A Bit of Over-Sharing

Look at the BRA I'm ordering!

I am telling you this NOT because you need to know about my lingerie choices. But because it is a pretty, feminine, non beige, NON NURSING BRA! Yes, as of 12:14am Tuesday morning, my baby girl is weaned! Ironically after a YEAR of nursing I finally had to drag out my old pump today to rid myself of some painful LUMPS. Sorry about that. Anyhoo.

This whole weaning process leaves me both relieved and BEREFT at the same time. It's been the same with all of my monsters: around 10 months I get totally sick of nursing. ESPECIALLY at 1am, 4:39am and 5:10 am. So the babe and I fight about it for a month or two, and just when I think I'm going to be nursing the parasite for another 9 years, voila! Bottles are just fine, and I get my boobies back.

So...now I enter this phase that has been a bit DANGEROUS for me historically: I am not pregnant. I am not nursing. And BANG! A big BOMB of mommy LUST goes off in my body and all of a sudden...I.WANT.ANOTHER.BABY.


BUT! No! Not this time. I have FOUR healthy children. I am freaking 35, "advanced maternal age!" I would probably have septuplets with chromosomal abnormalities! I can't IMAGINE being pregnant again, even though my pregnancies are relatively easy. It's still NINE MONTHS of exhaustion, flab, GRUESOME varicose veins, and SOBRIETY.

And there is PLENTY going on here. Right here, right now, I have more than a lifetime's worth of love, bickering, shrieking and laundry. Even now, when the screaming and chaos reach their peak, people - my own parents included - look at me with a mix of pity, disgust, horror and relief that THEY ARE NOT ME.

So why do I even flirt with the notion of a FIFTH? I DON'T KNOW! I am already spread too thinly amongst the lot of them. Do I have some kind of psychosis here? Something to prove? Am I greedy? WHAT THE FREAK IS WRONG WITH ME?

I don't know. All I know is this: when Keane picks up an old bird watching book at his grandparents' and decides he's going to add ornithologist to the many interests his voracious little mind devours; when taciturn Rory insists on getting his sister out of her crib whenever she wakes up, because he loves to "help" her; when Will very precisely articulates for thirty minutes that "he does not LIKE swimming lessons, Mama," and then stoically and resignedly marches up to his swimming teacher; or when Colette channels her inner Material Girl and stops, poses, points and "CCCCoooooooooooooooos" to whomever is currently applauding her; it is at these times when their little personalities, original and genuine and wonderful, make me feel quite lucky to witness all these lives unfolding. And when, for 83 seconds every seven months, they are all playing together, happily, the sun glinting off the reds and blonds in their hair, I am struck dumb with the beauty of it all. That this is all there is. So of COURSE I could imagine another one.
And then Rory tries to bite Keane, Keane screeches like a demented female hyena, Will pees on the rug and Colette shrieks JUST BECAUSE....I wake up from my reverie and place my mouth firmly beneath the Franzia spigot.

Since I do a lot of Swimming in November

It's your last chance to save at the Anniversary Sale, my friends! PRICES GO UP August 3. I really didn't buy much this year (you just don't get the same thrill of the kill/adrenaline rush over the internet, in your own kitchen, as you do with the hoards of estrogen-and-retail crazed women running wild through Savvy), although I am waiting for my rock star boots. But I had to buy one more thing...something that just oozes fall, that conjures up the scatter of falling leaves, the first crisp cold morning, pumpkins and gourds, and the year's first Beaujolais:








YES! I STILL DON'T HAVE A SWIMSUIT! This Ralph Lauren one was on sale, and obviously the color is a bit bonkers (every normal black suit has long since been purchased), but I'm desperate.

So, why, do you ask, do I keep bothering you with my failed online swimsuit shopping sagas? Why don't I just buck up and go to Dillard's, or Kohl's, or even Tarzhay and just TRY SOME SUITS ON under the fluorescent lights with other normal women?

Because I like to pretend I'm a PRINCESS. When I'm really a WEENIE who can't face those dressing rooms. So there.

OH MY GAWD I'm Dr. Laura

Oh, internet! My ridiculous flirtation with the workforce continues. Ridiculous because PVT HAS a job. That is going pretty well! That is bracing the roof over our heads and supporting our WalMart grocery binges! And the occasional frivolity!

BUT...I like to keep things complicated! And to afford my monthly housekeeper! And...MARGARITAS! And even a BIT OF NORDSTROM!

So, I have a wee job offer: pretty much whatever flipping hours I want or can handle until February (remember I am a tax geek). And then I would need to commit to being IN THE OFFICE 24 hours per week. By GAWD, that sounds like a ton. But it is SIX months away...so. Maybe?

