Lilly......undercovers

There are no cute Lilly Pulitzer items on sale.

There are no cute Lilly items, at all.

Except for the blue jammies, with the white trim. That’s it.

Seriously. I know. You have a shocked face on for real, because when have I ever not like at least somethingfrom Lilly? They are practically known for being the one place on earth, save for say, Tiffany’s, where the box itself, with the Lilly logo on it is enough to send me into paroxisms of ecstacy. Yes, the box alone is nearly enough to induce spontaneous orgasms - and something inside the box?

Well. That’s an entirely indescribable joy.

However, I’ve paged through looking for even the basics - sumptuous cashmere in all sorts of colors, a simple cable knit; the long sleved printed button downs, which are sooo cutie tucked under the sweaters, to give off a hint of elan. Sort of how a great tie can dress up even the most basic suit. Usually, each season features some form of embroided jeans - a size 4, thank you, should you be purchasing any - only this year? You won’t be. The only pattern is this scary pink denim with swirly sparkly nonsense on it.

Where is my Basic Priss? My argyle? I cannot go through life without some pink argyle! Where are the sweaters, the baby cardigans in cotton so soft it melts through your fingers, the twin sets that are to die for, and last a lifetime? Where are the signature jeans? With the little animals on them? So, I didn’t care much for the horses they did one year, but I’m dying for them to do sheep - little white sheep, so I can darken one, you know, the black sheep. How cute would that be?!?!?!

I’m truly frightened by the pattern they’ve selected for their print dress - could be as I can’t pull off the style of the dress, so I’ll look for anything glaringly wrong with it, so the blame for it looking bad isn’t on me.

I could assume this is divine intervention - after all, I’ve purchased six pairs of shoes for Foxy in the last four weeks - in THREE DIFFERENT SIZES - so it’s fabulous that I don’t like any of it. I won’t be tempted to buy any. Or covet any.

Except the blue knit jammie cami and kint pants.

Please. If I didn’t want at least a little Lilly I’d be worried about me too.

A shot...at respect

I’ve never been one of those parents for whom Respect equated to Heart Stopping Gut Clenching Bowel Moving Fear. I found that I felt that way, much of my childhood - no, wait, that would be all of my childhood, and a good deal of my walking adult life. My mother, for example, can inspire, with merely a particular ring of the phone the kind of damp palm, dry mouth, gritty eyed fear that most folks feel when facing, say, a rampaging bull, or really irritated king cobra.

Oddly enough, I’m not the one quaking in my boots this time around, I’m the one inspiring this sort of amazingly attention grabbing fear. Hell. If I’d known how well this worked earlier with Fox, I might just have employed slightly more of it. I stress the slightly - as I still have the occassional nightmare including quite vivid images of my childhood, obviously, I’m not aiming to Scar Him For Life, just, you know, knock him on his ass a time or two.

This past Tuesday, we had football practice (as we do every Tuesday, lest you think we’ve been slacking off!) and somehow, in the midst of some fancy footwork play they were teaching the boys, one of them grabbed Fox as he bolted past, leaving other boys littered on the field in his wake, like so much unwanted seaweed behind an Evenrude. I was summarily pleased. The lovely parent next to me, S, a dad, was equally pleased, which means, I was watching the right thing for a change. (I know! I was shocked I got it right too!!) Anyway. Someone grabbed his ankle, a Great Twisting occurred, and the swollen, slightly blue offending limb was carried off the field, directly to the passenger side of the car, where I waited with ice pack, and baying dog - who was baying at me, doing the I’m Being Eaten Alive By Misquito’s Dance. I’m still unsure if it was bays of sympathy, embarrassed horror that her mother would do something like that, or glee, that I might finally look like her prancing around chasing bugs.

It’s not nearly as cute as the AARRGGGGHHH, There Are Bees Here! Dance, but whatever. I can’t be adorable all the time.

