Hey Kids, it's that Time of the Month Again!

I have a bad habit of ending up at the grocery store just about every. damn. day. And I try really hard not to do this. I make a list like a normal person, buy everything on it, and inevitably I'll end up at the store the next day because of one fricken thing I totally forgot about. And it'll be something that is really needed like an important ingredient for whatever it is I'm making for dinner that night or my husband's deodorant, or dog food. Yesterday wasn't any different. While I was there I wisely figured, hey, why don't I get everything for tomorrow night's dinner too so that I'm not right back here doing exactly this same thing. Tacos sounded like a good idea and the kids love them, so that's all made of win! And the husband tolerates them, so that's...whatever, his dinner is ready and served to him when he gets home.

I chose my white corn tortillas very carefully because, I don't know what the hell it is about tortillas, but those bad boys are super delicate. If you're not mindful you'll come home with a package full of broken, useless discs. After disregarding at least three packages I found one whose contents were in perfect condition. This was not the case when I unpacked my groceries at home. There they were, in the bag that contained...eggs of all things...the entire all ten of them broken completely in half. How in the world...?

Somewhere between placing them lovingly on the conveyor belt at the checkout to my house, they met their untimely demise. And what did I do when I found the mutilated lot of them? I acted like any other sane, rational person and hurled them across the kitchen so that they crashed against the sliding glass door. And then I cried.

You don't think that has anything to do with PMS, do you? DO YOU? I warn you that you shouldn't answer that with anything other than "no" unless you're armed with a tranquilizer gun. I'm feeling very "bear in a tree in your backyard-ish".

Now I Just Need to Buy a Tan because I Hate to Sweat

Once upon a time, in another life, one where I had a job outside the home, no children, and had things like co-workers...I had one such co-worker who really admired my sense of style, which is complimentary [Dear Tootsie: two words - shorter sentences]. The downside to that was we would often have the same clothes. Worse, she really liked the perfumes I wore and would buy them. Then take a bath in Coco Chanel, Estee Lauder's Beautiful and White Linen, Clinique's Happy, and dozens of others. To the point I could barely stand the scent of them at all, switch to something new, only to encounter the same predicament over and over. I never said anything because, whatever, I don't own the perfume market and people are free to wear what they want. But it bugged the ever-lovin' out of me nonetheless. Because of that experience I try very hard not to mimic anyone's style sense too closely. At least not in their presence. Heh.

Cut to yesterday, bathing suit shopping at the local Target with Sisters Number One and Number Two. Sister Number Two was lamenting how she'd found a suit there that she REALLY LIKED LIKE A WHOLE LOT but the bottoms were a little too, you know, big (i.e. mommish) for her taste. Once I saw the suit I knew what she meant. And I could see why she REALLY LIKED IT LIKE A WHOLE LOT because it was super cute. I could also see why she wasn't a fan of the bottoms because she's more of a string bikini kind of gal and when you're eighteen and built with an ass you can serve tea on - all perky, high, and tight - you don't want to cover all that up. Unlike yours truly whose ass has lost its tone and has evolved into a lot of loose skin that has pulled away from the muscle DAMN YOUS A SEXY BETCH!

She encourages me to try it on because, hell, someone might as well have it! So I take it and one additional suit into the dressing room right behind Sister Number One who has about twelve bathing suits in her rotation -because when you're twenty one and all slim and perfect a body that isn't covered in the potholes from pregnancy EVERY bathing suit looks good on you and it just becomes a matter of which one to spend your hard earned money on especially when they only charge you for the bottoms, riiiiightt Sister Number One? WIN!! - I don't need to tell any of you what a royal pain in the ass it is to find a suit that works for you and you usually just end up settling for the one that looks the least worst. Just ask my bottom dresser drawer...it is lousy with them. But turn me upside down and paint me blue! BOTH bathing suits that I tried on were totally perfect! Except that they're both halter top style that tie around the neck and will probably give me rope burns on my super prominent collar bones, btw, thanks mom for that and while I'm at it the little pocket of fat above my elbows I. am. you.

The bathing suit that Sister Number Two may borrow anytime she wants because I totally stole it from her:




And the back-up:

Gonna Need a Price Check on that, Herb

When I am shopping, I have this amazingly annoying ability to grab the one item that does not contain a price tag. I can pick up two of one item, compare, decide which one I want and put the one WITH THE PRICE back on the shelf. Depending on where I shop, this can be a problem. Some retailers know their merchandise and it's absolutely not an inconvenience to the people standing in line behind me because the clerk does not miss a beat in ringing me up. Then there are those other stores where the cashier expects the customer to know exactly how much each item in their shopping cart costs.

