My Husband's Foray into Shoe Shopping

My husband is hilarious.  And by "hilarious" I actually mean "clueless" but that just sounds mean and I am not a mean girl.

My husband discovered an awesome website that offers fabulously discounted items for those who bike, run, camp, and love being active outdoors.  In other words, it's perfect for people unlike myself.

If you want to learn more about this awesome site click here:  http://www.theclymb.com/invite-from/JenniferSchwirian

My daughter has complained for weeks that her shoes don't fit.
As it turns out her shoes don't fit.

This is at least the third time her feet have sprouted out of her shoes in the last six months. I'm not sure what we are feeding her?

I had the brilliant idea of buying her clown shoes and allowing her feet to grow into them.  My husband had the compassionate idea of buying her new shoes that actually fit her.

He showed me a picture of a pair of shoes from the fantastic website and asked, "Do you think she would like these?"

Isn't that just the sweetest, most naive thing you've ever heard?  Really, my hubby is just the nicest guy.  And by "nicest guy" I actually mean "nicest guy."

I gave hubby my, "Are you kidding me?" look.

He gave me his, "Why are you looking at me like that?" look.

I gave him my, "Seriously?  You don't get it?" look.

He then responded non verbally with his, "What is so strange about the question I just asked you?" look.

Yes, my husband and I communicate much more frequently nonverbally than we do verbally.  After all, we are married. We stopped effectively communicating verbally back in the late 1990s.

The point, seemingly lost on my hubby, is my our inability to predict what shoes our tween may or may not like.  Give me a zillion guesses and I would still guess wrong.  In part, I think my tween daughter prides herself on being unpredictable.  If I think she may like something it only provides her with more motivation to not like that thing.  I just love this developmental stage. I'll let you guess what I mean by "love."

On top of being a tween, she is a future women.  Other than Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo, and Steve Madden, when in the history of mankind did a man predict what shoes a woman would buy?

I explained all of this to my dear hubby.

I added that our tween would love, love, love to shop online with him for shoes, but any attempt to guess what shoes she may or may not like would be best left to those who own a magic ball.

As her parents, our magic ball is broken.  From what I understand, it'll be fixed in about eight years.

Adventures in Abercrombie & F#@%!

'Tis the season to grab your holiday shopping list and venture into huge, enormous shopping centers luring you with large, red signs promising "Sales, Sales, Sales!"

My tween wants a hoodie for Christmas.  A very specific hoodie.  I could describe this hoodie for you but why bother?  Just trust me when I say this particular hoodie is seemingly extinct.  Exactly one exists in this entire world, and it happens to belong to my tween.  Since she wears it day and night it is starting to look...well...like an ugly, filthy hoodie.  Now she wants another.

Hours of shopping, and I cannot find a hoodie matching my tween's specific requirements.  Where could such a hoodie exist?

I venture into Abercrombie & Fitch despite the little voice in my head telling me to run away.  Have you been in Abercrombie & Fitch recently?

Even before crossing the threshold of the store, Abercrombie & Fitch immediately assaults my nostrils with the potent smell of cologne. I don't actually have words to describe this smell.  It's as if Abercrombie & Fitch took a nice smell, multiplied it so many times it then miraculously turns toxic. Although I think the intent is for the smell to travel from nostril to groin, instead I feel it go from my nostril to my head immediately.  I am morphed from professional, organized shopper to dizzy, snotty, out-of-place fool.

As I try to clear my head, I realize this is a futile endeavor given the "music."  The music is blaring.  BLARING.  I don't know who is "singing," but it isn't my beloved Rick Springfield or U2. No, this is a very angry singer who is yelling at me.  He is screaming at me while the drum beat goes like this, "BAM, BAM, BAM, BA, BA, BAM, BAM BAM."  I have no idea why he is so angry nor do I actually know what he is saying, but he is not a happy guy.

Although the smell and sounds are distracting, I try to focus. After all, I am a mother.  I've perfected blocking out loud, obnoxious sounds. Any mom knows it's the quiet that is scary.

I try to continue shopping, but Abercrombie & Fitch thinks I should shop in the dark. I cannot see a gosh darn thing.  It's so dark that when I run into a table, suck in a large amount of poisoned air, and cry out in pain, no one in the store takes notice.  How can they?  It's pitch black and too loud to hear anything above the sound of that angry, screaming "singer."

