The Suits

Letting go of some old friends today really gives me pause for thought.

My work suits were taking up valuable closet space, but I loved each one of them and I refused to part ways (for years now.) When it was time to make room for maternity clothes a few months ago, I moved the suits to what will be the baby's closet as a temporary solution.

But I knew what I had to do.

I bought most of the suits in the first few years after school. In my young twenties and full of fire and ambition, I decided that if I was going to be taken seriously as a professional, I needed to stop buying clothes from the junior department. I cut off my long curly hair and started wearing it straight and shoulder length. I wore heels and hosiery 4 days a week (you already know that I love to torture myself.) And even though I didn't feel like a grown up, I made an effort to look like one.

In short, (and I am) I tried very hard to look older and take myself more seriously!

'Wish I could talk to that silly girl and tell her a few things about life. But here I am, and those suits were a tangible thing of hers that I held onto as long as I could.

I dropped the best ones off at a Dress for Success drop-off in the hope that someone else can use them before they get any more dated and dusty. I knew I was potentially "losing it" when, returning to my car, I thought for a split-second about going back in to get them.

There was the red Dana Buchman suit that I paid a small fortune for back when I believed the whole power-in-color-thing. (But I always did look good in red.)

There was the camel-colored pant suit from Talbots that still looks as sharp and tailored today as it did when I bought it. I felt about two inches taller in that one...but you won't see me in Talbots these days -- I'm way too young anymore.

There was my favorite navy short-sleeved suit (my first "summer" suit.) I loved it so much I had at least three different pairs of navy shoes to wear with it.

There was a black suit and a chocolate brown suit. So many different accessories. So many working lunches. So many memories of a simpler time that I made more complicated.

I don't know why I didn't get rid of the suits years ago. I have been a SAHM for three years now. And I had not worn suits to work for a couple years even before that. I think I was holding on to the hope that I might need an interview suit one of these days.

But as it turns out, I'm about to start a new job in a couple of months. It requires long, long hours and "dry clean only" is out of the question... And I'm not ashamed to admit that I have mixed emotions about taking on such a massive new project, although, I know how rewarding it will be.

I did keep one, a white summer suit. Because, in my imaginary world, I might be invited to a garden luncheon slash fashion show. I'll just need to throw on some strappy sandals and a big flowered hat and I'll be ready to go.

And I kept my black cocktail suit because... Well, just because.

A girl cannot survive on yoga pants alone.

Where do we go from here?

UPDATE:
UPS recovered our package (a week after it was delivered) from the couple who were guilty of nothing more than not being neighborly enough to walk the damn thing over. To my chagrin, we opened it up and there was no remote control inside!! (Just some other equipment that I don't care about.) So the man says he'll send the long-awaited remote right over...via UPS.

Enough wasted energy! I'm not going to try to wrap my mind around "why?"

Original post:

I'm frustrated and beside myself over the stupidest thing.

I spent 30 minutes tracking a UPS package that was "delivered" last week. The sender thoughtfully left an automated message asking how I was getting along with my new stuff.

I saw the UPS guy deliver the package to my next door neighbor last week. The driver was blocking me in as I was getting in my car to leave one day, so I walked down the driveway to see if it was the new equipment we were eagerly awaiting, namely, a remote control that works...a brand new one (you starting to understand how important this is to me/us???)

To my delight, the box was clearly marked Di$# Network; but instead of delivering the goods into my outstretched hands, he sliced right and left it on my neighbor's porch.

I fear this was a crossroad in my life, and I choked; chose the wrong path.

I could have said, "Excuse me, but I was waiting for a package from that same sender. Are you sure that's not meant for this house?"

Or I could have immediately called UPS Worldwide Headquarters and put them on the case.

Or, I could have (and in hindsight, should have) waited until the driver left, snuck up to the door and grabbed what was rightfully mine.

Knowing that my neighbors have the same, shall we say, master, I gave 'em the benefit of the doubt that just maybe, they too, were waiting for a box exactly the right size to fit my stuff. I let it go. I never doubted that if the box was meant for us, it would find its way to our porch.

That never happened and now UPS is on it and I'm not responsible for the loss. But I wonder...

Are they partying down with my new remote?

Was I intentionally wronged? (A teeny-tiny, perhaps naive, part of me wants to believe it is an honest mistake.)

And most importantly, where do we go from here as neighbors?

Do they suspect we know they took our sh--, our stuff? (Don't stand between me and the ability to pause and replay live TV. I'm from the barrio; it'll get ugly.)

These are Next.Door.Neighbors, for the love of all that is right in the world! This is not suppose to happen on my street. (Remember my wonderful street?) But that house, I'm afraid, has a spirit that attracts the weird ones... I'd better leave it at that.