For instance today. I had a handful of stuffs and the ten items or less aisle was clear. The scanning of said items was moving along quite nicely, albeit slowly, until the plastic container used to transport liquids made it into the cashiers hot little hands. That's when everything came to a screeching halt. "There's no price", she says - out loud. But the look on her face indicated that this was a problem with which I was to deal.

I know it's hard to determine from this blog but I'm normally an easy going kinda gal. But this was the ten items or less lane and I had ten minutes to finish up this bullpucky and pick up my kid from school. -And I was already mad about the fact that it was raining on my car the one I just got washed yesterday and that the hem of my pants and up to my ankles were soaked I do not like to be wet. Put Tootsie in wet clothes and you get one cranky Tootsie- So I says to the lady, okay well it's like a dollar-sixty-seven or something. Because believe it or not I did not memorize the exact price of everything I decided to buy, shocker, I know right?

Perhaps I should have stated the price with some authority...It's A DOLLAR SIXTY SEVEN! and left out the "like" and the "or something" because then she was all, we're going to have to check. Really? REALLY? It's not like I was trying to make off with a Blu Ray player for a buck sixty seven! It was a little plastic container, not quite Rubbermaid but graduated from Ziplock. For this she was going to hold up the express lane as long as I was willing to play along. And who was this "we" to which she refers? I don't work there. Does she think I'm going to run to the back of the store for a buck sixty seven? ohmygod-no.

You know what? She didn't want me to either. She was willing to lose that sale than have to find out the price...or BELIEVE THE WORDS THAT WERE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH. I know this because the rest of my items weren't allowed to be rung up until I blinked in this stare off. She stood there. Staring at me. Holding the item up for my review. Daring me.

Forget it, I don't want it. I tell her. I think I saw a slow small smile creep across her face. And I swear to GAWD I heard someone in line behind me heave a sigh of relief. And to that dude, you're welcome because I totally could have been that customer.

Leave Tootsie Allooooonnee...

How unprofessional is it when a major corporation calls your house to solicit your business and refers to you by your first name only? Like we're old friends? Like we're FAMILIAR? What's worse is that AT&T this company has called my house at least six times in the last two weeks [an estimate, I wish I'd documented it] and half of those calls began with, "Hello, Tootsie?" [not really "Tootsie" but my real name, of course, but for blogging purposes we'll keep it anonymous] and the other half of those calls were, "Hello, Ms. Ranch?" which is not at all my last name anonymously or in real life. With the first phone call I didn't listen to enough of their spiel to learn what it is that they wanted me to "save money" on, but I do know enough about life to know that they're not saving my money they want MORE of my money by selling me services that I may or may not already aquire from another source. So that initial call ended with my "no thank you, not interested". Apparently this causes your name to be tossed back into the list of calls to be made in the near future. Kind of like lalalalala...we can't hear you...lalalala...The next few calls were met with a simple, "no thanks". The second to the last call was met with "Yes this is Tootsie but Ranch is not my last name and I've already told you guys the last few times you've called that I'm not interested", which prompted the stooge on the other end of the line to quip "you're not INTERESTED in SAVING MONEY?!?!" which prompted me to promplty hang up on them.

The last call was today. This time the woman on the other end not only referred to me by my first name only, but wholly butchered its pronounciation. I immediately knew who AT&T it was. Now I was just mad because, wtf? Are they just going to keep calling until I say yes? Tootsie doesn't play that game. I finally had to be super rude which I don't like doing at all, and said "look, you AT&T people have called me at least six times in the last two weeks and I'm not interested! Would you please take me off of whatever list it is of whatever you're trying to sell?" And hung up. I'm sure they'll call back tomorrow asking for Tootsie Ranch. People are always trying to sell you shit.

It's bad enough that you're not safe in your own house, but out there in life beyond your four walls, you can barely make it from point A to point B without being asked to sign a petition, support a cause, make a monetary contribution to fight a disease, buy cookies....or worse...KIOSKS! Those mother effing kiosks in the mall with their salesmen and their fake French accents. Like that one dude working the hand/facial cream kiosk and he's all, "Excuse me Miss? Have you ever heard of the Dead Sea? oh-hoh-hoh, oui, crepe suzette!!" and I just want to slap his accent right out of his mouth! Of course I've heard of the Dead Sea, Asshole. Do you think I've been locked in a box my whole life and some fake Frenchie working the kiosk in the mall is going to ENLIGHTEN me? Puhleeaze. Get out of my way, chocolate souffle.

