How I didn't blow your minds

This is the blog post that wasn't.

It started yesterday when I realized that I'm over all our summer activities (pool, park, beach, bungee jumping). Yet, staying home all day is not an option with my TV-loving, mommy-come-watch-this, easily frustrated toddler.

So I decided on a whim to head down to Steve & Barry's, the world's weirdest store where I've had mediocre luck in the past. (And only thanks to SPJ and her Bitten line.) I knew that S&B had fallen on hard times, so when I saw a sign announcing the store was closing in a week, I assumed it was related to their bankruptcy.

Everything in the store was marked $8.98, because $8.99 is, like, sooo expensive. But ever greedy, I decided I was going to barter for a better deal like the inspiring blogger I inspire to be. I started to craft this post in my head, envisioning the great comments I'd get, like, "You always do things I never have the guts to try."

So I started to throw things in my cart. Cute things. Average things. Things you would give to a person you really don't like on her birthday. I gathered pants, capris, shorts, shoes, tops and one item that might have been a shirt, a dress or some sort of nursing wrap.

I cruised up to the register with my sky-high pile of threads, pulled out some cash and said:

"Look, I'm going to offer you $40 for this pile of clothes right now."

Startled cashier: "What?"

Me: "I know you're going out of business next week, and I've seen the massive amount of clothes you still have, so there's no way you are going to sell this all before then. This is a deal for you guys."

Startled cashier: "Um, we're closing because they are redeveloping this shopping center. We're just going to send our leftover stuff to the other Steve & Barry's."

Me: "Oh. So this isn't related to the bankruptcy?"

Annoyed cashier: "No."

Me: "Oh. So you're not going to adjust the prices?"

Incredulous cashier: "No."

Me: "I better sort through that pile then."

Me: (Handing her my three pieces.) "Sorry about that confusion. It's shopping tradition to barter when a store is going out of business."

Interested cashier: "Really?"

Me: (Continuing to lie to assuage my discomfort.) "Oh yeah, I do it all the time. I usually get things for 90-95 percent off."

Impressed cashier: "Wow. I'll have to remember it."

Me: "Glad to help."

The worst part is I got home and decided I don't even like the three things I bought. So now I have to go back and return them. I'm just hoping they've managed to put away my pile of clothes by then.



p.s. It's a no-TV, no-computer day at our house, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Miss Dub about this post.

Next stop: linens

I have this recurring fantasy that I suddenly come into so much money that I actually leave my house, turn the key and never look back ... meaning I have to buy everything brand new - clothes, shoes, housewares, furniture. And this time, I make better choices. It's sort of along the lines of my fantasy where I get married again (to the same guy) and get to redo my wedding and registry.

It has occurred to me that doing all that shopping at once could actually be annoying, as well as the fact that I would need to take some important documents and family mementos with me. But seriously, why are you all raining on my dream? Just think of the matching appliances.

What's your secret fantasy*? You know, the clean kind.


* It is probably in your best interest to ignore the Google ads generated by this post.

Is she right or just rude?

Store clerk: Ma'am?

Me: (Holding a handful of cute tops.) Yes?

Store clerk: Are you aware this is the junior's section?

Me: (Thinking, "This is where I always shop.") Yeah.

Store clerk: Well, I didn't want you to waste your time in the wrong section. The women's department is over there.

Me: Thanks.

Am I too old for the junior's section?

We are living in a material world and I am a ...

I’m materialistic.

There. I said it.

I mean, I’m not obsessed with material goods to the point that I would rather buy a shirt than put food on my table. (Granted, I would happily eat crackers in a new top but Mr. Dub expects something heartier.) Me and the hubs don’t have any credit card debt. In fact, between the 300 of us, we don’t even have a credit card. And I don’t have much in my closet that cost more than $20, shoes included. So I’m frugal … but materialistic.

According to most informed/better people, you’re not supposed to be materialistic. And I get that. After all, you can’t take your clothes or your TiVo with you into the next life. Although I do hope they’ll be showing reruns of last night’s “The Office” in heaven. (Is that wrong? I’m totally cool if they edit out any questionable material. The funny stuff is usually the clean stuff anyway.) Your money and power and status in this world really mean little. It’s what you do with those things that matter. And I don’t mean accumulating the world’s best collection of ballet flats. (Something I may or may not aspire to do.)

You shouldn’t want things like an amazing wardrobe or really cool, brightly-colored kitchen appliances and a fabulous home. You shouldn’t want to buy the expensive fruit, like star fruit and Asian pears, and make little tarts out of them. You shouldn’t want to know (just once!) what Crème de la Mer feels like.

You should be happy with your discounted cans of cream of creamed things soups. You should be willing to wear your prairie skirt until it comes back into style. You should let your roots grow with no thought of partial weaves. (You probably shouldn’t even have roots, I suppose.)

But I have roots. And I have an exotic fruit obsession. And I want, oh how I want, that amazing wardrobe.

I like to justify it. I mean, fashion and shopping really are my hobbies of choice and sometimes I think that’s OK. Even fishing costs money and most people wouldn’t peg grown men in waders as the materialistic sort.

