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.

The King of Drama Takes Ill

Now that my husband is safely out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I feel that it is safe to share of my journey by his side. It is commonly known that the average man reverts back to infancy when he feels a case of the sniffles coming on. He becomes unable to complete simple tasks, like taking himself to the bathroom or pouring himself a glass of juice.

My husband is the kind of man that if given warning of the impending disease, he would probably bust out the craft supplies and make a sign to drape across his prone form that proclaimed “The End is Near” instead of just laying on the couch all day whining and bemoaning the approaching doom. Every time the kids get sick I find myself begging God to let the illness pass by my husband.

This time Daddy got sick first and there was no warning. The poor soul awoke to his alarm clock and declared that he had not slept for two seconds together the entire night and that he felt positively horrible. This being only his third day on a new job he decided that there was nothing for it but to drag his weary body from the comfort of his covers and get ready for work. With very great effort he managed to dress himself and be out of the door within the minute his ride called to say he was parked out front.

Less than three hours later his ride was back out front to drop off my stomach virus stricken husband. Coming through the door, he plowed his way through us to dive onto the couch and issue the decree that he was very, very sick and delirious, and that anyone who touched, climbed on, or otherwise bothered him would be sentenced to death.

Somewhere between the front door and the couch the small amount of pity that I had been able to accumulate had vanished, and the feeble man was fated to an afternoon of being cared for by a cranky nurse.

His condition quickly deteriorated from a typical stomach virus to something called a “nerve virus.” I had never encountered this type of sickness before, but I can tell you from experience that one of the symptoms that the inflicted claims to have is paralysis of the legs. There seems to be a momentary reprieve that enables the patient to arise if the doorbell rings while the nurse is upstairs with the children.

By the early afternoon the general whininess and level of complaint had increased in pitch to match the new self-diagnoses of “ameobic dysentery” in conjunction with a “very high fever” of 100.5 degrees Fahrenheit. I was surprised when only Tylenol was requested instead of a high dosage of morphine.

Shortly after this I was struck with amnesia, due to the stress of it all, and remember very little of the remaining period of illness. I can say for sure that I was not thrown up upon like I was only a few days later, nor was I required to do any nasty cleaning up. I did have to suffer, along with the rest of the household, through some unidentifiable odors however. My husband was quick to reassure me that the stench was his decomposing body tissue, and that I should for the sake of heaven take pity on him, during this, his final hour.

Over at My House We Have Sickness and... Stressness?

It is never a pleasant thing for either party when a toddler empties the contents of his stomach on mommy’s lap first thing in the morning. The poor child doesn’t understand what is happening, although he can attest to the fact that corn on the cob feels better going down than it does coming up. He’s not quite sure why mommy says it’s okay to keep “gagging” into her lap, but since she says that he should, he does. Over and over, until his belly (which must be larger than a person would think) is completely empty.

Mommy has a moment of panic where she is not sure how to get up from the couch without the contents of her impromptu bucket sloshing onto the floor. Thankfully the baby is still asleep so she cannot try to force her way into this scenario and suddenly decide to take up finger-painting or do any it-looks-like-a-puddle splashing. The thought of said baby waking up and wanting to participate in the clean up propels mommy into action.

In fear of another vomit episode mommy decides it is best to skip her shower until daddy gets home, so that the toddler needs not be left alone for any length of time. That is why, when twelve o’clock noon rolls around mommy is only in green sweats and a pink t-shirt, most of her hair back in a pony tail while small pieces frizz out and stick up around the temples, looking like an unkempt frazzled young mother who is in no position to be caring for small children.

Most days this doesn’t bother mommy, as looks can be deceiving and there is generally no one looking. On this day, however, mommy turns her back to the baby for a few moments to vacuum the kitchen. Most mommies have a hawk-like sense of hearing that magically develops within a few hours of bringing the baby home from the hospital. Over the noise of the vacuum it isn’t long before mommy hears the beep-beep of the phone buttons being pressed incessantly. Mommy arrives on the scene in seconds and stretches out her hand for the baby to relinquish the phone.

Since the episode at the start of the year, mommy’s paranoia has kept the phone in high places like countertops. The toddler quickly lost interest in playing with it and mommy started to slack off. The other repercussion of that incident is that mommy always punches the redial button to see what, if any, number was dialed. Today the screen flashes with “11”.

“Whew,” mommy thinks, “That was a close one.”

And then the phone rings.

Mommy knows only too well that it is standard procedure for a dispatcher to return any 911 call that connects, and that it is protocol for them send a police officer by.

Mommy feels that, for the first time in her life, she would be glad to hear a telemarketer’s voice on the other end of the line, anyone, as long as she can pick up the phone without hearing the greeting of an emergency dispatcher.

Alas, the baby had defied some perceived odds and dialed 911. And not just once, apparently. The dispatcher is very kind to mommy and the policeman that responds to the call is a handsome young man whose six-month-old, it turns out, called 911 himself in a moment of mischief and boredom. Mommy is so overjoyed at the kindness of the officer that she forgets she is standing out on the porch talking to a policeman while wearing her junk clothes with no bra on and her hair sticking out wildly from her head, holding a baby that is still in her p.j.’s because she may come down with the death virus and start puking at any moment, and what’s the sense of dressing her? To complete the vagabond look the usually clean porch is littered with two pairs of daddy’s work shoes and the toddler’s bicycle. At least mommy remembered to brush her teeth.

Mommy is not sure if ten out of ten experts agree or not, but she feels pretty expert-ish at times and according to her statistics if your kid hasn’t called 911 yet look out, because two out of two kids are doing it.

Communing with the Butterfly

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.

Tricks of the Trade

It doesn't take much to entertain a little boy.

Chasing him in circles with a Triceratops made out of a paper bag and plate will do.

















So will letting him run around the house with his hands and feet inside of Daddy's socks.

The Quick-Mess Solution

When a Mommy has a baby that can climb a chair so quickly and efficiently, she cannot turn her back for two minutes without some sort of disaster occurring; because in that two minutes the toddler may just push a chair up to the counter top where there are fun things to play with like a toaster, a coffee maker with a fun button that lights up when in the "on" position, cups full of liquid, some freshly washed utensils in a dish drain, and a tub full of Italian ice that may or may not be good for eating after becoming a plaything.


















While Mommy is busy wiping down the counter, the cabinets, and the floor, perhaps it would be a good time to dump the cats' dish of water and pat-pat in that. Maybe their food is good for eating too.