Ohmygod, and that woman working the herbal microwavable heating pads! I made the mistake once of stopping when she said, excuse me Miss? And that bitch slapped one of those heated herbal things on my shoulders without asking [like the good old days of department store perfume departments and their stealthy-ninja-like spray attacks]...and I swear to GOD I smelled like hot lilac for the rest of the day and I just wanted to peel off my skin.

And the hair extension kiosk. Have you seen my hair? Do I LOOK like I need MORE? I could sell them my hair to sell to other folks. Their tactic is to inquire, "Excuse me, Miss? Can I ask you a question?". I may be the biggest bitch to stroll through the mall but trust me when I say that there are only two ways to answer that and either are just as effective as the other. And they are:

1. No you can't. [then continue on your merry way]
2. You just did. [then continue on your merry way]

The end.

Are We the Only Couple Waiting for Their Tax Returns to Pay Off Christmas?

Why does every holiday have to be some grand, gift-giving extravaganza? It seems like they all revolve around buying a present for your loved ones. When I was a kid, Easter meant coloring eggs the day before and leaving them for the Easter Bunny to hide for the hunt. He'd leave us a basket filled with a skewed candy to plastic shredded grass ratio. Heavy on the grass. Nowadays, many (most?) kids that I know get presents for Easter. EASTER! It's like the year's first quarter Christmas.

Don't even get me started on the Tooth Fairy. Someone needs to reel that bitch in. When my kids find out from their friends and classmates that the Tooth Fairy is leaving books, toys, stuffed animals, and significant amounts of cash under their pillows? I'm met with the look of utter disappointment when my children find the four quarters that were placed lovingly beneath theirs. Tooth Fairies of the world? You all need to have a summit and come to some kind of standard agreement and chisel it in stone. Pronto.

Valentine's Day used to mean flowers, chocolate, and romantic dinners. Now it's the gift of... cellphone service? It was bad enough when retailer's marketing departments implied that you were a slouch of a husband or boyfriend if you didn't lavish your wife or girlfriend in overpriced flowers and tacky matching earring/necklace/ring combinations, but now if you A) don't buy her cell phone for her, and B) provide an inferior range of service - she will leave your ass.

And frankly, I've never really "got" Valentine's Day. I don't even know what the original premise of the holiday is nor do I care enough to exhaust Wikipedia to find out; whatever it was it got lost along the way and became a stress factor. If you're in a new relationship, you freak out over what to get the other person because you don't want to come on too strong, or too light, or outdo the other person, or scare the other person away, or appear too desperate, or cheap, or trying too hard, or too blasé. If you're married you don't want to live with the silent treatment if you screw it up. I think flowers are a big fat waste of money and I'd rather have a new article of clothing. Or shoes. Or a purse. And the last thing I want to do is go out to eat in a crowded restaurant charging inflated prices for moderate food in the name of ...romance? Eff that noise.

You want to know what one of the most romantic things Mr. Farklepants ever did? Honestly, it was one of those scenarios where I was genuinely touched and flattered. Are you ready? Okay, here it is: he made babysitting arrangements so he could take me out. That's it right there - CONSIDERATION. If we were to go out we would need someone to look after the kids and he knew I would have to start making the phone calls and he took it upon himself to save me that stress. And it is random acts such as these that I find romantic and make me want to take off my clothes and roll around on him.

*photo by DorothyZ.

Meanwhile Back at the Cake

I'm one of those moms that doesn't let her kids do many things that will get them messy. Because I'm one of those moms that doesn't want to clean it up. If it's sticky or dirty or muddy or soaking wet then it's probably not gonna happen kids, sorry. I loathe hose play, ice cream cones, puddles, muddy mud with mud, and whomever it is that invented cotton candy. Inside the house food and drink are not allowed outside the kitchen. Period. If we're taking a trip to the snow I spend a half an hour prior placing several towels lovingly ALL OVER the inside to prevent disaster; and still wet snow boots are prohibited from entering the vehicle - which means we must all take turns hovering our legs out the car door whilst removing the aforementioned offensive boot. Sometimes the socks too.

Ice cream cones GAH! But because I'm not a complete wretched hag, I allow the occasional cone.