By now I am too far into the store to easily escape.  I've completely forgotten why I have ventured into this funhouse, and I start to think I'll never find my way out.  I look around frantically for an exit sign.  All around me I see young, skinny people.  Although my pupils are undoubtably dilated to the size of golf balls, these young people look calm and unaffected by the sensory overload. I'm reminded of Children of the Corn.

Why is Abercrombie & Fitch torturing me?

Perhaps I'm drunk on the smell of overpowering cologne or perhaps my brain is bleeding.  I don't really know.  However, once I finally escape the store, I realize Abercrombie & Fitch's master plan...

Abercrombie & Fitch wants me dizzy, deaf, and blind so I won't care or notice that they sell ugly t-shirts for $40.  If only they had hoodies!


Tony Hawk Painted Plaid Hoodie (Google Affiliate Ad)

The Fairy I Fear Most

I'm certainly not afraid of the Tooth Fairy.
I know she is an unorganized twit that I could totally overtake, but I'm absolutely terrified of her evil cousin.

In our house we call her the Knot Fairy. Trust me, you don't want to tick her off.

She torments my daughter about 4 times a week.

She sneaks into my daughter's room at night and uses her fairy powers to create massive knots throughout my daughter's hair. Honestly, Medusa has nicer hair in the morning than my daughter.

The other day, the Knot Fairy actually left red yarn and a Littlest Pet Shop Toy in my daughter's hair. It looked as though the tiny chipmunk was imprisoned in a web of tangled hair and yarn.

The only thing scarier than the Knot Fairy is my daughter when she tries to undo the Fairy's knots.

My apologies to our neighbors who live within a ten mile radius of our home. That screeching, high pitched, going-to-break-glass sound on Tuesday morning was not an injured wild animal. It was my daughter extracting the Littlest Pet Shop toy from her mane of hair. Please send your hate mail to the Knot Fairy.

The fact that the Knot Fairy doesn't visit her brother only reinforces and strengthens my daughter's resolve to hunt down and destroy the fairy. I don't blame her.

She has recently resorted to braiding her wet hair each night. The Knot Fairy can't penetrate the braids, but you should see the Punk Rock hairdo those braids create in the light of day.

Just give the girl some leg warmers and a friendship pin and she's a flashback to 1981.

Poor child.

My Family's Honesty is Overrated

Did you read my last post?

Do you know I order swimsuits online instead of going into stores because I don't want perfect strangers to hear my shrieks of disgust and horror? I only like to shriek in the privacy of my own home while around those individuals who are supposed to love and support me. "Supposed" is the operative word here.

My new swimsuit arrived in the mail. I was actually able to squeeze my body into it. The color was perfect because it was black and everyone knows black is "slimming."

I started feeling optimistic. I left the privacy of my bathroom and ventured through my house to get the opinions of others. This was a mistake.

I found my husband in the kitchen:

Me: I need you to be totally honest. Do you like this swimsuit?

Hubby: Hmmmm.

Silence

Hubby: Does the ruffle bother you?

Silence

Hubby: I mean, (awkward pause) I guess I don't really know what is in style these days?

Silence

Hubby: Am I (awkward pause) really bad at this?

By now I am headed away from horribly honest hubby towards judge #2. I find her reading in bed.

Me: Do you like this swimsuit?

Tween: (With barely a glance towards my albino white skin and new, jet black swimsuit) Yeah, yeah. It looks great. (Now a 2nd glance, followed by an expression of utter horror.) Do I see your private hair?!

I turn to flee from her room.

Tween: Now I see your butt crack!

I head back to the privacy of my own room. Of course, I don't actually get any privacy because I never get what I want my son appears.

Me: Do you like this swimsuit?

Son: Yes.

Me: Really?

(I'm shocked. For a brief moment I think my son and I are the only two people in the house with any sense of style.)

Me: What do you like about it?

Son: It's better than the other ones.

(And for the record, he is smiling as if the disgustingness of my other swimsuits has been weighing heavily on him. He's finally able to unburden himself with the secret that his mother has some pretty ugly swimwear.)

Would it be so hard for my family to just tell me that the swimsuit was poorly made, and I deserve better? Please lie to me.

I CANNOT HANDLE THE TRUTH!

Swimsuit Shopping Season

Swimsuit shopping season is upon us as evidenced by the endless stream of catalogs with scantily clad models on the covers.

Swimsuit shopping season coincides with the time of year when I practice self loathing and binge eating.

