trying too hard
My always generous mother-in-law gave me a new handbag a while back. One I didn’t “debut” until recently. I wore it to a baby shower this past weekend…a shower that was beautiful on so many levels.
Gorgeous venue. Gorgeous decor. Gorgeous mother-to-be.
It was one of those rare days when my hair was behaving, I had something new to wear, and even though I was wearing heels I didn’t feel like Big Bird.
For a change I felt – dare I say it – put together?
But as the afternoon progressed and more guests started arriving, each one prettier than the last and dripping in their own new clothes and designer bags and expensive shoes, I began to feel that familiar awkward feeling again. And suddenly the beautiful handbag just seemed all wrong. All wrong for me. All wrong for the baby shower.
When I got home I did a bit of soul-searching. Was I reliving the nightmare of high school and wearing something just to fit in? Was my inferiority complex ever going to do a disappearing act? And if so, would it happen before I’m too old and senile to differentiate Chanel from Target’s best?
I have no answers…but what I do know is that the gorgeous bag went back into its dust cover and back into my closet. For now.
The bag will make a comeback for sure. Just on a day when I’m not trying so hard to be something I’m not.
the nightmare of high school
Did I ever mention how much I hated high school? Let’s just say that for me high school was the equivalent of flying Southwest Airlines – it’s something you have to endure but you hate every second of it.
So why did I hate it? Well, for a multitude of reasons…
- I was too tall, too nerdy, too thin.
- I wore braces, I sometimes wore glasses, and I wore my sister’s hand-me-downs. They didn’t fit.
- I hadn’t discovered the power of a blow dryer and makeup was (and continues to be) a challenge of mammoth proportions.
So what saved me from being a complete and utter loser?
My car.
You see, my parents were a bit nuts. They refused to pay $58 for the Guess Jeans I begged for but one fine day they came home with something better: a BMW. And while my pretty car was by no means the nicest at my school, it at least put me on par with most of the other students.
In other words, a car was the defining factor between me being accepted at school versus being one of those poor kids who were tormented to death at the lunch benches.
I saw it happen. It wasn’t pretty.
So to that nosy lady at the mall? The one who muttered under her breath, “What kind of mother lets her kid have Twinkle Toes just because all the other kids wear them?”
The offending shoes...
The answer is me. I let my kid wear Twinkle Toes because I want her to fit in and I want her to be liked and I want her to get through school with a minimal amount of scarring.
It’s hard to be a kid. If a pair of shoes, a pair of jeans, or a car helps (and I can afford it) then I can’t think of anything better I’d rather spend my money on.
Oh and to the nosy mall lady? MYOB.
who's the real schmuck?
Returning home from vacation is always bittersweet.
As much as I love coming back to 2,000 square feet of space to separate me from Maya, her questions, and her perpetually sticky fingers, I must admit that I do not look forward to the dozens of things that I have to do after being away for days.
Within 3 hours of returning from San Francisco I accomplished the following:
1. I went grocery shopping.
2. I did 3 loads of laundry.
3. I cooked dinner.
4. I gave Maya a bath.
5. I put away the laundry, all 3 carry-ons, and the 500 random things that Ali/Maya dragged with them up north.
6. I collapsed on the couch in a heap of exhaustion.
Ali was really busy too. He did the following:
1. He pulled out his laptop.
2. He draped Maya’s Dora blanket around his shoulders.
3. He settled in.
The million dollar question here is: Why do I bust my a$$ while Ali sits on his?
Anybody?
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 