(photographic evidence of my bending of the rules)

There are hard and fast guidelines, however. The ice cream must be vanilla in flavor or some other similar non-staining color. Chocolate is right out! And it has to be eaten immediately in the shop. Cones are not "to go". I prefer the kids eat a scoop in a cup with a spoon OR BETTER? A shake. Oh those glorious shakes with their magnificent containment - the lid that fits beautifully on top - and oh the straw!

So today when I entered our local Baskin Robbins and told the young woman behind the counter that I needed to order a cake for Boy-Child#1's birthday that is coming up this week; we both looked in the direction of The Book. The several inches thick book archiving cake after cake, theme upon theme, decisions decisions decisions - that crazy making how do I ever choose just one -book. And parked in a chair just in front of it like it were a library was a nine-ish year old, pushing 120 pounds or more, fist full of giant waffle cone double scooped ice cream kid thumbing through - browsing, if you will. The chocolate dripping down his arm, all over his shirt, lap, and face AND BOOK WITH EACH TURN OF THE PAGE.

I shuddered a bit.

The shudder did not go undetected by the young woman behind the counter.

She took one look at me and made the correct assumption that I was not the kind of woman that was going to want to FOLLOW THAT PERFORMANCE. She probably wished at that moment that there was a second book. Or gloves.

STICKY! GAH! GAHHHH!!

The young woman behind the counter and I both look to the adults associated with the child like, hellllooooo we're standing here discussing cake ordering and how a cake needs choosing and, like, how we'll just wait a sec while junior over here finishes because hey maybe he's got a birthday coming up and he's picking the winner but oh wait it's obvious now the book is just entertainment to pass the time COULD YOU PLEASE ASK YOUR CHILD TO BACK AWAY FROM THE BOOK FOR LIKE FOUR MINUTES?!

Of course not.

Young woman behind the counter would probably like to simply grab the book and hand it to me except for the fact that it's SCREWED into the stand that holds it on account of all the cake ordering book theft and all. Or something.

So she asks him to please, ya know, git. But real nice-like. Cuz she's not me.

And the parents? *crickets*

Boring the World with My Boring Boredomness

A few months ago I finally got with the program and purchased several reusable grocery bags to take to the market and use in lieu of the plastic variety that are clogging up landfills and clinging for dear life along the highways. Half the time I remember to bring them INTO the store with me. The other half of the time I remember mid-checkout. At least they're in the car! Except for those times I clear out the rear of the vehicle to make room for beach going items or putting the back seats down to accommodate extra bodies. Then they sit on a shelf in my garage [the bags, not the bodies].

Mr. Farklepants commended me on my new found environmentally friendly habits until one day, while helping unload the groceries, he noticed that most of the items were in the reusable bags, however, there were also a few plastic bags in use.

Mr. F: You finally buy reusable bags but you didn't get enough.

Tootsie: Yes I did.

Mr. F: Then why are these plastic ones here?

Tootsie: Because I didn't remember to give them to the box-boy until he'd already started bagging the groceries.

Mr F: ......

Tootsie: See, I didn't want to have him transfer the stuff since it was already bagged.

Mr F: .............

Tootsie: Because I didn't want to hold up the line by being THAT PERSON.

Mr. F: .................

Tootsie: Are you even listening to me?

Mr. F: Oh. Wait....what?

Tootsie: I know it's not very interesting but I'm a full time housewife and mother and these are the stories I have to tell. ...This is THE MOST EXCITING THING that's happened to me today.... AND STOP SMILING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Vintage Thirty would like to ask you...do you know how many times Tootsie has told this story? Oh gah someone stop her. And also, is "box-boy" still politically correct, Vintage Thirty forgets.

Someone Needs to Pay Attention to What She's Doing

School starts here mid week. I did all of our back to school shopping in ONE day a couple of weeks ago to avoid the rush since we live in a valley where it is apparently the law that in order to own a home you must have at least two children. Where every elementary school is at MAX CAPACITY and where max capacity equals ONE THOUSAND kids. And, in our experience, if you want A) clothes that still work for heat and not fall because hello, still summer in Southern California and B) a decent lunch box and backpack combo to avoid moderate to severe mocking, you'd better jump on things toot sweet. And jump I did. We hit the local Target and got. it. all. I'm talkin' everything from pencils, erasers, folders to several outfits each. The only thing that wasn't purchased on that particular trip were Levi's skinny jeans for Boy-Child#1 which we snatched up later that day at Tilly's. And shoes followed last week.