I flip through the swimsuit catalogs while munching on healthy foods like Doritos and newly arrived Girl Scout cookies. Yes, I'm leaving orange cheese stains on each page as I belittle myself for not having more self restraint.

I have yet to find a swimsuit model in my favorite beach pose: spread eagle on a towel with a frozen drink in one hand and a half empty bag of chips in the other. The swimsuit is covered with a generous sprinkling of chip crumbs, and the model is 3 sheets to the wind.

If I ever see a swimsuit being modeled this way, I am definitely ordering that suit!

I've learned the best way to shop for a swimsuit is to buy from online catalogs.
No one wants to hear my shrieks of disgust or sobs. Everyone is happier if I try on the swimsuits in the privacy of my own home.

Another benefit of ordering from catalogs, of course, is that I do not own one of those evil, three-paneled, fun-house mirrors that are always found in dressing rooms with the brightest of fluorescent lighting. The downside of trying a swimsuit on at home is that I do not own one of those evil three-paneled mirrors.

I have no idea what my backside looks like which is a good thing. I last saw my backside in 2008, and I decided that I never needed to see that mess again.

Here's the thing I really don't understand. How did the back of my thighs become puckered and jiggly?
Is this normal? Don't answer that question.

Like every woman on this planet, I just want to find a swimsuit that fits me well and masks all of my various physical flaws. For this reason, I'm considering moving to Alaska.

Advertisers think they are being helpful by telling us in code which swimsuits would flatter us. The problem with this is that I don't always understand the code.

Am I a triangle, an upside down triangle, a rectangle or a star? Do I need tummy support and a miracle bra lift or just all over support? Should I buy a swim mini or a swim skirt? Do I need high cut, regular cut, regular torso or long? It's all too confusing!

Can the advertisers just label the swimsuits a little more clearly?

Honestly, I won't be offended. I would just like to see a page that reads, "If you have puckered, jiggly thighs buy one of these 2 swimsuits. We recommend sticking to black."

(OK. That's a bold-faced lie. I will be TOTALLY offended, but I'll get over it. I'll put on my big girl panties, and I do mean big girl, and get over it.)

Swimsuit shopping is stressful enough without having to decipher a code in the process.

Now, where did I hide that box of Thin Mints?

My Oscar Speech

They don't give Oscars to working moms who lack all talent and aren't in movies.

That's really too bad because I know I could win an Oscar for my role in my life.
I play a woman who appears occasionally organized, superficially competent, and mildly witty.
It's not reality. It's just a role I play.

However, on the off chance I need it, I've written my Oscar acceptance speech.
I can just imagine giving it...

I need to preface this with the fact that when my name is called, I will act completely shocked. Notice I said "act." In my heart, I am sure I deserve the award, but I don't want to be presumptuous by walking halfway to the stage before my name is announced.

As it is, I will wait until my name is called, feign shock, and then walk slowly to the stage. My slow pace will be based partly on my desire to drag out the applause and partly on the fact that I will have difficulty maneuvering in my dress.

I've chosen a dress by my favorite designer who also happens to be my daughter.
My budding fashion designer has literally countless years left of practice before anything she designs can make it anywhere near the red carpet. The dress is made out of feathers, glitter, and her favorite blue bed sheet. It's assembled using pins, yarn, and hot glue because who can be bothered threading a needle?
I look stunning. Well, stunningly ridiculous, but no one will have the nerve to say that to my face.
Why?
Because I'm an Oscar winner! Try to keep up with my rich fantasy life.

Once on stage, I will smile down at Oscar and then clutch him tightly to my breast as I recite my speech:

"It's such an honor just to be nominated. So many amazing women in this category. The PTO president, the homeroom mom, the church choir director, and ...oh, I'm sorry, I'm so nervous I can't remember everyone.

"I want to thank my obscenely dependent family. I would not be standing here without them. If they were just marginally more organized, I wouldn't need to pretend to be. If they could learn to take care of themselves just once, I would never have even been nominated! I would also like to thank the woman who made this night possible...my manager. Wait. That's me! Well, needless to say, my manager is amazing! She's really the glue that keeps me and the rest of my family together."

At this point, I would look straight into the camera and say, "Somewhere out there a little girl is watching. She wonders if she can ever be an overwhelmed, stressed mother who lives in a fantasy world. A woman who wakes up each morning and totally acts like something she is not...balanced. To that little girl I say, Yes! Yes, this chaotic, outrageously cluttered life can be yours, too. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

Music will start playing and the crowd will cheer loudly. Oscar and I will exit stage left.