This was Tuesday. Wednesday, I cut him some slack, wrapped the ankle, slipped on the Crocs, which is not supposed to wear, called the nurse to update, and happily went off to the office. Thursday provided another repeat of the I’m In Agony wailing and gnashing of teeth; and Friday, after a mutinous morning attempting to get out the door early (I needed to be in Holyoke by 9, its a 56 mile trip) and wrestle Fox into a shoe, I finally threw his wailing backside in the car, called the pediatrician, hauled ass to Holyoke, left him sulking in an office for a whopping total of 12.7 minutes, as we arrived at 13 minutes til 10.

I thought seriously, I might rip off his leg myself.

Then, it occured to me, I’d throught the same thing with his arm, and the damn thing was broken.

Christ.

I made an appointment to see Dr. Z, who thought maybe, it was fractured (great. just great. another horrendous mommy trophy being sent to my door), and summarily sent us across town, to get x-rays. A very lovely x-ray tech took us back, snapped about 6 shots of the foot and ankle, thankfully took in stride Fox’s matchmaking attempts, ignored the heat flooding my face, (he was married!) and ended up telling me: it’s not broken.

It’s not even sprained.

It’s not even bruised all that much.

I’m told to call Dr. Z’s office after 2, for “recommendations”. Fox stands right next to me, but thanks to cleverly turning down the volume, he does not hear the nurse tell me where to get him a walking boot cast, and matching crutches, if I really think he’s hurting that much; that maybe, it’s broken, but no one can see it on x-ray, blah blah blah.

I hung up and told quite possibly the biggest whopper of my entire parenting career:

“If that ankle is not feeling better by tomorrow, in time for the game at the very latest, Dr. Z said we are going to get a cortisone shot. It involves a foot long needle, about the width of a strand of spaghetti, and not only does it burn going in, but hurts for hours following.”

Well. I’ll be damned. (do note the sarcasm dripping off that statement)

It felt just fine about a nanosecond after that bomb.

Played on Saturday. Not only did he manage the fancy footwork thing, he sacked the quarterback, stripped him of the ball, and ran it for a gain of 15 yards. He was in the entire game, first as the left gaurd, and then, as some tackle-heavy lineman, or linebacker, or whatever.

He felt fine enough to do his tippy-toed dance of victory after all really good plays, climbed a fence, jumped out of a tree, and took his skate board for a hair-raising trip down our big hill.

Too bad they don’t make a rolicking big shot for snotty backchat, eye rolling, and the whole host of newly employed 7 year old tactics he has down pat, to turn me from my usual self into my very own version of The Fish Mongers Wife

Lucky Ladybugs?....or not so much

I slipped into a vintage Lilly skirt this morning, from the highly coveted Size 2 section of the closet…it might be considered just a smidge too short for the office, should clients be in, but they’re not, so as I’m really only dressing for me, today, why not? I paired it with cutie little flats, white sweater, and matching hand bag. (yes. I know. But you know I’m a priss, this is not a shock to you) – however (yes, there really is a point to this email, other than passing along my fabulous fashion sense…and the tedious details that I arrange my closet by dress size – nothing higher than a 6, thank you very much) I have found out some little, shall we say, nuances to this skirt I’d not realized before.

Maybe, as I’d not have the nerve to wear it before – oh, yes. It’s green, corduroy, with grasshoppers embroidered on it. This does matter, in the end run – as it does, indeed, show off quite a good bit of the legs, and, limits my abilities to bed over from the waist. Not that well-bred ladies bend at the waist either.

Anyhoo, I went into the Boston office, rather unexpectedly, and had lunch with L, who adores me, and pushes all my business through faster than anyone else’s, because I went through the effort of getting to know her – used my bosses office, languished though a delivered lunch, missed apparently, the entire The Delivery Guy Is Ogling You (though evidently everyone else noticed) and finally (we are nearing the good part) I picked up all delivered policies, gathered all the other and sundry paperwork I needed and made moves towards the office door.

I admit now, I had rather noticed that the skirt had more, say, stretch to it than I’d thought this morning; but well. It’s been a long day, who am I to complain that I’m not uncomfortable in said frock?

