The Yard Sale

If it wasn’t enough for me to cater and decorate and throw a party for my Wee Fi a couple of weeks ago, this weekend is a yard sale.

And not just any yard sale but the only one I’ve had since I shutdown the shop on that frigid and tragic day in 2007.

Long story short, the recession that wasn’t a recession forced me to shut down my beautiful shop which I never mention because it’s like talking about a child that I lost prematurely. The last yard sale I organized was after that and it would seem there was still stuff up in the attic from those dreams. Also stuff that people have brought to me. And stuff that I didn’t feel like carrying down. I wrote a piece published on Divine Caroline called Reformation of a Clutterbug after the last one.  I will edit and republish.

Christmas was even in limbo in the attic because it was all the pregnant lady could do to just schlep it up and drop it. Tomorrow, Saturday the 18th, at 7am, I will be peddling my leftovers in an attempt to not only make money but gain my clarity. I believe that extraneous stuff represents the mental state you’re in. And the chaos that the stuff creates in your brain inhibits you from being clear. That if everything is special than nothing is. And looking backwards keeps you from moving forward. So if the word “Could” comes up anywhere when talking about your stuff, it is way past time to usher it out your door for someone else to “could” it. Stay tuned for the results.

Man Shopping

As you may know, men shop differently than women. If you’ve got a plan of shopping action, he’s willing to here it and execute it. But there’ll be no lollygagging and meandering about aimlessly for items.

The first Christmas season we spent together, we went to the Towson (Maryland) Mall and went separate ways to shop. And when we met back up at the appointed place, Mark was pale and shaky. Seems he’d been traumatized previously by shopping. Maybe he was hypoglycemic too, who knows.

So it’s been many of years of shopping therapy. The last time we went out, he knew his size and style of preferred jeans and his tailored shirt numbers so well that there was no fuss. I was astounded that we didn’t have to try on anything else.

And this week he surprised me with, “Let’s go shopping”. And we did and again there was no drama. We teased each other and strolled the baby around the store and then we were done. $300 in Kohl’s got us 5 shirts, 2 jeans, 2 shorts, and 2 pr of shoes. And when I came upstairs the next morning, He’d laid out his clothes out so nicely on the bed. Had to take the picture.

The second pair of shoes were on his feet. I thought about taking a picture of the ones he finally was allowing me to replace. But your eyes would burn to see them they’re that hideous.

And now I really need to get myself some new or even gently used clothing that don’t have spots or pregnancy panels on them. I suspect that the reason I no longer have anything this size is because I let go of those when I lost that weight last Spring. My ever changing wardrobe lamentation posts are here and here.

If you’ve got a good Mars vs. Venus shopping story, do tell.

The Irk Is In the Details

The complaint list about pregnancy was in this post. And while I am completely grateful for my sassy children (as in I’d do it all again which I just did), there’s a whole new crop of indecent and just plain annoying items to contend when maintaining a newborn.

For instance, I could make a mound of money developing a comfortable molded cart with brakes for women having an epidural procedure. While the needle’s being stuck into the spinal column, the pregnant woman is asked to contort her body, as in hunch over her humongous belly, and stay perfectly still. Try this while having contractions and leaning on a stranger. The anesthesiologist managed to stick me wrong and had to redo it.

You may not have heard but my baby got GERD, otherwise known as reflux for wee ones. Eamon took liquid Zantac. I again could make a mound ‘o money creating a baby happy flavored Zantac other than mint. Chem lab idiots. Try booby bubblegum flavor or triple nipple chip. A spoonful of sugar people.

High on my list of annoyances are the little plastic price tag attachers for new clothing. When snipped, they turn into little plastic splinters you have to painstakingly remove from both the clothing and floor or bed or couch or wherever the other piece falls. Unpacking and washing new clothing becomes dreadful and prohibitive for this one small detail.

Who thought those baby gowns were a good idea. They’re little baby potato sacks that are open at the bottom. And when you even think to move or hold the baby, they ride up lickety split and then your baby’s dangling out of a cloth inner tube. Plus the arms are so long that feeding the delicate hands and fingers of a newborn through them is scary and as annoying as the escaped drawstring on sweatpants. Except pants don’t scream and have breakable fingers. I just ended up cutting them off. The sleeves not my baby’s arms.

We new mothers tend to jump up and run to the wee ones every loving time they burble, snarfle, or grouse. I call it “Pogo Mommy” and my knees hurt as much as my boobies. While attending to her every twitch, I think I’ve probably caused the baby sleep deprivation. Well serves her right for keeping me up.

Trying to get the mother thing “right” can cause madness. Is my baby fussy because I ate dairy? Or broccoli? Or coffee? Am I talking to much about the baby because my husband’s glazed donut expression must mean I am. Baby, baby, baby.

Their little baby fingers are so sweet and lovely. And at the ends are very sharp little claws that cause excruciating pain when stabbed into a naked boob. So I had to get new reading glasses to see them to cut them. And then I still ended up snipping off the end of my baby’s fingertip while blindly clipping away. Nothing better than making your child bleed out with a pair of nail clippers.

The fact that you’ re a new mother doesn’t escape everyone. They sharply say things about how you should have a seat and enjoy and not overdue too soon. What I should have said was if they wanted to come and do my four loads of laundry and make the dinner …

But the ones that get to me the worst talk for the baby in a first person baby voice to me. They say things like, “ Mommy I’m sweepy, “ Um, the baby spent 9 months in my belly and keeps me up a lot of nights. I know she’s sweepy. And no, “hers” doesn’t need to poop.

Why would a person stop to consider whether or not it’s a good time to take a shower? I know that I need one. I smell like barf and BO and yet I stop to consider whether now’s a good time? It’s as pathetic as all the t-shirts I now own that I should never wear out in public and yet somehow still manage to.

And lastly, because the tatas are made for milking, I have to wear an absorbent pad over my nipples to soak up the overflow. Except these expensive padded discs are equipped with only one adhesive strip. So when you whip it out, the pads don’t stay in place. And the adhesive unsticks. Or ends up sticking to your nipple. I’m considering getting pantyliners and cutting them up because They’re thinner and the adhesive is stickier.

Officially, I collected up my gripes and now I’m done. I’ve complained enough. Thanks for reading my rants. And if you stopped and deleted me from your email, I’ll never know anyway. Bunnies and lollipops I now promise to you.