The shareholder of the firm I'm speaking to seems like a lovely woman. She has children too, and was very understanding that I am squeamish about...well. The whole thing. BUT. While she was detailing out hours and money and such today she used this phrase that I HATE: "I GET the MOM thing." UGH!

The MOM THANG? Now, I am not going to get all saintly about motherhood (since I am SO SO FAR from being a saint and am already enabling my ONE year old's M&M addiction), but cripes! The Mom Thing? Sheesh. I always thought that once I had these children, I was on the hook for this maternal gig for at LEAST 18 years. Or so! To brush it off (am I being too sensitive?) like a temporal, petty phase of every female's life, a mere post-collegiate summer backpacking trip...I HATE that.

Yes, I miss semi-cerebral work, and offices, and an excuse to wear a skirt, and lunches sitting down. And MOOLAH! But in the end these monsters are the most important work I'm going to do in this lifetime (given that I'm not in the running for the Nobel Prize for ... anything). SO...the horrifying logistics notwithstanding, do I even want to occupy my limited mental space with this part time gig?

Maybe I've answered my question.

An Ode to my First Born, Or, Please Don't Make Me KNIT

My eldest son, Keane (named after a dynamo Irish soccer player, Robbie Keane) is, in some ways, a parents' dream. He is exceptionally bright, but not in a noticeably nerdy way. He is a talented soccer player. He has the endurance of a great long distance runner. He plays piano. And he's not yet seven.

But: he is hypercompetitive. Very sensitive. A perfectionist. And very INTENSE. AS SUCH, having him home with his three younger siblings has been kicking me IN. LE. ARSE. Now, I will miss him to death in a few weeks when he schleps off to second grade for those long long school days. But I just can't keep up with him right now! For example: after our trip to the Boeing Flight Museum in Seattle, he has been obsessed with airplanes. Somehow this morphed into him wanting to pilot his OWN airplane. I must have nodded and "uh-huhed" a few too many times, because now he is sure we are going to BUY a little airplane. He has been searching Aerotrader.com, and found a little 1959 !! Cessna here in Tulsa for a mere $24,000. He is determined to save up for it and buy it when he's seventeen and has his pilot license. So incessant have his pleas been that I actually contacted the seller of the plane to inquire whether we could see it. Which we will this week if I can't get. him. to. stop. TALKING.

And: on our trip he caught my mother knitting. He had her show him how, and now wants to continue. Alas, I can do nothing crafty - knit, sew, nothing - so he had me watching a You Tube video today to help him cast on? Cast off? Internet, I don't KNOW. But I had the baby screeching, two other boys wanting me to be an Air Traffic Controller, and my complete inability to do anything with my hands. I felt like I failed him, not just in my inability to knit, but in my inability to sit and concentrate. I just can't GIVE him everything he needs in his day to keep his head occupied.

Ah, Keane. I could give you all the attention you needed if you were an only child...but we loved having you SO much we kept wanting to repeat the experience! But do know that I love you desperately. Even when you're driving me freaking insane.

Has DVF even Heard of Tulsa?

My Annivesary offerings arrived from Mr. UPS, and alas, they were a bit mixed! IF ONLY I were there LIVE...the PINING continues.

I bought myself this wrap dress; such a rich lovely red for fall, and I have always ADORED the concept of the wrap dress. So easy and elegant! You can wear it to work, to your apres-work dirty martini with the cute tall-dark-and-handsome you keep running into on the elevator, and then - whoosh! Later in the evening, it comes off with just a quick tug, if you're so inclined:

Oh, RIGHT. I don't actually DO any of those sexy activities. BUT I could wear it to church this fall, and out to an occasional rendezvous with PVT...but PHOOEY! I put it on, and I don't know why - perhaps I am too long waisted? - but PVT declared it looked like a terry bathrobe on me. He was right! AARGH. I will probably continue to flirt with the wrap dress, however, in the hopes it transforms me into something like its INVENTOR, Diane von Furstenberg: tall, scintillating, multilingual, skinny, crazy rich in her OWN right (besides being married to Barry DILLER), and apparently about to go get some action with some HOT. YOUNG. THANG. right now:

Dare to dream, right?

Back to my other LOOT: the boys' shoes were of course WONDERFUL (Nordstrom was originally a SHOE store, after all!) - don't these make you want a little boy to chase?

I also got another FAILURE of a swimsuit (perhaps I will find the perfect suit by Thanksgiving), and a decent enough gift with purchase from Estee Lauder. My BOOTS, however, are still to come...the DRAMA! The SUSPENSE! (Isn't that half the fun of shopping?)

