sense killer. Instead of waiting just a bit longer for that sale that may, or may not be, around the corner, a person clutches the coupon that promises a discount and watches the days tick down until the date it absolutely must be redeemed or it will expire, at which point the person must use it or lament its loss. Whoever thought up the idea to actually put the power of the make-your-own-sale mentality into the actual hand of the consumer was a genius. It’s taunting, tempting, and titillating.

I realize that my irrational panic at missing a good sale is absurd. I once heard bargain hunting referred to as the female equivalent of “the thrill of the hunt”, and I believe that I have a bad case of bargain-hunting-induced-adrenalin-rush addiction. I do find it quite thrilling when I can buy my kiddos five well-made t-shirts for ten bucks.

Still, I have a problem. Instead of seeking the help of a qualified therapist I decided to confess my consumerism sins to the world, and hope that the release of sharing such asinine conduct will help me to overcome this deficiency in my character and enable me to become a better person. A person who can look a bright-red “extra 50% off already reduced prices” sign in the eye and say… well, I don’t know what I’d say. I may need another blogging session. I’m not cured yet.

I Want to Hold Your Hand

People passing by my friend, our kids, and me at the mall would have seen a brown haired two-and-a-half year old little boy happily holding hands with a curly blond haired little girl of three years. The little boy wore a plush monkey backpack (with the leash detached), and the little girl clutched a soft stuffed puppy to her chest.

As they bounded along like two little adults on a window-shopping trip, the little boy pointed out the different sights to his friend. In the pet store he showed her the lizards and the snakes. They sat together in the coin-operated ice cream truck and the compact blue racecar.

While their mommies shopped, the little kids sang into the atomizer bulbs of perfume bottles (because they look like microphones); they played in the racks of hanging clothes (because it’s fun); and they giggled shrilly for no reason at all (because…well, why not?).

The blue-eyed friends tried to listen to their mommies, but they were having so much fun that they sometimes forgot. When it was time to go they shared a very grownup hug, where no arms got tangled or confused as to where they should go. And always, they were holding hands. Because if the little girl let go, the little boy got mad.

Look At The Crazy Lady

Yesterday, I was the person in the grocery store that you take one glance at, elbow your companion, and say, “Look at that nut.” Well, you would probably stare and not glance at me, because it would take more than a glance to figure out just what it is that I was doing. I’m not usually this person, but sometimes it just can’t be helped. Lately I’ve been too busy herding the whole family down the aisles, trying in vain to get through the store in less than an hour and a half while the toddler runs up and down giggling maniacally, dropping cans of beans and soup on his toes, and the husband stops at anything that looks even mildly appetizing because he didn’t eat enough before we left and now he’s hungry.

Last night, however, I decided that I really wanted to take an hour and go to the grocery store by myself. It helped my case a little that my son is snotting from his nose and I didn’t think it would be nice for other consumers to catch his cold simply because they were out of canned-squid-in-a-blanket at home and needed to go to the grocery store to buy a couple of cans. My husband graciously offered to stay at home with the children after I quickly nixed his proposal to go to the store for me with the standard, “It will be much faster if I go because I know where everything is and I know what we need. If you go I would have to make a detailed list. Thanks anyway.” (Always be sure to thank a helpful husband, because if you don’t he may not offer to be helpful anymore. Although, there are plenty of times where he doesn’t want to be helpful so much as he doesn’t want to be left home alone with sick kids.)

So off I went on my mission of mercy, bringing milk and chicken nuggets to a home and ailing toddler that had none. It was a chilly evening, and I drove along enjoying the feel of a warm and fuzzy hoodie on my skin, already excited for the fall even though there have only been a dozen or so hot days. I hoped that the baby hadn’t started crying for me yet, as she seemed a little leery on my leaving the house.

The first item that a shopper encounters at our favorite grocery store is nice, juicy (and seedless) watermelons. Now, I really have no idea where I picked up this habit, but I simply cannot buy a watermelon without first putting my ear up to it and giving it a good rap with my knuckles: if it sounds hollow that means it’s a good one. I swear I heard that somewhere. At any rate, if I tried to simply pluck a melon from the crate and plop it into my shopping cart I would probably have some sort of mental breakdown.