L (and about 14 of the guys we work with) were all standing behind me – when she mentioned something, her eyes bulging out of her head, my cell phone ringing, papers starting to fall as I dug through the damn bag for the phone – when it hits me.

Air.

Lots of air. Skirts are draughty by nature, but this was a stiff breeze blowing round my now exposed knickers.

Yes. My beautiful vintage Lilly Pulitzer skirt, which I adore, has a faulty, pissy, will let go at any time, zipper.

And it did.

Baring my brightly coloured, pink and ladybug underpinnings. To everyone.

I did have quite a few offers of help, to gather the tossed paperwork, policies, errant lipsticks and wallet, keys and whatnot, which scattered to the four corners of the office in my haste to make a futile grab at the fallen, but I’m starting to wonder if they were hoping for a close up look at the ladybugs. No one was really aiming to get the pen that rolled under the sofa, or really, anything that was more than a foot away from me.

I left. Head held high. Swearing, about vintage this and that.

Face as pink as the panties I thought no one would ever see.

Jinxed

I’m totally jinxed.

It’s been proven; so really, now my only reason consideration is just how far into my life this is going to go.

Take men, for example. I meet one, marry him, and he’s crazy. (There are some rumors circulating that I made him crazy, but if you’d met his family, you’d realize this is strictly Par For The Course with his genes, but still, angel though I may be, I’m sure I wasn’t, ahem, perfect). I take a break, after a fistful of horrendous first dates (charming annecdotes I pull out at parties when wives start giving me the Evil Eyed Stare, lest they assume I’m after their beloveds) only to find that when I’m not looking? I meet someone.

He’s funny, and charming; he’s great with my little guy, teaches him how to nail golf balls off my fabulous deck, adored my danes, and even allowed them to sit on his in his Dry Clean Onlies. We date, exclusively, only to find that yes, he doesn’t love me. I could go in for all the gory detail, but as I’d rather draw a veil under much of those conversations, (ending in the return of my Rooster - the Holy Grail of our relationship, as it were) we’ll simply forge ahead.

Some idiot tells me that time heals all wounds; life is only just beginning!

Total rubbish. I meet someone, totally innocently (yes, this would be Mr. Knight in Shining Wrinkly Scrubs) ….eyes that twinkle, a devilish laugh…within weeks of meeting me, he’s laid off, and then, the coup de gras - he’s commissioned to IRAQ. Deep breath. Not the end of the world; he still wants to hang out and stuff, and well, he says he thinks I’m a cutie - but seriously? IRAQ? I don’t do bugs, which is immaterial really, since they don’t allow visits (not that I’m signing up to go there) and he’s not back until next November. I recover, slightly, figuring I’ve time to get in a few dates before he ships out (or whatever it is that you call it)

Which is when I blow up my car (yes, I blew the entire engine apart, dropped the transmissions), killed a cell phone, and if you’ve been keeping up at all? You already know the whole host of things I’ve managed to murder in the short month of July. Vacuums. Small appliances. My bathroom drain first showed signs of slowing down; this morning, it refuses to drain altogether. Toothpaste suds and soapy bits are still floating in there unattended, which makes me rather nervous. Unattended Floaties make it quite tough to force upon said drain high octane drain cleaner. Not sure if it mixing them together will create that poisonious smoke that might kill me.

I don’t really want to me found dead on my bathroom floor. Even though I am looking lovely having dropped 15 pounds. I’m on the Stressed Out No Sex diet; it leaves me totally not hungry at all - though schlepping round at football may also have contributed. Sure, I’d look good in the coffin (if I found someone to tame the Really Pissy Hair I’ve been sporting) but I’d rather go out with some elan - not having succombed to noxious fumes of my own making.

Plus also? Pucker (the little bitch) ate one of my favorite shoes - the hot pink patent leather ones wtih the big bows over the toes? With the peep-toe? SOOOOO cutie! Well. Not anymore. She’s rather torn through the side of the heel, ate the buckle off the strappy thing on the ankle (which came out surprisingly how it went in - though, er, chocolate covered) and demolished the cutie bow on the top. I’m incensed. Those were my lucky shoes. My favorite shoes!!

