— Mortification, thy name is Morgan. Exhibit A: Dressing Room of Ann Taylor Loft. Mo, Co and I are in the biggest dressing room to accommodate the stroller, the jackets, the bags of stuff to return, the girls’ activity packs (i.e. snacks, books, crayons, papers, blankies, loveys, and assorted paraphernalia needed to placate the girls so that I can try on a couple of things in quick succession), both girls and me. I’ve got a couple of pairs of pants that I want to try on because wearing blue jeans everyday — no matter how many different cuts and washes you may have — is starting to feel like a uniform.
So, we’re in the dressing room. Keep in mind that my own clothes are in a puddle on the floor, I’m trying to shimmy into another pair of pants, so Mo and Co have front row seats to the “Hilary With One L Mismatched Underwear Review” (sorry, one show only, no repeat performances), when the sales clerk knocks on the door to ask if I need any other sizes and if everything is okay.
Mo opens the door and says, “My mom has lightening bolts on her stomach!”
Um, yeah, I’ll have the next size up in those pants, thanks.
—- I’ve become hooked on 30 Rock. I mean, I’m watching it. . .alot. To the point where I’ve downloaded all available seasons to my “View Instantly” Queue from Netflix, instead of waiting for the DVD to just come in the mail.
DH is out of town, so when the girls go to bed, and I head on over to Studio 6H. It’s really becoming an obsession — Jack Donaghy was in my dream last night, making me try on Sheinhardt Wigs. Blerg!
— I was at the nail salon the other day and my nail tech and another customer were telling me about this new store in the mall called Charming Charlie’s. I’ve passed by it a few times, but have never actually crossed the threshold. From a distance it looks like. . .what is the name of that garish looking print from the 1980’s that was on all the Trapper Keeper’s and pencil cases and stuff? Oh, I can picture it — fuchsias and purples and some teal and leopard print thrown in. Anyway, that’s what the store reminded me of. In any event the tech and the customer, both of whom are self-confessed grandmothers were talking about the store and how awesome it is and yadda, yadda, yadda, “it’s much classier than Forever 21“.
Can I take a pause for the cause here? Granted, these two women were very fresh faced to be grandmothers. They had stylish haircuts, they had tattooed make-up (or a very close approximation thereof) and one of them was wearing Uggs — in fuchsia — but calling a store classier than Forever 21? Wow. And then the customer said to me, “I really think Forever 21 needs to clean up their store. I mean, I can fit in their clothes and all because I’m a size 4, but that place is so junky.”
I’m sorry, I kind of lost how we moved from a retailer to your clothing size and back again. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll give you a topic. New Jersey is neither new nor is it a jersey. Discuss.
Okay, I’m alright now.
—- Mortification, they name is Morgan. Exhibit B: We’re at Trader Joe’s, where I have forestalled a brewing meltdown by power-walking through the aisles at a breakneck pace, throwing flashy packaged items into the cart in the hopes of getting in, through the line, and getting out before the girls realize that they were ever removed from the car in the first place. We make it through the line where the gracious clerk gives the girls some I ♥ Trader Joe’s stickers. Mom that I am, I notice that Co has two stickers and Mo has about 6 stickers. Were it the other way around, I’m sure that Mo would have been having an apoplectic fit about the injustice and inhumanity of the unequal sticker distribution. But this is not the case, so I can only wonder what she’s about to come out with after she approaches the clerk with a super sweet, “Um, excuse me?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” says the clerk.
“Um, are you a boy or a girl?” asks Morgan.
Don’t worry, I did turn it into a teachable moment and what not, but thankfully the clerk, who was in fact a woman, was pretty cool about it. She even said that she had an unusually deep voice and a rather unflattering haircut. Still, my first response was, “Blerg!”
— I had no idea that small children (i.e. Mo and Co) could break wind like truckers that subsist on greasy spoon fare like chicken fried steak or steak fried chicken or steak fried steak with a side of fried eggs, a plate of bacon, and a generous portion of grease with which to flavor the whole enterprise. Mo has been walking around passing gas with Swiss like regularity. Evidently, she observed my grandmother tooting around during the holidays. In Grams defense, she’s 88 and not really friends with Beano. Yesterday, Mo broke one off that was picked up all the way in Chesapeake and then said, “Wow. I’m as bad as Grandma Martha!”
— Today, the girls have been playing this game where they introduce themselves to each other by saying, “I’m Craig. Please to meet you.” They then shake hands and dissolve into a fit of giggles. Very cute, but then they have been referring to me as “Daddy’s wife”. Um, not really sure where that came from.
TGIF, people, TGIF.