But I know it’s wrong. I know it’s not healthy. I see it in the world around me. I can identify the greed that has spawned all these McMansions (otherwise known as 6,000 square feet with a Tuscan exterior) where respectable, older homes once dwelled. I can see the envy that has compelled today’s college girls to have indie jeans, manicured nails and the latest SUV, whereas 10 years ago it was fine to walk to school in sweats on occasion. (And not ones adorned with Juicy across the butt, mind you.)

And while I see the mote, I can’t cast this darn beam out of my own eye.

I can’t seem to stop wanting more. I can’t seem to stop buying just one more shirt because it’s totally on sale and I LOVE it. I can’t seem to take the intense happiness I feel being a wife and a mother and a sister and member of the human race and let that be enough. I can’t seem to let my burning desire to serve others override my need to shop.

I want to be like the woman* whose husband spent years in medical school and training before billing a single patient. Who said when walking past a furniture store:

“Do you think we ever will be able to afford a lamp?”

I wish I only wanted a lamp.


(* Read Elder Russell M. Nelson's address in the March Ensign for more.)

Calling all mathematicians

Hi! How was your weekend?

Wow, sounds like a lot of fun.

We spent the weekend furshopping.

Wait, don't sic the PETA people on us yet. We would never wear fur. (Mostly because we can't afford it, shortly followed by the fact that it looks ridiculous.)

Furshopping is short for furniture shopping. Which is short for, "How in the heck do you ever pick out something that is practical, beautiful, comfortable, durable and affordable?" I get really hung up on the beautiful (i.e. modern, unique) part. Mr. Dub gets really focused on the comfortable (i.e. a little cushion for your tushion) part.

Last time, we settled for aesthetics with a dose of affordability. What we got was a couch that is way too low to the ground for both decorating and removing-yourself-out-of-it purposes.

So we upped the comfort factor this time round.

Here's what we decided on:

And for fun (and additional seating) we threw in this lil' number:

What do you think? Will it work? Did we crack the secret furniture equation?

We have our doubts.

But it will be a nice place to take a lil' nap. (And, boy, do we need one of thems at our house.)

And when we finally have a house with a living room - otherwise known as the room for furniture that is just uncomfortable enough to encourage visitors to leave at a reasonable hour - we'll get this:

(But without that woman. Skinny women make such uncomfortable throw pillows.)

Cartastrophe

Say, I want a revolution.

Why? I’ll tell you. (See what happens when you start asking questions.)

The other day I had to run some errands. Now that I have a wee one this isn’t always that easy. Getting out of the door takes an additional 15 minutes. Why? I’ll tell you. Because you have to put the baby into the car seat, put on her hat, buckle the straps (which are inevitably tangled) only to hear the world’s largest poot. You must then undo the still-tangled straps, take off the hat and deal with the world’s largest blowout. This series of events will be done and undone until all contents of wee one’s bowels are emptied and it dawns on the poor mother (me!) that now I have to go to the bathroom. That is how you get an additional 15 minutes, although if you plan for such a delay, it will inevitably take 30 minutes.

So after getting Miss Dub into the car seat the other day, we headed off to the store, which wasn’t where I thought it was because I think I have a better memory than I really do. Upon finally arriving at the store, I had to get her out of the car, otherwise known as a Honda Civic. Between the infant car seat base and the car seat, Miss Dub practically touches the ceiling. So getting her out requires me to get on all fours and clumsily pull her out, bumping my head several times on the way. So I always start my errands frustrated and with a headache.

But, wait, I’m not to the revolution yet.

When I got into my local Jewel Osco (known as Albertson’s out West), I grabbed a cart, only to find that the proportions of the drop-down seat made Miss Dub’s car seat lopsided, placing her head lower than her feet. So I tried to put her inside the cart but that only worked until my third can of refried beans, at which point I ran out of room for the rest of my groceries. So I tried to juggle two carts: one for Miss Dub and one for my food. That would have worked if the carts had four operating wheels but both had some physical impairments. So I gave up and put Miss Dub in the aforementioned reflux-inducing positioning. And induce, it did. By the end of our shopping, she was choking on her spit and glassy-eyed.

So I thought, “I want to start a revolution; a cart revolution.”

Let’s examine the facts:

Places that have acceptable carts: Target. (Duh.)

Places that don’t have acceptable carts: Walmart, Jewel, Whole Foods, Costco and every other stinkin’ establishment on planet Earth.

With the exception of Whole Foods, all these places are family-oriented. (And Whole Foods should be – nature is a mother, right? – but all I ever get are nasty glares from all the organic-happy but lonely people buying a single roll of recycled TP.) So why hasn’t it dawned on them that their carts don’t work with infant car seats?

I know that it’s only a few months until Miss Dub can sit upright in the drop-down den of germs. I know that I could wait until Mr. Dub gets home and frantically run all my errands until I get engorged. I know that all the blood will not rush to Miss Dub’s head and kill her in the amount of time it takes to do my shopping.

But how hard is it to make those drop-down seats in the right dimensions to properly accommodate an infant car seat? How hard is it to help out a new mother?

That’s the question I want to ask these companies.

In letter form.

With proper punctuation.

Will you please join me?

(And don’t even get me started about returning my cart. I know it’s the kind thing to do, but am I expected to leave my child unattended while I traipse across the parking lot?)