Once off stage, I will realize I forgot to thank my own mother.

Well, isn't that just typical! Even Oscar winners can't remember to thank their mothers!

Not Your Mother's Tupperware Party

**Warning: If you are nun or a Puritan do not read any further. This will embarrass you, and you will lose all respect for me in the process. I love the respect of nuns and Puritans so please stop reading.**


The rest of you, dirtbags, are curious about what kind of vulgarness I'm about to unleash, right? Well, here goes...


I attended my first sex toy party. I am 39-ish and I've been married for over 15 years.
I have never attended a sex toy party (gasp!). When invited, I thought I could go for "research" purposes.

Well, apparently I was raised by a Puritan nun.
I, myself, am as pure and clean as newly fallen snow on a winter's morn.
This was NOT your mother's Tupperware party!

My pupils are still dilated and my cheeks remain blushed. It's been days since the party.

First of all, did you know they make waterproof, electric sex toys?
That's got to be a safety risk. These toys resemble power tools except they are brightly colored and have clever names like "Mr. Dependable," "Thumbs-Up" and "Disco Stick." One even glowed in the dark. They cannot possibly be safe to take into the water.

I couldn't risk that type of purchase because the image of the newspaper headline announcing my death haunts me:

"MOM OF 2 DIES IN A FREAK DILDO ACCIDENT AFTER BATHING FOR 6 HOURS"

My other fear is that my nosy curious children would find one of these industrial sized toys rendering me shamed and speechless.

I suppose I could swing it around and convince them it's a light saber.
After all, it lights up, glows, and makes a strange humming sound.
'Show and Tell' would never be the same if one of these accidentally found its way to school via a child's book bag. The only way I could recover from such an incident would be to change my name and move out of state. Of course, I would have to take Mr. Dependable with me. He really is a sight to... um... behold.

Have you ever wanted a Merkin? Do you even know what I'm talking about?
A Merkin is basically a toupee for a cleanly shaved pubic area. These were not sold at the party which was really disappointing to me because I was hoping to see one. A Merkin can be made out of feathers, fabric, fur, or get this...someone else's pubic hair.

Again, I was obviously raised in a convent. Who would shave their nethermost parts and then glue someone else's pubic hairs to them? Who does this? I'm 99% sure my husband would pass out if my who-ha hairs were replaced by brightly colored peacock feathers. I know this because my husband was also raised by a Puritan nun.

I will confess that the edible body glitter caught my attention. Most of the lotions, creams, and glitter products were all flavored and edible. I wonder how many Weight Watcher points those are?

Now there's a marketing strategy they should explore further.
"Item is appropriate for use on nipples, genitalia, or as a lite dressing or marinade because it's only 1 calorie per serving."
Mmmm, nothing like a salad served with a side of "Nympho Niagra" lubricant.
No, I'm not making up these names. "Nympho Niagra" exists for all you nymph-o-wannabes out there. I am not one, of course, because I am married.

(sigh)
Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned sex?

Must I appear covered in body glitter, wearing edible undies, brandishing a whip, a fist-full of anal balls, and a small arsenal of electric toys varying from pocket-sized to jumbo-tron-sized? Is that really necessary? Do I really need handcuffs, a swing contraption that looks like a future insurance claim, and a costume in order to be sexy? If that's not enough, I then need to shave every single hair from my vajayjay and glue someone else's pubic hair to my who-who?

Is this absurd or am I just a total prude? Don't answer that question.

I think I was at the wrong party because what I really need is a plastic container that comes with an airtight lid. I'll take 4 of those, please.

Skinny Jeans

Skinny jeans were specifically designed for skinny people. Skinny, young people. Advertisers may try to convince you otherwise, but any attempt to lure us 39-ish year old gals into skinny jeans is ridiculous.

I know this because I recently tried on a pair of skinny jeans.

Well, I never actually got them on. I managed to get them past my ankles and to my knees. That's when I realized there was no hope of getting myself all the way into the absurdly skinny jeans. Even if I had, I assume the jaws of life would have been needed to get me out of them. As a general rule, I try not to get myself into precarious situations while in dressing rooms. The jeans could have easily cut off circulation to half of my body, and the only thing I fear more than death is the fear of dying naked or even half naked.