So here it is, the end of September, and I give up: I’ve replaced all the necessary but broken bits and bobs of my life: I’m only wearing the Uglier Shoes, as those will be the ones with the most enticing aroma’s for the puppy, I’m barely driving, especially on crappy weather days when I might destroy something, and men?

Well. I daren’t go near any now, shall I?

We’ve enough unemployed people as it is. I shouldn’t add to that list.

See. I TOLD you I was jinxed.

Princess Priss vs. Dread Fox the Pirate

Donning a suede skirt this morning, atop smoothly shaved legs gave me the decided Pick Me Up I so desperately needed….honestly, it’s so lovely to slip into something that fits again! Added little kitten heels, to feel feminine, yet powerful - I find that on days when I’m dragging quite a good bit, being dressed in something sumptuous helps.

And, let’s face it, with the office feeling more like a snake pit these days, than a restful place to be productive, any little bit helps. The well-dryed hair that is still looking as good as it did in the bathroom mirror, the fact that I’ve managed to do a lovely shave job, without bleeding like a stuck pig from the backs of the ankle -which means, no Spiderman Bandaids* to mar the expanse of slowly paling calf. I nearly feel as though this one morning, I’m on top of my game.

At least, as far as my ability to dress.

Fox on the other hand, has. Well. Rather…lowered the bar for picture day. We argued over the trouser selection I had chosen; he won that round when he decided that left over chinese food was a perfect breakfast, and proceeded to wipe his greasy hands and face on the khaki’s. He’s wearing sweatpants.

Fox: 1. Mama: 0.

He wanted to wear the oversized hand-me-down Cape Cod shirt from Auntie Mag’s boys, but I drew a line in the sand - he wore it yesterday! It had paint, handprints, dog snot and God only knows what else on it. After a bit of a tousle (ie., tug of war with a cotton shirt) we agreed that he could have the pick of three shirts selected by moi.

He didn’t care for my selections.

The navy and white striped polo? So cute! Hated it. Ditto the maroon, and the pale blue with fish skeletons on it. (is way cuter in person, sounds a bit…er….natty, but Target does have the most fabulous things!) Listening to his diatribe on fashion sense (or lack thereof, if you ask me, which he clearly did not) I falied to grasp why dressing as a Pirate awash on a desert island would make a good school picture. In a moment of inspiration, I compromised: the black, collared polo (thank you Target!) with white skulls and crossbones on it.

There. Respectable, as it’s a polo. Piratey, with the symbol for an imminent poisonous death plastered in minature all over it.

Fox: 1. Mama:1.

Running my hands over the hem of the skirt, the suede smooth and nearly creamy, in a warm richly creamed coffee colour, soothes over the ragged edges left by knowing my entire family will be receiving a Christmas card from Dread Fox the NGES Pirate. With my luck, he’ll bare his teeth in some semblance of a snarl, and look as though he’s been diagnosed with scurvy.

Thank goodness for seuded skirts and kitten heels. I may have lost most of the battle this morning, but I look like I’ve won the war.

Cha-Ching

Football season is upon us, bringing to mind all the joys of the late afternoon light in the fall, the sight of little boys learning to be men, and the never ending sound of the cash register at Dick’s Sporting Goods. It’d thought, originally, I’d gotten off lightly this year - we were given all the equipment we needed, save for cleats (bought them for baseball, and they still fit - thank God), a cup (evidently his cup was “all up in his goods”) and a practice jersey.

Really, and idiot can shop for these. A single mom who has no clue can shop for these things - I would know, I did it last year. Sure, I put the cup in upside down the first time; (and, ahem, the second and third times) I’ve managed to screw up which are the thigh pads and which are the knee pads, but I’m one of the only moms who got all of the mud and grass stains out of his pants. After every game.