I'm torn.

Our pastor was just preaching on Sunday that Christians give the benefit of the doubt. They don't bring up old trash. Or gossip. Or talk the way I sometimes talk onmyblogandinreallife. I'm suppose to set an example and love my neighbor as myself.

But myself wants to bang on their door and demand some answers. And get my remote, NOW, not five days from now when the man acknowledges my loss and reUPSes it.

Today, I am not only Woman Interrupted, I am Woman Scorned.

And when you hear from me next time, I'm going to be so over this petty diversion.

God Bless the German People

Specifically the ones who settled central Texas, for they introduced my world to beer, brats, and Schlitterbahn.

We've just returned from a relaxing five-nighter in the blue collar Riviera of Texas, New Braunfels, known for rolling hills, river sports and THE water park that started it all.

When I was growing up in that big family, most of our vacations were spent camping in the great outdoors. We had a groovy 70's VW camper (orange) with a pop-top sleeping loft and a built-in fridge and sink. We'd pack that baby to the brim: kids, tent, Coleman stove and hit the road. It must have been chaotic with the country music playing while kids fought in the back seat to pass the time, all the while, the wind whipping through the orange plaid curtains mom made for the camper that dad called "Betsy." But I only remember the good times.

I realize my memories are only just sprinkled with reality because Betsy was, in fact, a lemon and I'm reminded by my siblings how much trouble she often gave us on those romantic road trips. My brother assures me that camping was hot, uncomfortable torture once he hit his teen years but was still too young to stay home alone. I think we have photographic evidence of his misery somewhere.

Yes, hotels and a/c are not to be replaced, but what about roasting dinner on a stick over a campfire and waking up at the first sunlight to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon frying outdoors? What about chasing frogs and lightening bugs and peeing behind trees in the dark? What about learning to pitch a tent, or roll up a sleeping bag, or start a campfire? What about looking out at the night sky to discover all the stars that are washed out by city lights? And what about all that together-time with no movies or computers to entertain ourselves with? When you camp, you hang out and you talk and you eat, and you get dirty and go swimming to wash off the sweat. To me, camping evokes good times, simple times. And I want that again, for my boys.

Once out of college, MMA and I enjoyed many wonderful trips to places I'd only dreamed of going as a child. I thought I had arrived. Why drive somewhere and camp when you can travel like this? Or so I thought.

But as we were leisurely loading up the car last Sunday (no plane to catch, no danger in drinking the local water) for the drive to our rustic cottage with all the comforts of home, just three hours from home --I'm almost six months pregnant remember, let's not get crazy-- I finally got it. I understand now why so many generations have been vacationing in New Braunfels with their kids. Even those who could have gone somewhere more exotic.

Fancy Camping?

Only now do I get it, that when you travel with little ones, it really is all about what they want and need because taking care of them first affords us some R&R, too. Those wonderful Germans must have surely understood that when they fashioned the perfect, affordable family vacation spot smack dab in the middle of all the biggest cities in Texas. An easy vacation in the beautiful Texas Hill Country, what's not to love!

I came to these same caverns as a kid

You should have seen me floating along the lazy river, butt-up, at Schlitterbahn with my big pregnant belly resting so pleasingly in the inner tube. I felt like I had re-arrived, further evolved. Only Child was giggling and bouncing along beside me under the watchful eye of his daddy. I knew he would be worn out and ready for bed extra early.


Forget about expensive drinks at the swim up bar or going back to the room to fix my wet hair for an evening out. I was looking forward to hanging out on our rented couch to watch TV and read in peace and quiet. That last night, a whole pack of deer came to graze right outside our cabin in front of the river.


It was so pretty and peaceful and I thought to myself what I always think on vacation, (no matter where) "This is the life, right here. This is it!" (And of course, "How much is real estate around here?)

So, God Bless you, German settlers of central Texas!

Gettin' his Facebook on

Score!

I survived bathing suit shopping and I didn't kill Only Child even once in the dressing room when no one else was looking.

I think first pregnancies are for going all out and spending lots of money to show off the blossoming tummy. Been there, done that. I am content to buy as little as possible and squeeze into my regular tee's until they're just too short. (My son calls them Winnie the Pooh shirts.)

So spending big bucks on a bathing suit was never a consideration. In fact, my only qualifications are (1) to not look vulgar and (2) to draw as little attention as possible. Looking cute at the pool's got nothin' to do with it...I'm just trying to hang in there for Only Child's sake.

And can I butt in for a second and ask, who are these freaks of nature that walk around in bikinis with their porno-bellies hanging out, no fat thighs, no stretch marks, and crazy enough in the head to think they look good? Some of them actually do look just fine. For pregnant women.