Somewhere along my journey I came to grips with the fact that I needed some sort of doughnut. I rarely buy junk at the store because I don’t want it in my pantry, taunting me until my eyes bug out at funny angles and I, in crazed desperation, rip open the package and devour its contents in one fell swoop. Okay, that’s a little extreme, but still. At any rate, there I was, methodically searching the bakery department wondering where they had moved the fresh doughnuts to. Since the dawn of time, the doughnuts have been in the same spot. I have ignored them time and time again, and now when I needed them they were not to be found. Ah, ha! Tucked away next to the fresh brownies and evil double-chocolate-chocolate cakes were a few large éclairs. “Well,” I thought, “that’ll do just fine!”

Obviously I couldn’t just pick the first one from the shelf and place it lovingly into the basket. No. I had to stand there and lift each plastic container from the shelf and look to see which was the largest and which had more chocolate on top. Yep. Don’t mind me. By the time I got home I really needed that extra creamy frosting. I stink at picking which line to stand in at the checkout. I’m happy to say that I didn’t ruin my batting average either. There were only three open lanes and I picked the slowest. Sigh. I even tried to be a little scientific. I not only considered the number of carts in each line and how full they each were, but I also made an attempt to judge which of the employees scanned and bagged the fastest. What? Forget that I was probably going home to a screaming infant, a boogery toddler, and a husband who would never let me leave the house childless again. I was in a bit of a hurry to get home and eat my éclair.

My Favorite Muumuu

It is always my aim to hide the perpetual belly-pouch that my twice-pregnant stomach has acquired. That being said, I have been delighted with the trend toward looser fitting, but flatteringly cut, shirts and tops. However, as I dressed recently I realized that some of my shirts beg the question: oh, are you expecting again? No, I’m sure that I left my figure around here somewhere. Muumuus tend to elicit those kinds of questions.

Shopping for tops post-baby can be a frustrating and aggravating experience. However, it can also be a humorous event if it is viewed with the correct attitude. Following is a list of criterions that a shirt must meet in order to be considered for purchase:

Once the sale and clearance racks are combed and a good selection of shirts has been collected, a dull bell announces the arrival of our heroine to the dressing room area. After shutting herself into an available space she locks the door, hangs her selections on the hook, and peels off her own shirt. She is now ready to begin.

Test #1: The first thing that needs to be determined is whether or not the shirt is a belly-hugger. During this test there may be a lot of tugging on the hem and arranging of the new item. If it insists on clinging to the midsection or if it emphasizes the belly-pouch the shirt is immediately relegated to the discard pile.

Test #2: For this test our heroine lifts her arms over her head to make sure that she will not flash anyone with her stretched out stomach should she decide to jump up and down and flail her arms like a crazy person.

Test#3: The sit-down test. This is a very important test if our heroine would like to maintain her sense of dignity in the presence of other people. If, once she sits, the article of clothing accentuates the way her belly rolls over the top of her pants it is right out.

It is a good idea to leave the flab causing children and the husband at home. None of them understand this ritual, nor do they appreciate being kept waiting during its duration.

Now that I have a cheerleader I am hoping to develop an exercise regimen. I did some light aerobics along with a VHS tape today, and even though I was horribly uncoordinated and must have looked like a buffoon my son had some wonderful words of encouragement for me- “That was amazing, Momma!”

These Boots Aren't Made For Walkin'

Going to the pediatrician’s office is so exhausting. I have to take the kids twenty-five minutes west on an interstate highway to get there. Some times it takes twenty-five minutes, but there have been times it has taken over an hour.

Today we cruised the highway with minimal traffic and arrived a little early. The practice is on the fourth floor of a four-story building, so we always take the elevator. Elevators terrify my son. A stranger happening upon the sight is sure to get a chuckle. There I am, five-feet two-inches tall, carrying my baby girl while my two year old son, who is almost as tall as I am, stands on my feet and wraps his arms around my legs.

Like most pediatrician’s offices this time of year the feverish, coughing, runny nosed children are equal in numbers to those scheduled for regular checkups. This means we wait. And we wait. I try to look at the bright side and remember that I at least am waiting with a well child and not a sick one. This is the easy waiting because Blue’s Clues and Sesame Street help to entertain the kids.