Since elementary school starts on Wednesday, today I was going through all of the paraphernalia - loading backpacks, sharpening pencils, writing the kids names on their lunch boxes. I'm not a fan of trying clothes on the kids in the store because OHMYGAWD it takes so long. And I'm not ashamed to admit that patience is not my strong suit. But I did have the foresight to at least have them try them on when we got home to make sure everything was good to go. And it was. Is.

But somewhere along the way I severely fecked up the underwear selection. I mean, oh hell, how dumb do you have to be to muck this up? I bought bikini underpants for Girl-Child instead of briefs. This does not work. Not only does Girl-Child have a prominent bootay but she's six. And, in my humble opinion, six year old girls need as much coverage as possible. Swings and slides in skirts and dresses reveal much. Let's cover that shit up. So, there's that. Then! I bought, what I thought, were two packages of boxer briefs for Boy-Child#1. What I actually purchased were ONE pack of boxer briefs and ONE pack of briefs - aka "tightie whities". I don't know if you've ever been an eighth grade boy, but tightie whities [even though they're black and grey in color] will buy you several atomic wedgies in the gym locker room and a raging case of insult hurls at oneself from one's peers. Stinking, pimply faced, in the throes of hormone induced crackly-voiced puberty - peers - that can brand you with a much unwanted nickname for the remainer of your school years.

It would appear that one got so distracted by selecting the right size that she outright ignored the description. And that person, who was so smug about her organizational and planning skills, was at JC Penny today. Two days before school starts. Buying underpants.

Open Letter to Retailers

Dear Retail Establishments,

Back to school shopping is upon us and I've made some observations about the clothes you sell for small children. First of all, this is southern California in a district where school will commence mid August. Helpful tip: more summer clothes and less SWEATERS and long sleeved shirts. These will not be worn on someone's person until November. And speaking of pants, which we weren't, but they fall in the category of fall clothing - what's the deal with the double buttons and ohmyhell attached belts? You do realize that these sizes also include those for the four to six year age range. Have you met a child that age, in the midst of a pee pee dance, that can wrestle themselves out of multiple buttons, a zipper, and a belt - at least in time to prevent utter humiliation resulting [I swear to GAWD I cannot type "result" without typing "reslut" first] in a necessary trip for the parent to the school armed with a fresh set of clothes when he or she gets that call from the school nurse that they have so-n-so in the office and (s)he's had an accident?

No? Well, please consider your target market. While we're on the subject of buttons [and we totally are this time] make the hole bigger. If me and my big meaty paws have to struggle getting the button through the hole then you can bet your sweet bippy that a child's fingers do not have the muscle for such a feat.

Skirts. Make them LONGER. These are girls. Children. Not hooers. And if you're going to insist on that length; make them skorts. If I have to pair every skirt with leggings, you're just adding an unnecessary cost to my back to school shopping bill. Plus, it's hot. Leggings in the summer are sweaty.

Also, less glitter on shit.

That's all for now.

Begrudgingly yours,
Tootsie

p.s. Target, wth? It's July in southern California so why are your bathing suits shoved in a clearance area and severely lacking in any variety? Someone should take note that people in this area purchase bathing suits year round, but most especially, during SUMMER!

She Failed to Mention the Most Important Aspect

Friday night I joined my best girlfriends for dinner to finally exchange our Christmas gifts try a new Chinese restaurant in town. Not traditional Chinese fare, but that more modern overpriced but still pretty good, kind. Super martinis. And we've reached that age where we discuss, what else? Our health. Things like, I have this new mole I think the doctor should see. And, how long we had to wait for a referral to the dermatologist. And, decent health care coverage. Exciting things like that. I complained about how I've seemed to develop some kind of chronic dry eye and how applying 1-2 drops of Visine Tears as needed was not doing my mascara any favors every 30 minutes or so. So my girlfriend fills us in on her daily vitamin and supplement routine recommended by her doctor; part of which includes the fish and omega-3 fatty acids oil something or other. And how since she's started this, not only has it relieved HER dry eyes, but her skin as well. And I was all, sign me up!

I picked some up during my regular trip to the grocery yesterday [note to self: don't ever visit the grocery store on Super Bowl Sunday one hour before kick off ever again in your life ever because you've made it this far in life without, ya know, murdering someone - let's keep it that way...mmmmkay?] . Plus it was buy one get one free and I was set! The directions state to take one gel capsule with each meal. So after my hearty lunch of, um, Quaker Oatmeal Squares cereal, I took my first capsule.