(Interestingly, there is no name for that fear. Thanatophobia is the fear of death and Nudophobia is the fear of nakedness. I'm really not afraid of nakedness. I just want to have clothes on when I die. Seems like there should be a name for that fear. The fact that there isn't, makes me fear I am the only person who has a fear of dying naked. Good grief! Now I've added to my list of fears. Fear that I'm the only one who fears dying naked. Let's just call it Todiebucknakedchickphobia so I can move on.)

Sorry, I'm easily side-tracked. Back to ridiculously skinny jeans made for the ridiculously skinny...

I can count on one hand all of the 39-ish year old skinny women I know who wear skinny jeans. I hate each and every one of them.

Actually, I know only one. She is a miserable person. I'm sure if she would just eat a cheeseburger, she would cheer up. As it is, she is content to waltz around miserable in her skinny jeans.

I was once friends with a skinny person. She could recite from memory how many calories were in every food imaginable. She absolutely loved talking about caloric intake and exercise. We had absolutely nothing in common.

You need only know me for 20 seconds to realize my great affection for food. I would love to limit the amount of food I put in my mouth, but that would require something called "will power." I am not a superhero who has such powers.

Food brings me happiness and I just love happiness. I especially love happiness when it is deep fried and dipped in butter.

Life is frighteningly short. I would rather fill my proverbial plate with happiness than worry about squeezing my generously sized bottom into a pair of jeans designed for a prepubescent 11 year old.

I hope marketers are listening because I would like parachute pants to come back in style. They are forgiving, and by "forgiving" I mean you could stick an entire roast in there and it would go unnoticed (imagine the usefulness of that!). They are stain resistant and they come in a variety of colors. On top of that, I am fairly certain they could also be worn as pajama pants which would remove one more step from my already busy morning schedule.

The most shocking thing is that I never actually owned a pair of parachute pants when they were in style for that one month back in 1985. Now I'm suddenly toying with the idea of seeing if any are for sale on eBay!

Skinny jeans, you just met your match.... Imagine a world filled with happy women wearing a rainbow of parachute pants!

I AM NOT A SUPERMODEL

Shocking, right?

If I were a supermodel, how would I have time to write such witty observations about meaningless things? I would be much too busy purging and traveling around the world with my boobs.

This is really not a rant about supermodels. I'm sure some of them are as lovely on the outside as they are on the inside. Wait. I said that wrong. Anyway, this rant is directed at companies who try to trick me into thinking I am a supermodel. You know who you are.

The other day I was innocently flipping through a secret catalog that had bras, undies, and other clothes for sale. The secret catalog will remain unnamed because it's secret, and I am an angel for not sharing what secret catalog it is.

The deals were amazing and everything in that catalog looked fantastic! I became absolutely convinced I would be unable to live another day without a sweater dress. I wanted it in camel, but they were sold out. I tried black, but no luck. I settled for winter white which happened to be the one the SUPERMODEL was wearing in the secret catalog.

My winter white sweater dress arrived in the mail. I gleefully tore into the package like Steve Martin in The Jerk. Reminiscent of the scene when he's squealing, "The new phone books are here! The new phone books are here!," I cheered, "My new sweater dress is here! My new sweater dress is here!"     I am such a chump.

First of all, the new sweater "dress" was really more like a long top. My voluptuous bottom was covered but my hamstrings were left exposed. This phased me less than the fact that I could see through the "dress." Seriously, is seeing pubic hairs through a dress not one of the more disgusting images you can envision?

I put on my spanks (because Oprah told me every woman needs a pair of spanks, and I will do whatever Oprah tells me to do). Well, spanks did not help the situation. Now instead of flaunting my thighs and nether regions, I looked like I inexplicably wanted to wear a long sweater over a strange pair of beige biker shorts. Who would wear that?? Not Oprah, I assure you!

I picked up the secret catalog to see if the SUPERMODEL in the picture was showing off her pubic hairs. I found the page and, I kid you not, she was sitting down with her legs crossed! I'll never know if that SUPERMODEL had pubes or not. (I'm thinking SUPERMODELS only have hair on their heads, but that's just my suspicion.)

That's the sad moment when I realized (for the billionth time, though I always seem to forget until the clothes arrive in the mail) that the secret catalog is full of clothes being worn by SUPERMODELS.

Sure, that string bikini is cute...on a 100 pound SUPERMODEL. Put my well used body into one of those things and it looks like my butt crack is actually trying to chew up and eat a pair of panties. It's not pretty.

Catalogs need to start showing clothes on us regular folks. I assure you, had I modeled that sweater dress for the secret catalog there would have been plenty left in stock!

I am not a supermodel.