It’s the waiting that takes place in the exam room that’s treacherous. By this time it has been a good two hours since the baby has nursed, so she is getting hungry. My son can only be read the same book so many times or drive his cars over the same terrain for so long before he has to resort to going through drawers and touching buttons while mommy frantically follows in the wake of would-be destruction.

Once the doctor appears (she’s always smiling and cheery- how does she do that?) the baby cries every time she’s touched, and the toddler either needs to be repeatedly snatched from in front of the door whenever the nurse is about to enter or told to stop rolling around on the floor.

During the descent back to the parking lot two gentlemen came aboard the elevator car. Before giving birth to my first baby I was employed for three years by a local hospital. They required all employees to attend concierge training which basically taught the new hires to be thoughtful and polite in case they didn’t already know how. What I am trying to say is that I had enter and exit an elevator last drummed into my brain; so when we reached street level I politely stood and waited for these gentlemen to exit the car. They politely stood and waited for me to exit.

Now I was in a bit of a conundrum. I couldn’t reach the door open button and, not sensing any bodies, the doors began to close. Sensing the imminent danger of another ride up and down the elevator shaft with my sweet boy crushing my feet with his toddler size eight shoes, my elasti-woman reflexes kicked in and my right leg instinctively propelled itself between the closing doors and the opposing doorjamb. I’m sure I looked like an idiot; I was perched on one leg with the other leg sticking straight out from of my body; I gripped an infant car seat in my left hand, had the diaper bag slung over my shoulder, and was blindly searching for my two-year-old’s hand with my own.

The elevator doors yielded to my apparent sudden urge to practice yoga and opened again forthwith. The one gentleman asked, “You got that?” with a very concerned edge in his voice; I’m quite sure he was having visions of the door closing on my leg and snapping it into two pieces. I mumbled something stupid like, “Mommies learn how to use all their limbs at once” in my hoarse cold-ridden voice. He probably didn’t understand a word I said, so I didn’t waste any time worrying about whether he thought I was touched in the head or not.

As if the day thus far hadn’t been strenuous enough we always follow up a visit to the doctor with a trip into the Target around the corner. Exactly a week before Christmas the parking lot was rife with motorists hunting and racing for parking spaces, and haphazardly dodging pedestrians in the crosswalk. I got scared and parked far away from the entrance.

My son clumped along next to the stroller in his big snow boots as we very, very slowly, slowly rambled through the aisles. Those boots really slow him down and the big puffy winter coat doesn’t help the speed factor very much. I think it took us an hour to look at a handful of items scattered throughout the store.

We were just about to enter the checkout aisle when the little man was taken by a fit of weariness and sat down on the floor. He couldn’t take another step. So he decided to lie down. In front of an oncoming shopping cart. Once the he regained the use of his legs we had a speedy checkout and managed to get to the car safely with our sack of… baby food? Yep. That’s the whole kit-n-caboodle: because that’s what mommies do- risk their lives to secure food for their babies.

Santa has something for everyone on your list

My girlfriend and I took the kids to the mall yesterday to walk around and so that my son could look at the Christmas trees. This is becoming a favorite past time of his already. It was a pleasant surprise to see that the little mall elves had put up the huge mall tree already. The little man did not like this one as much as the smaller trees in the department stores because this one had a rope around it making it off-limits to small hands.

He is at the age where the days of walking past the toy store without going in are over. I enjoy watching him explore all of the different toys. This may cease to be enjoyable if he reaches the temper-throwing stage because he cannot take everything he sees home with him, but right now all he wants to do is browse and mash buttons. Kids these days must be born with a button-seeking sensor; he can locate a push button in no time flat.

We spend most of our time in the car/truck aisle. Yesterday was no exception. If this is any indication of what to expect when holiday shopping this year I am a little frightened: in between the fire engines and the racecars sat a jeep with two bobble-headed hunters sitting in it. How did I know they were hunters, you may ask? It was a pretty safe guess for the reason that both were sporting orange vests. However, the dead buck roped to the hood of the vehicle was what clinched it for me. A jab to the button started a song (for the life of me I can’t remember what it was) to which the hunters’ heads bobbled and their mouths snapped open and shut as if in song. Once the lifeless deer lifted its head and joined in the song the toy completed its journey into the part of my brain that registers the ridiculous.