This year, seeing as how I assumed I’d only need a cup, I figured, I’d gotten off lightly - maybe a total outlay of twenty dollars. A measly twenty dollars at Dick’s - my goodness! perhaps, then, I should buy something for myself, seeing as how I’m used to dropping the same amount of money in Dick’s as I am in Target, and they’re known as the Hundred Dollar Stores. In my head, I’ve planned the cutie little golf skirts (that are also on sale!) the argyle sweater I’ve been eyeing since it came out, and if you add in the coupon I had? The cup is practically free.

Hmm. Maybe it’s the skirt that was practically free, since I went in there to buy the cup in the first place.

So this morning, while I’m doing the Walk The Dog, Feed The Dog, Yell At The Dog And Child Routine, I ask Fox to go upstairs and grab his football bag. The enormous one. He decides to throw it over the landing - on the side near the hanging chandelier.

ARE YOU NUTS?! I yelled, yes, my Inner Mommy Ugly Voice appeared, as the light swung in a rather delicate arc, between three walls, while the bag essentially dripped onto the floor in agonizing slow motion.

His response? I’ve always said that light was ugly. OH. My. GOD.

Deep breath, and a couple huffy breaths later, along with a fair amount of swearing under my breath later, we’re all packed up to go. I reach to throw in the cleats - only to be told, they’re too little. The practice jersey from last year? The small? Nope, Coach says he needs a large. And a medium cup. And new socks, as his have a hole in them.

I take my lunch hour, and frantically fly down to Sports Athourity - which in my opinion? They were not. Yes, the gentleman that greeted me was enormously helpful; he led me right through all the football stuff, lamenting for me, that only the more expensive brands were left. (Add grinding of teeth here)…oh, boy, they’re all picked over. I should have come earlier. I should have sent his father. (I refrained from commenting here, but the voices in my head sure had plenty to say on that subject) He wanted to know how big my little guy was - so I held up my hand, you know, yay high? And he says, no, lady (don’t call me lady, it’s rude, it’s a cartoon dog for heaven’s sake!) I mean, how big are his boys? How much of a handful?

He’s seven. I’m not about to go wandering in during shower time and adjust them for him, so I can get a feeling for how they fill a hand! And you know what? I don’t want to know if Fox is hanging out in the shower testing size and weight in his palms either! Aren’t there some sort of guidelines for this sort of thing? In the back of my mind, all I can think is that the words average, or about this big, with a finger measurement, are the absolute wrong things to say - but then, so is, he’s really hung, or, uh, he’s really out of proportion feel unseemly as well. I don’t really feel I should be discussing my sons balls with anyone, let alone a stranger - but then, that begs the question: do I discuss his “goods” with my girlfriends who have sons?

I’m pleading the fifth.

I should have gone to Dick’s, I should have driven out there, and taken my coupons, gotten my Dick’s points, and my extra points, for purchasing football related items. They may not have had a better selection, but I suppose, I’m more comfortable when I know the guys that laugh at me in the store; and they laugh with me, not at me. They encourage me to bring Fox with me, so they can help me out - and not in that decidedly judgemental way that says I don’t know my own child. I do.

Thus, here I am, back in the office, a whopping sixty dollars poorer, having only purchased a cup and a jersey. I’ve still socks and cleats to go….not to mention raffles, and fundraisers, not to mention the sheer volume of Gatorade this kid takes down.

Soon, I’ll have emptied my wallet, praying to the Great Football Gods at Dick’s Sporting Goods, and all I’ll have to show for it is a football bag that took out my light filled with stuff that smells so badly I have to leave it in the garage so it doesn’t take the finish off the floor. I’ll pile into the stands with the other moms, sporting last year’s sweaters and jacket, realizing that in nearly all the football photos, I’m wearing the same things - the only way to tell the years apart is the how tall Fox is. I’ll sit with moms who have holes in their socks too, with red noses from the cold, mittened hands clutching hot cocoa against the early morning chill, and at some point, it’ll hit me:

I’m so glad my son didn’t take up hockey