About 45 minutes later I would have sworn I'd eaten salmon for lunch. And for the next 8 hours, ladies and gentlemen, I belched fish. And probably won't be able to eat salmon again as long as I live.

That 8 hour belch fest was in the comfort of my own home. What about when I'm in public and try to do one of those lady-like discreet, under her breath and no that wasn't me, burpettes? There's no masking that. These things have legs. They have bite.

And those two full bottles of omega-3? They are currently in my father's possession. He's a man. He can pull off a fish burp.

Hair - Not the Love Rock Musical - and With Less Nudity

Or more accurately; stuff you put on yer hair. I have been a major supporter of Sleek.look smoothing shampoo and conditioner by Matrix for about two years running now.


As is Glamour Magazine, obviously.


It can be found ONLY IN SALONS. At least, that's what they tell you. I don't usually like to point out when one's pants are on fire, but it can also be found in select beauty supply stores. And Target. And Vons. But, ya know, whatevs. I do the beauty supply store route because you can get the economy size for the same price as the heroin chic version found in salons. And Target. And Vons. And it lasts just shy of forever. Especially if you turn it upside down and drain the everloving life out of it. Until you have to accept that it really is empty and has just become a trash item in your shower stall.

But what's a girl to do when she finds herself out of shampoo and doesn't want to drive the three miles to the mall to get more? [It's not really that I don't want to drive; it's more like I can't walk out of the mall with just that. I'm too tempted to pick up a pair of shoes or a bag or a pair of jeans to go with my hair care products. And with the credit and debit card still smarting from Christmas; I don't want to give Mr. Farklepants a stroke. Because I'm thoughtful like that.]

So I tried to find a suitable substitute in the grocery store. Even though it goes against everything I believe in when it comes to hair products. But I did it quick. Like pulling off a band aid. And I went with the Bed Head Moisture Maniac shampoo. Fruity scent aside, I'm really likin' this.


Particularly coupled with the Joico K-PAK conditioner.

And the "silky hair that does just what I want it to with very little effort to beat it into submission" factor allows me to overlook its fruity scent. [Note to manufacturers: Try soap scented. I don't like smelling like a summer melon, thanks.]

Mr. Farklepants is not crazy about the shampoo. In his words it "feels like he never washed his hair by the end of the day". But he doesn't use the conditioner in addition to it so I can't be held responsible for his lack of enthusiasm to get behind this product.

*Matrix photos courtesy of Google Images

After Twelve Years, I Finally Got My Crap Together

Every year I say I'm going to scale back on gifts for the kids and every year, I fail. Because I do this thing. I try to make the number of gifts each child receives even. So I put them in their little designated piles [the presents, not the kids - although, I may be on to something there] and start comparing. And inevitably, I'm off. One will have too many amount-wise or one will have the coolest thing that belittles all the others. I try to figure all this out long enough before Christmas so that I'm not out scrambling at the last minute...you know, with all the men.

[Observational aside: Single ladies! If you want to know where to find men, forget the bar and hit the mall on Christmas Eve. Just sayin']

So while I'm failing at being able to count while I'm shopping; the gift piles grow. Too large.

[Observational aside, part deux: I know the economy is FUBAR right now and those out there that are being hit the hardest by it are all, gee I wish I had your problems. And you know what? I wish you did too.]

And every year I stress that I may have screwed it up and every year I apparently forget that Mr. Farklepants has a huge Christmas fund financial hemorrhage family.

(Farklepants annual Christmas party. And this isn't all of them. I know what you're thinking: there are enough children there to start our own school. Believe me, we know. We're a fertile bunch. In fact, there's a bun in a Farklepants oven hidden in that picture. Hint: not me. It's comforting to know that the family has not dropped the ball on our quest for world domination.)

And those people buy gifts for my children. Usually more than one each. And by the time Christmas Eve rolls around the scene around our tree looks like a Macy's window display. A very gaudy, over-indulgent window display. In other words, it looks like Christmas exploded in our house.

This year I remembered and reeled it in. And this still happened:

Ninety percent of those gifts were not bought by us. Not pictured: gifts from MY family. You didn't actually want to enter this room did you? Because there's only one way to do it and that won't happen until Christmas morning.

P.s. This photo does not do the situation any justice whatsoever. I cannot get an angle on it that really captures the essence of extravagance.