Apocalypse Now

The past two days have been CHALLENGING, my friends. Exhibit A: yesterday, at Chic-Fil-A, we had a global meltdown over having to SHARE a peach milkshake. I'm sorry, but I couldn't bring myself to buy EACH son his own huge milkshake (on top of their chicken MEAL, mind you!) of which they would drink 1/17. Will FREAKED OUT, whilst the entire Chic-Fil-A clientele watched. It was so ugly I wrestled him to the car (as hurriedly as I could, since cars tend to detonate here in the summer heat; I wasn't so much worried about him incinerating as being arrested. Oh! And I had left the BABY inside!), and ran back to get the rest of the brood mid-meal.

And TODAY, at the local Jumpy Place, 'twas Will again who went beeeeee-zerk and went after a girl who was taunting him. I happened upon this mid-incident, after chasing the newly mobile daughter down, so who knows what torment he had suffered, but cripes! Will, we DO. NOT. HIT. GIRLS. So once again, I dragged a shrieking whirl-a-gig from a public place while smug mothers of good children gaped.

What am I doing wrong here? Do I buy each of them their own milkshake to avoid the public humiliation? Do I coddle and appease just because other people are watching? I don't know. Which is rather shameful, because one would think I would have some ANSWERS to show for all of this procreation. Ha! Ha!

Almost Superwoman

It is just about this time when I start to look forward to the nip in the air that foretells fall; when even I start to get sick of umbrella drinks in salt-rimmed glasses; when a bit of structure and routine in these endless free for all summer days sounds REALLY good.

And so when I got yet another Anniversary Sale email (I keep getting them, despite the fact I have already bought QUITE ENOUGH - I wonder how the sale is going for the Brothers Nordstrom in this choppy economy?), I was tempted to delete it...but 'tis hard for me to delete a NORDSTROM email, and I was thusly rewarded: it was filled with BOOTS. Boots are what really excite me about fall; not sweaters - I never liked sweaters growing up because I felt they accentuated my already noticeable bust, and have never recovered from the vague feeling of embarrassment I get when I wear them. But BOOTS! They heighten and sexify in one ka-pow step. I feel like I could ride a horse, kill a spider and scale tall buildings in a single bound when I wear boots with heels (none of which I can obviously DO, of course).

So fall is welcome to meander my way, since boots and short shorts just don't send an APPROPRIATE message, do they?

Will Work for Olive Bar

Well, my friends - do any of you lucky enough to live near a REAL LIVE NORDSTROM have any dramatic tales of the Anniversary Sale? Did you queue up at 7am, only to have a drag-down hair fight with a bottled blonde over the last pair of Dolce Vita Cuffed Booties in a size 7 in Women's Shoes? Send me your tales of passion and woe; for I must live vicariously through your triumphs and defeats while I wait for my Anniversary offerings from Mr. UPS.

***

In

totally unrealated news, whilst we were gamboling over the Pacific Northwest, back here in Oklahoma a new grocery store, Reasor's, opened up nearby. I have blogged about my hate-hate relationship with Wal-Mart before, and the relative lack of luscious, inspring grocery landscape here in Tulsa (isn't grocery shopping all about the ambiance?). Well, my friends, this Reasor's is absolutely heavenly. The beautiful, rainbow produce section with every plant and vegetable the earth spurts out - everything from organic watercress to aloe vera leaves, for cripes' sake. A $10 per pound OLIVE bar. A deli with all sorts of exotic salads and viands. A Java Dave's coffee bar. A frosting-filled bakery, with donuts, cakes, cookies and danish galore. A full butcher with all cuts of glistening, marbled steaks. A fishmonger with everything from scallops and oysters to crab legs. And a SUSHI BAR with actual knife-wielding Japanese sushi chefs! Although I'm not in Manhattan anymore - many of the prepackaged rolls displayed reassured these weenie Oklahomans that there was NO RAW FISH INCLUDED in the California rolls. Ha! Ha!

Oh, internet, I spent an hour and half yesterday, restocking our house after our trip, and managed to spend THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY SIX DOLLARS. Ironically I am currently reading a book on how to "Raise a Large Family in a Small Family World," and there is much discussion on budgeting for groceries, stretching your grocery dollar, cutting coupons, not eating much meat, buying noodles in bulk, SHOPPING AT WAL-Mart, et cetera...oh Lord. Life without marinated artichokes and feta cheese? It makes me want to hang myself with a Top Ramen noose.

10, 9, 8, 7...

My friends, I just went to the Nordstrom site, and the site is CLOSED while the Nordstrom people "prepare" for the sale. I didn't know the internet closed! And there is a COUNTDOWN CLOCK to the beginning of the anniversary sale. In case you weren't already peeing your pants in anticipation.