What will those builders of toys think of next? If toys like this can be made my husband would quickly rise to the top of the field if he were employed as a Toy-Thinker-Upper. So, dear shopper, keep your eyes peeled for strange and unexpected playthings this holiday season as you comb a toy store near you for that one-of-a-kind Christmas present.

The new Swan Lake

Here we are again. The dawn of winter is upon us: in a few short days it will be November. The cold weather requires much preparation to go out of doors with little faces, heads and legs. We shall call the following paragraph, “the Psychotic Ballet of Preparation for an Average Winter Outing.”

Firstly, one must decide if one has sufficient energy to attempt such a trial. If one decides in the negative then all one must do is to find a safe place to sip hot cocoa so as not to be consistently jostled causing one to spill the steaming beverage on oneself or the kiddos. If, however, one decides to embark upon the journey it is always wise to defer it until all children are possessed of a full tummy. This will make the excursion much more pleasant for all involved, and dramatically reduce the amount of whining. One should also make sure that all babies have dry, clean diapers. This is done for two reasons: in hopes that they will not need to be changed during the outing; and also because wet diapers are uncomfortable at any time, especially when they become wet and cold. The next order of business would be to check that mommy’s bag is properly stocked with all of the necessities: munchies for the toddler, wipes, diapers, extra clothes in case of a diaper malfunction, wallet, keys, cell phone, sippy cup, etc. Now comes the “bundling up” that is a well loved past time with all mommies. Shoes/boots, coat, hat, scarf, mittens. Repeat as required until all little people are properly dressed. Do not skip any steps or one may suffer the remarks of strangers who wonder loudly as to why the baby doesn’t have her head covered. At this time one or all of the kids may have decided it would be a good time to poop. Since it would be a wretched idea to take the baby out in this condition, however tempting it may be, one must undress, change, and re-dress the child. It is now time to wrestle the transformed marshmallow offspring into the vehicle. Please note that it can be difficult for the toddler to get to the car without falling over at least once due to the restriction of the winter clothing ensemble. Once everyone is settled into their car seats and smothered with blankets to ward off the cold it is time to adjust the heat and put the car into drive (it may be wise to warm up the car ahead of time).

This ballet, as we have called it, can take an average of seventy-five to ninety minutes. All of this to run to the grocery store because one is out of milk.

The get-rich-not-so-quick plan

Yes, if I didn’t have kids I’d be a bazillionaire. Well, not quite. But I’d sure own more pairs of shoes! In desperation to get out of the house one more time without having to bundle everyone up in coats the kids and I went to Babies R Us to buy diapers. Exciting, no? Actually, there is an element of excitement for me: my husband takes my car to work most days because his car is a gas-guzzler, so most days I find myself stranded at home.

After I looked at the newspaper this morning and the flat, yellow sun peeked out at me from behind a fake, flat cloud with a declaration that the day would be a warm seventy-seven degrees I decided that I needed to have my car for the day. I hoped against hope that one of my friends would be available on short notice, but everyone had appointments, or previous engagements, or had to work. Thus the plan to venture out to buy diapers was formulated.

So there we were, my son sitting in the front of the cart, my daughter snuggled up in her carrier stowed away in the basket, two boxes of diapers- one for each child- stuffed on the metal rack beneath the cart, on our way to select the baby’s first boxes of cereal. We decided on one box each of rice and oatmeal. Okay, on to bedding. The kids needed more sheets, and lucky me!, the Gerber sheets were on sale! Before selecting the sale item I looked around to see if I could purchase sheets made in the good old US of A. Not so much. My options were India, China and Pakistan. I opted for the on-sale made in India sheets. At the register I handed the lady the two boxes of cereal, two fitted sheets, and hoisted the two boxes of diapers onto the counter before surrendering my coupons. (On a side note- I have found Babies R Us to be the best place to buy diapers because they have fantastic coupons every couple of months). The good news: I saved $17.80 between the sale and my coupons. The bad news: my total still came to $76.74.