And on to Target, the first and last stop in our bathing suit hunt. Our search begins there when I remember Motherhood's strict "no refunds for any reason whatsoever" policy. (I mean, if a pregnant woman is not allowed to change her mind...then screw you! -- hypothetically speaking.) And I'd like the record to show that Target and Old Navy have as good or better to pick from and they don't sell your personal information out to a dozen junk mail distributors.

Everything out now (and for the last few years) seems to be a halter. So that means the bathing suit tie that rests on my neck has support countless pounds of big-girl-bounce. Which is borderline too heavy when I'm NOT pregnant. Style who? Just too impractical.

After nine different halter tops, my [insert body part]s were chaffing from all the putting on, taking off. I even considered a plus size top, but they were too short and provided extra room for 360 degrees of roundness. We were getting hungry and tired. Only Child was laying on the floor of the dressing room begging me to shoot him. I was about to give up when I saw it.

There, on the clearance rack was the only top in the store that could support my rack. A pink and black flowery thing hanging there with regular over-the-shoulder straps. It could have been velvet with a picture of Jimmy Hendrix's a$$ on it. If was my size, (and it was) I would have taken it.

I didn't even try it on. I just bought it, because it had sufficient fabric to cover us up and it saved me a trip to another store. Amen. The fact that it was on clearance just cemented for me that it was meant to be.

And if that wasn't score enough, the Rockets just beat the Lakers and we've been hatin' on Kobe Bryant this whole series.

It was a good day!

The truth about the Back Nine

How quickly time flies. I'm officially in the back nine.

Not feeling so dead sexy anymore, either. Everything (and I mean everything) is enormous and out of proportion. I'm feigning shock (if only to myself) when I, daily, pass a mirror and see that another part, seemingly unrelated to pregnancy, is blooming. Isn't that a delightful way to say it?

A huge compliment right now sounds something like,

"Wow, you're all baby!" or,

"I can't believe your 5 months pregnant already, you're so small." (Followed by an anecdote about you or someone you know to make me believe it.) ...Shameless prompting, huh?

I was at my aunt's nursing home the other day and a precious old lady asked me if I have any babies. I pointed, "that one over there is mine and I have another one on the way."

"I had a feeling," she said with a smile. It was very sweet and good lesson in how to gently approach the subject when you're not sure. And, considering I'm so clearly out of the closet, it was the cutest thing I'd heard all week!

I had to go to the store and buy some old lady sandals. Two weeks ago I dusted off some old kitten heels that I had not worn in four years just for a change. But I kept thinking of that kids' show Olivia, where the pigs are walking around on tip toes. I was afraid that I looked as absurd as I felt, and decided it wasn't worth the tripping hazard. My flip flops will do if there's not much walking, but I now need something more supportive for my rising dough feet. So when you see me strutting in my I heart Comfort sandals, just know that I'm under no illusions of dazzling anyone with my style. It's all much more primal right now.

And I've got to get some decent sleep. If I'm not up peeing, I'm flopping around trying to get comfortable. I disregarded the advice not to sleep on my back because it cuts off my blood flow, blah blah blah. (I can deal with a little light-headedness) until I read of my own accord that back sleeping also slows down digestion and can bring on hemorrhoids. OK, so now I'm scared straight, (that subject being a fate so disastrous that even doctors and BFFs don't like to talk about it.)

To aid me in sleeping on my side I was lodging three different pillows in strategic places that had to be constantly rearranged. Finally I gave up and bought a body pillow. But its going to take some getting used to because we're up half the night, me and "Stan," wrestling around like a couple of newlyweds trying out awkward positions while my poor husband gets edged closer and closer to insanity. And the couch. I give him another month.

I'm not hinting that I want the bed all to myself. I'm publicly announcing that I wouldn't blame him if he found a more restful spot to hunker down for the next few months.

And that ladies, is my truth about the back nine, minus a few details and specifics that could be deemed TMI for the gentler sex to read about.

Come back next week, same time same place, to read about my next adventure: shopping for a maternity bathing suit with a three year old in tow...

It's all about Big Brother (for now)

MMA took a day off work so we could all go together for the big ultrasound. We wanted Only Child to be really excited about learning the baby's gender. We talked up the "big day" for a week.

I secretly already knew.

I won't torture you with black and white blobs on the screen, insisting "see right there, that is a shoulder..." You already know what these things look like.

In the car on the way to the hospital Only Child was working it all out in his head...to himself, out loud.

"So, if the baby has a peeper, its a boy. And if it has a princess, then its a girl."

"You're so smart! That's right!"

"Yep, and its a boy...and I'm gonna call him Baby Mack. Or Baby Mater."