I wish I could regale you with my many hours-long Nordstrom sprees while we were in Seattle, but alas! When one has four children, as I believe I do by my last count, it's hard to leave ALL of them at any one time with any ONE person to whom you aren't paying an outrageously high hourly rate. Even your own MOTHER. So I did a few fly bys with a kid or two in tow, and did a bit of damage in cosmetics and the freaking KIDS department, of course. But the lengthy dissection of offerings in the Savvy dressing room? The caressing of outrageously expensive handbags in the PURSE BOUTIQUE? The sniffing of 832 perfumes in Cosmetics? The shoe-by-shoe lovemaking in Women's and Brass Plum Shoes? No, these Pay-per-View Fantasies DID NOT HAPPEN! I spent more time with a Nordstrom employee TODAY, here back in Oklahoma, on the PHONE converting my sons' shoe sizes from European to American sizes as I pre-ordered some school duds for them. (By the way, "pre-ordering?" I think everyone and his or her gerbil can pre-order, but it does feel a bit exclusive to "pre-order" - cheap thrills.)

So, once again, those blasted kids prevented me from doing some REAL damage. Watch out, Anniversary Sale 2028...I'll be spending BIG. Consolation for being age-ed and suffering from under arm dingle dangle, oui?

Whoosh

Today my daughter turned 1 (Bastille Day - yes, that took a lot of planning). I shouldn't even breathe the cliche - but isn't it odd, that the hours between 1:30pm and Happy Hour (5pm. 4:30pm. Or 2:17pm. No, never THAT early!) can last longer than the Jurassic Era when you have small hooligans to entertain, but a year can race by in the time it takes to change a diaper?

Alas, we did not spend the day at a Mommy and Me Day Spa, getting facials. Colette spent her first birthday at the Boeing Flight Museum. Such is the peril of having older brothers; but I don't believe she minded too much.

Happy Birthday, Coletti Di Spoletti.

How to Irk My Right Wing Mom

Put her granddaughter in a tie dye dress with a "Peace" sign:My little Peacenik.

Why My Daughter Will Cost Us $592 Jillion Dollars

Yesterday I brought my fourth child, my first daughter, to Nordstrom for a time-honored VT tradition: purchasing the FIRST pair of shoes. In true Too-Much-Is-Not-Enough fashion, though, I ended up buying her TWO pairs: these adorable Stride Rite Mary Janes:

And these obnoxious fuchsia Tsukihoshi sneakers for all her cross-training needs:

'Twas so much fun to buy girl shoes! I hope I don't overwhelm my daughter with my vicarious shoe fetish, lest she grow up to hate shoes to spite me and wear Crocs and Tevas with socks.

Horrors!

Like Yom Kippur, Christmas, Halloween and My Birthday - ALL AT ONCE

Here it is my friends - THE ANNIVERSARY SALE at Nordstrom begins July 17:

In a cruel twist of fate, I am leaving TWO DAYS before the sale begins (don't exhale yet, PVT!). However, if you are "in the know," you can preorder items from the sale catalog and pick them up as early as the 14th.

Ready, set....!

The VTs do the NW

I apologize for the light posting lately, my friends! I have been terribly busy immersing my offspring into the perks and vagaries of the Northwest: hikes in the woods; slug spotting; thrice-daily Starbucks runs; winery picnicking (my eldest was a bit too fond of raspberry wine); Space Needle excursions; monitoring wild blackberry ripeness. PVT brought the big boys to a Seattle Sounders game at Qwest Field, too - in short, we are doing many things we cannot do in sultry Tulsa, Oklahoma. As lovely as it is to be here, though, and as homesick as I am for all of these things, and my beloved NORDSTROM, I find I am appreciating from afar those unique things we have in Tulsa: laughably light traffic; preternaturally polite people; vast houses for $29.99. See, PVT? I CAN say nice things about Tulsa!

Ironically, despite months of pining, I still have not had a proper Nordstrom excursion. I did make a 18 minute Nordstrom RACK attack, however. The Rack is a little fickle: sometimes you go and within minutes have spent $564 on cheap Juicy Couture clearance purses, bulk vanilla body lotion, and kiddie Nike shoes. And other times you feel like you just wandered into a half-arsed garage sale and leave empty handed, stopping at your local tavern on the way home to alleviate the gray sense of dread that the Rack has left you with. Luckily, my experience this time was the former; I bought PVT and the Cherub shoes, and some new lingerie for me in the time it takes to mix a margarita. Because no one wants to waste time on gray dread during vacation.