Sundays with Stretchy Pants

I found really cute shoes for $10! This has never, ever happened to me before. Most likely because I don’t like to shop because things are expensive and I am cheap, so my non-shopping around seriously inhibits my ability to find good deals on things I like. Because, let’s face it, it’s not a good deal if you don’t really like it. Anyway, we had to go to the dreaded mall because Liberty wanted to spend her very own money on Yet Another Effin’ Webkinz (didn’t they add “Yet Another Effin’” to the tradename yet? No? They should because I only ever hear people refer to them that way). And the local candy shop place that sells them didn’t have the exact perfect one (I know because they have a hotline you can call. For real.) So we went to the mall and Liberty got Yet Another Effin’ Webkinz. After that, we took Lena to Gamestop where My Precious discovered she didn’t have enough money for Super Mariokart Race Until You Die or whatever. I’ve seen this happen before and I’ve not been very understanding while waiting an hour for her to make the very, very difficult and painful decision to either save her money for another 2 weeks or just buy something else. This time, I decided to save everybody even more turmoil by excusing myself from the situation and leaving her with her father, who can relate to this kind of careful purchasing turmoil, and I ducked into Journeys and found omigod shoes for $10. And I liked them. So much. So much that even though my feet are, ahem, athletic and the shoes on the shelf were all a size smaller than I usually wear, I kept looking at them and fondling them and whispering through my tears, “Why can’t you be a wide size 9? I love you so much. Not just because you’re cheap. I love you for you.” And then I really looked at them and decided they looked big. Just like my feet. And I started to believe that our love could transcend size, so I tried them on. And I was right. Our love is stronger than any measurement, US or European. They’re big. They’re wide. They fit! So I bought them and then I was really high and wanted to go find MORE! bargains because I suddenly found my self-worth as an American woman. I didn’t get the chance to try out my brand-new purchasing power, however, because by the time my transaction was complete, Bryan found me and very wisely distracted me by offering me foodstuffs. He knows his woman.

ETA: I just read the reviews of the shoes at that link that I posted and all of those people who say they feel “true to size” and “true to width” are in serious denial about their shoe size. There is nothing true to either size or width about these lovely, lovely shoes. These regular 8s feel like a wide 9. Heaven.

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Don’t censor people who know what they’re talking about. That’s just wrong. Censoring people who don’t know what they’re talking about? I’m totally cool with that. I know, I know, slippery slopes and such. How about we just start with the assholes like Tama Janowitz and all of her supportive commentors who think it’s cool to tell a 12-year-old daughter who was adopted from China, “Well, you know, if you were still in China you would be working in a factory for 14 hours a day with only limited bathroom breaks!” See, that’s just mean. I’m not a transnational adoptee or anything, but I can still see that that’s all kinds of mean. And people who leave comments that say that that is totally mean should not be censored by the New York Times. I mean, it’s THE New York Times. WTF?

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• Feel Like an Activist Without Ever Leaving Your House! (1)

Because I have daughters who are precious pleasers, I spend a lot of time trying to teach them that they have rights and that they have the right to say no to anything, no matter what. At this point, the conversations like that are mostly centered around their not wanting to go to a birthday party or not wanting to have a certain friend over or something like that. They get concerned that the friend who is being rejected will feel sad or mad and I assure them that it’s ok if a friend is sad or mad, but it’s not ok for the friend to use their sadness to manipulate them into doing something they don’t want to do. (I know, I didn’t believe it either, but it turns out that it’s true.) Friends who use emotional manipulation are not good friends, but friends who are understanding even if they’re sad about your choice, those are the good friends.

Of course, I’m hoping this will translate into their teen years when the pressures they’ll face will be of much greater significance and the choices they make will be of much greater consequence. Yes, everything always comes back to sex with me. I know. Shut up. Anyway, I came across this blog post from Hugo Schwyzer, who I think is a little bit crazy, but he has some good points. It’s about how our “no means no” message is somewhat lacking and we have to teach how to interpret the no and the yes.
“…anything short of an authentic, honest, uncoerced, aroused and sober “Hell yes!” is, in the end, just a “no” in another form.”

I thought it was interesting and I wanted to share it. So read it. And then put it to use. And then teach your children how to say no *and* yes. And then teach them how to respond to no in all of its varied forms. Do it! Or don’t do it, you do have the right to say no. And I have the right to not be friends with you anymore if you don’t obey. Oh, wait…

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Breastfeeding is legal? In Public? But, but, there are breasts and feeding involved. Offensive.Ha ha on you, Fossil, Inc. I’m glad that this case went beyond your typical staged nurse-in with media coverage. I’m glad this mom threatened to sue and I’m glad she walked away with a little bit of compensation from Fossil. It does get me wondering, though, if this kind of thing will stop happening any time soon. Every time there is a publicized case like this, I tend to think, “There, now we’re done with that nonsense.” Um, rose-colored glasses anybody? In my many, many years of baring my breasts for the purpose of sustaining life or, quite frankly, to get a kid to just be quiet for a minute, I was never asked to leave anywhere and I never even endured any mean looks or comments (well, except maybe from family and/or friends and/or other people in the privacy of my own and/or their own home, but that’s to be expected. Ahem). And more than half of my breastfeeding years were spent in a very small town where that kind of thing is just not typical. It’s a little bit shocking to me that this particular case happened in a Manhattan show room. I would think a big city would be the last place a breastfeeding mother would have to endure that kind of harrassment. Small towns, excuse me, some small towns are not typically tolerant of people who do things a little bit differently. Maybe that’s the difference. A small town might have its hands full bitching at the librarian for asking if it would be a problem if she put the award-winning book And Tango Makes Three on the shelf*, so they wouldn’t have time to wig out about public breastfeeding. I wonder if there is a master list somewhere that ranks the wig-out worthiness of these offensive things. Maybe I was never harrassed for breastfeeding at, say, the library in my hometown because the people who would have harrassed me were too busy scouring the shelves for gay penquin porn. GASP! “There’s that Aldrich girl breastfeeding one of her toddlers right here in the library! I’m gonna give her a whatfor. Wait, let me look at the list:
1. Gays
2. Protestants
3. Breastfeeding mothers
4. Murderers”

Who knows? Maybe I was saved by that list on more than one occasion.

*Last time I was visiting family, I attended the hometown book club with my very special friend Mechelle and the librarian asked us what we thought about having that book on the shelf. It’s pretty sad that she had to ask, but it’s super extra sad that one mother (speaking for the majority there) said with a shudder, “I wouldn’t want to explain that to my 4 year old!” Irony of ironies, the book we were actually discussing at the book club was Maus. Well, I thought it was ironic anyway and I had lots of trouble restraining myself from drawing comparisons between this mom’s ideology and that of Hitler’s. It was tough, but I held back. I want it noted that I held back even after she implied that the fact that I don’t have a problem with homosexuality is because my mom is, um, more active socially** than her saintly mother. Huh? I know, it was hard for me to follow too. And it was hard for me to not stand up and say, “Oh, you did not just bring my mama into this!” and stuff. That would’ve been very Jerry Springer of me and that is where I draw the line.

**In this case I’m using the phrase “active socially” with a wink and a nudge. I’m not talking about volunteerism and stuff like that. Just wanted to clear that up.

ETA: If this story leaves you with an overwhelming urge to donate a copy of And Tango Makes Three to this library, do not hesitate to contact me and I will get you the info. I’m donating a copy with a bookplate inside that says “In honor of God and The Holy Spirit who, with the help of their surrogate, Mary, were able to become fathers to their beloved baby Jesus. Amen.”

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