But wait, we’re not done yet! My son still needs shoes. Next stop: Payless Shoesource. It’s loads of fun to buckle everyone back into the car just to drive across the street. This time the baby went into the stroller and my son got to wear his “backpack.” Really it’s a leash. It’s new. My husband hates it. But my son gets to look like he’s piggybacking a monkey around while I don’t have to be afraid that he will try to run into the street to play with the life-size fire engine. The benefits far outweigh the negatives. Case closed. We just won’t utilize the monkey when we are out with daddy.

After perusing through the Christmas trees in the department store we made our way out into the mall to the shoe store. The monkey came in handy here because the little man kept attempting to run back to Christmas tree land. Once his shoe size was determined by the shoe-sizer thingy we had to select two pair of shoes for him because with sales these days you have to spend money to save money. Go figure. The good news: I saved $7.00 between the sale and a coupon. The semi-bad news: I still spent $20.99.

To recap, the day’s total came to $97.73 for diapers the kids will poop in and shoes they will grow out of in no time at all. I’m dreading the snow boot shopping. I peeked at a tag while at Payless; I’ll need to have my head examined if I acquiesce to spend $29.99 on a pair of kids’ boots. I don’t even spend that much on shoes for myself. And I stopped growing out of my shoes years ago.

It's curtains for you!

I have been on a rampage the last week or so. Anyone who has tried to shop for curtains on a budget can understand the stress of this seemingly impossible endeavor. My poor children had to watch from afar in the land of neglect while dear old mom spent all of her spare minutes surfing the internet in search of the illusive designer curtain at discounted prices. If such an animal exists I certainly did not find it. What I found instead were headaches, disappointments, and frustration. I think the rest of my family found that last one too. Except toward me instead of the man who decided it was okay to sell one striped window panel for $69.99 hardware not included.

After hours of surfing and multiple trips to Target and JcPenney I came to grips with purchasing plain-colored tab top panels. Even though they were nothing even close to my original dream curtains there was something satisfying in buying eight curtain panels for fewer than eighty dollars (for those of you wondering, it’s hard to buy even four panels for this price). I had high and foolish hopes that this would put to rest the curtain demons that had been hounding the part of my soul that cares about curtains, and that I would no longer be dreaming about panels, valences, and sheers and could get back to dreaming of things more pleasant. Like Alan Rickman’s voice.

I had read warnings from fellow curtain hunters in the reviews posted on Target’s website about the variance of panel lengths from one package to the next. This complaint seemed relatively common, so why I thought I could escape without experiencing it I don’t know. Perhaps in my delirium I felt impervious to the attack of the curtain-making machine they have hidden somewhere in Pakistan that makes these curtains. How wrong I was. After having washed and dried (according to the product directions) the four burgundy panels for my large living room window it has become painfully obvious that two of these curtains are now three inches shorter than the remaining two. I knew they were a teeny bit shorter before they went into the wash, but I was tired of Target at this point. (I believe if I see another red and white bulls-eye I may go into hysterics). So at any rate, I decided I could live with it. But three inches? That’s another story; don’t ask me what I am going to do about it because I honestly do not know. Yes, I could cross my fingers and exchange them for another package of potentially mismatched panels. But even then they could turn out to be like the favorite pair of jeans that are fine for the first one-hundred washes only to be foiled by the infamous one-hundred and first washing that renders them no longer capable of buttoning. Thankfully the four green panels slated for the dining room miraculously came out the same length they went into the machine.

As a small child I think I had good instincts about curtain shopping. I hated it. My mother was operating on an even tighter budget than I am and any time she wanted to look at curtains we all groaned because we knew it would take all day, and we would be given no food or affection, nor would we be allowed any sleep during the trip. With glazed eyes we would nod like crazed lunatics, “Yes, yes, we love those curtains! They are the most perfect curtains ever conceived of by man! Please buy them! Buy anything, something! We must be given access to toilet facilities and nourishment!” It really was a most horrendous experience. Of course I now understand that it was horrible for my mother too. On top of the curtain-shopping stress she also had the “I’m-shopping-with-four-children” stress to add to it.

So, in closing, I would like to thank the makers of fine chocolate for helping me through this (not that I have any fine chocolate to consume); and, more importantly, my husband, who promised not to seek a legal separation during this time of hardship and stress; but who has instead poured his energy into resisting the urge to throttle me at the mere mention of the “c” word.