"Oh Really!?" (We might have to resort to Mack if we can't agree on a name...)

So, taking a rambunctious three year old to the hospital where we had to park, check in, register, wait with a light-up pager before we got called back to the real waiting room...so we could all do this together...sounds good on paper. (No, not even then?) Only Child was expecting to see a "baby" on the TV screen, so he was duly unimpressed.

I also had a regular ob/gyn appointment right after. My doctor got called to deliver a baby just as I was assuming the position. Did I mention what a long day that was?! The boys had to slip out to find the nearest fast-food-with-playground facility or dad was going to flip out.

The results confirmed that The Sequel is a boy. I pointed out a suspicious growth between his legs back at the ten week ultrasound. But my husband and the doctor both shushed me and said it was too early to tell. They did instill some doubt, but in my heart I knew.

So I let myself admit a couple of weeks ago that if I don't have a girl, I will miss picking out sweet dresses and decorating a fussy pink room. But then I thought about the potential heartache I also get to miss out on, like setting rules and boundaries about dating and makeup and, shiver me timbers, discussing sex with my sweet little girl. (Presumably, dads should have the man-to-man when that day comes.) So in about five minutes I was over it.

There is another specific reason I'm happy he is a boy. MMA has two lovely sisters that would do anything for us, but no brothers. So I thought he would enjoy seeing his sons grow up in relationship that he didn't have. I also think that two brothers together, or two sisters together have the potential to be really close friends; more so than a brother and a sister. I have no proof, just Superstar theory.

So anyway, Girly Stuff, (I would call her my designer friend, but she's so much more than that, really) has offered her services for The Sequel's nursery. The catch (for her) is that I never execute anything to completion, making me her worst client. And what gets done is done under pressure of deadline. Then again, we do have a September cutoff...so let me show you what I had in mind.


It was love at first sight when I saw this nursery at House of Turquiose. It is the handi-work of Megan at Me and Wee. (Check out her sweeeeet newborn baby.) I poured over all the details, thinking, "I can recreate this." But now I'm wondering how that color will do for a boy's room...what do you think? Too girly? I want the color to hold up for 5 years. Hmm. Sure is a pretty, that robins-egg-Tiffany blue.


So finally, on to baby names. We've had the perfect girl name on deck since a super long road trip that we took back in 2003. It's such a great name, that I try to keep it under wraps. Trust me when I say that people I know personally have been the victim of out and out baby-name-stealing! Shameless stuff! Anyway...

Mutually agreeable boy names are more elusive for us. Only Child was named after his dad after months of negotiations...and here we are again: pregnant with a boy, and we can't agree on nothin'! Since we're not of the George Foreman mindset, we have to come up another good name. Which to my husband sounds something like Vito Corleone, or Augustus Ceasar.

We are taking any and all reasonable suggestions for boy names. My husband says I only like white bread names. Translation: strong, classic, no funny business (and I am especially fond of biblical ones.) I don't want anything that sounds overly ethnic or super hero, because, (and I realize this is a new and modern world we live in but) being of my crazy lineage, isn't that enough without having a weird name too?

(Just send your good suggestions for the sake of the kid.)

I guess this post was all over the place. That's about right for me these days.

Let's recap the lessons we learned today:

• Don't take kids to the hospital unless they are sick.
• Keep your pantry well-stocked with cute genitalia euphemisms; its like keeping your gun on safety.
• Mom should always trust her instinct.
• Dads should take turns, and let the Moms name one.
  
• Mother's Day is coming...bring your A-game when you wife is pregnant. ( OK, that's a new point; just checking to see if you're listening.)

Prom Queen

Peep Toe Pumps and Pearls is my cute blogger friend (Jill) who is everything girly, pink and uptown. She invited me to participate in a little self-hazing ritual, she calls the Prom Queen Post. (You post your prom picture and everyone gets to laugh at your big hair.)

I laughed out loud when I saw Peep Toe's pictures because no one was immune to the Glenn Close hair that took over! She and I are close in age and we're both from Houston...let me just say that prom in Texas, in the 9o's, was all about big permed hair and sequins. Think: beauty pageant gone terribly wrong.

And just for fun here's a link to the pop music charts from the year I went to prom...Yes, I do remember dancing to MC Hammer in that dress. I probably left a trail of red sequins everywhere I went. Do you remember being eighteen and dancing to Baby Got Back (and feeling it?) Maybe that was just me. I can only laugh about it because, to the best of my knowledge, no video evidence of this mayhem exists.

OK, laugh away, and then post your pictures!

I'm going to tag:

Girly Stuff

Chasing Imperfection

Miss Priss

Stay At Home Dad 101

Circling the Square Table