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just a Saturday

So it’s been a long week flying solo, and I was definitely ready for some R&R today.  On Thursday, also known as Day Four, I discovered my battery was dead… but I hadn’t left the lights on?  And I will need to run downtown (shudder) to Tyler’s specialists office to pick up the prescription I called in on Monday, that he would need by Friday, but nobody from their office called to tell me it was ready, even after I left a follow up message Wednesday morning.  So I took Ro’s truck that day and the next… Friday evening when I get home I figure I’ll try to jump start it and head over to Auto Zone, and it turns right over.  Have no idea what’s going on there… but the battery tests fine. 

This morning the kids and I clean a little house, and Daija lobbies for a popsicle as soon as breakfast is over.  Actually, Tyler asked first, and I said no… then Daija approached me.

Popsicles aren’t for big childrens.  Popsicles are for little childrens.

Really?  Are you a little children?

Lemme check!

And she runs up behind Halle, who is walking by, and returns, breathless…

I’m not big as Halle… I’m a little childrens.

Tyler goes to the movies with his Big, and the girls and I head out.  We stop for Starbucks, because DAIJA BUCKLED HER OWN SEATBELT! Not that I need much excuse to go to Starbucks, but this is a big deal.  It seems that Daija has been holding on to having someone else buckle her in like other kids hold onto bottles or sippy cups… like it’s the last vestige of babyhood.

So now we’re headed to Sears for some bra shopping..

Do your boobs hang low? Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie ’em in a knot? Can you tie ’em in a bow?
Can you throw ’em over your shoulder, Like a continental soldier?
Do your boobs hang low?

Well, I don’t have enough boobs for them to hang low, but since I stopped nursing I definitely have droopy little boobies… and no clue what size bra I was supposed to be wearing, since the size I wore pre-baby just wasn’t working.  So, bolstered by Oprah’s Bra Revolution, I had planned to buy some new bras this spring. 

It can be really hard, when you’re not 100% sure what your bra size is now (AND you’ve got two girls bickering with each other), to find a good fit in a dressing room when all the bras have those security things installed somewhere on the band… like I can tell whether or not it’s a comfy fit when I’ve got a fucking lo-jack unit digging into my rib cage or armpit.

But at the end of it, I had four pretty bras.  I exit the dressing room… and I see pretty cami tops.  Then I see some cute Levi’s capri’s, which are clearly misracked and have no tag whatsoever.

Which of course, means they will fit almost perfectly.


And they do.  So now I’m headed to the register with two tops, a pair of capri’s, the price of which are unknown to me, and four bras.

And then I see the skirt.


And it’s just sooo cute, and it will be perfect with one of the tops…  They don’t have any in the size I need on the rack… but it has an elastic waist which is easy to alter and there is one a size too big on the manniken.  I take it as a sign, and I nicely asked them to “depants” the manniken because I *needed* that skirt.

So I sacrifice two of the bras.  BTW, I was so happy when I got there and saw that they were having a buy one, get one 50% of f sale.  Oh, and my capri’s?  The sweet gal at the register charged me $9.99… and at sears.com they’re 29.99.  What a good day!

So we head back home to wait for Tyler and I’m in my comfy reading chair, wearing one of my comfy bras and my cute capri’s and I’m chatting with Eileen on il mio telefonino (you Liz Gilbert/Eat Pray Love fans will know what that  means) and Daija decides to fall out over what I’ll let her play on the computer.

She tells me she’s not going to be my mom anymore.  I tell her that’s fine with me.

She tells me she wants Daddy.  I tell her I do, too.

She tells me I’m the only one who’s ever mad at her, and I’m always mean.  I tell her that’s my job.  I also tell her she’s not being real nice either.

She tells me that moms can’t be mean… only “childrens” get to be mean.

Then my cell phone battery dies, and while I’m waiting for it to charge so I can call Eileen back, I decide to read a little more of the book she was reading when she visited and recommended to me .  How ironic that she recommends this book about bereavement days before my nana crosses over to the other side.  I am contemplating a passage excerpted from Emily Post’s 1922 book of etiquette…

Persons under the shock of genuine affliction are not only upset mentally but are all unbalanced physically… Their disturbed circulation makes them cold…

And a fact from the Institute of Medicine about “changes in the endocrine, immune, autonomic nervous, and cardiovascular systems”

I spent two full days in bed after my grandmother died, as much because I was sad as I was because I was freezing cold.  After two days I got up and took a shower with the water on full hot… not because I really gave a rats ass about being clean, but because I was in long pajamas and slippers under two blankets and I was still so goddamn cold.

I fall asleep.  I wake up… cold.

I check my email, and see that Tyler’s new Ironman that I ordered from amazon.com has shipped, as has The Secret DVD, which I ordered for myself.  Oh, and the Thumbuster has been mailed.

As I contemplate the Thumbuster, the Ironman, the Invisible clock, the Secret, the bras, the tops, the skirt and the capris… all of which I bought since I started reading this book, which I bought the night my grandmother died… I feel a very strong sense of deja vu. 

There really must be a cheaper form of therapy. 

And now I’m here… I got Elmo’s Alphabet Jungle going in my room and Harry Potter in the other.  I’m going to go back and read some more of this book… and refrain from any further shopping until I’m done.

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