Armed With a List and a Piping Hot Venti Caramel Macchiato

We're just going to skip Thanksgiving altogether because really - turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, various pies - we all did the same thing, right? Right. And what goes great with 4am heartburn and last night's dinner that you can still taste? Shopping.

Little known fact: The term "Black Friday" was originated by the Philadelphia police department in 1966 because of the sidewalk and street traffic the first official shopping day brings. So says my Wikipedia search.

I call it "Black Friday" because it's black outside when you leave the house. On Friday. badum-CHING! [Editor's note: Vintage Thirty apologizes for that lame remark] Thank you, thank you...how many of you flew in from out of town? Are your arms tired? badum-CHING! [Editor's note: Vintage Thirty would like whomever it is that's providing the rimshot to please stop, it just encourages Tootsie]

In my whole life I had never shopped the Friday following Thanksgiving, or that whole weekend, for that matter. Because A) I hate crowds, and B) Especially crowds of people hell bent on a deal and running on insufficient sleep. That's a recipe for cranky and rude and really, is that worth the savings? But in 2006, the year I believe I entered perimenopause and lost some of my marbles, I decided to go see what all the fuss was about.

So, blah blah blah, 4:30am, Starbucks, mall, 8am home, kids and Mr. Farklepants still asleep, three quarters of my Christmas list complete. The mall RAWKS on black Friday. Well, I can't speak for YOUR mall but ours does. So since that went so smoothly and I was telling my sisters ohmahgah it was so awesome and they were like ohmahgah we're totally going with you next time, and they totally did. Except in 2007 we made the poor POOR choice to go to Kohl's, not the mall. [please insert the sound of a needle scraping across an album on the record player here] THAT? Was the most HORRIBLE, AWFUL, WASTE OF TIME shopping trip of my life. Ever. Ever in forever. Ever. If there was a deal I don't know what it was. I spent almost $300 and didn't even get that much stuff and the line to pay wrapped around the store and people were opening up instant credit for an additional savings, the heat was stifling and ohmyhell someone totally farted. Audibly.

I still have nightmares.

So this year my sisters were all, so are we going to the mall or what? If there's one thing I like, it's teenagers with moxie. And a willingness to get up at 3:45am.


Everyone say hi to Tootsie's sisters!

By 8am we had turned the mall inside out and also Target and refrained from coming home with a pet store Cocker Spaniel puppy. There was nothing left to do but breakfast.

These bags represent just a portion of the booty. The rest of my booty is still in the back of my car hiding from the kids. And there is a "Yo Mama is So Fat" joke in there somewhere, I just know it.

This book How to Traumatize Your Children is a great gift for a sister in law who can take an effing joke.

I have four nephews and four nieces. I often get them the same gifts, with slight variations, so that no one feels like they've been shafted. Especially the girls. Because girls? Oy vey. This year it's jackets!

Two of them were originally $35, one was $55, and the other (not pictured) a whopping $140.


But I got all four for just over one hundred dollars. Two words: Door Busters.

The Answer to Victoria's Secret: Vicki is Rich

Oh, hi! There's boobs on my blog.

With the economy in crisis mode and the Dow plummeting lower than, well, that bra up yonder; it's good to know that those with expendable income can purchase their unmentionables to the tune of FIVE MILLION dollars. Know this: If I owned a bra detailed with 3,900 precious gems, I would run all of my errands, shirtless.

Some People Need to Get it Together

Dear Girl-Child,

If you want to be Dora the Explorer for Halloween, be it. If you change your mind and want to be a black kitty again like you were last year and I go out and buy you new tights I'd appreciate it if you would have let me know before you pulled the tights out of the bag and inquired, "What's this?" that you now want to be a cheerleader. Because, POOF!! Now you're a cheerleader. The statute of limitations on changing your mind has run out. Halloween costume shopping season has officially ended. Where season equals me and that place where I bought it. I'm looking at you Party City - don't go anywhere because I'm not finished with you.

Love,
Mama

P.s. I'm really glad you changed your mind about the Dora costume because, what, you're a little girl and you were going to be, um, a little girl for Halloween?

******************************************

Dear Boy-Child#2,

If you wanted to be a banana,


Be the damn banana! I'll even be the pineapple and your sister can be the strawberry and we can go as a pack of tropical flavored Lifesavers. Or a smoothie. But don't think you have to be all macho and go with the camouflaged ninja:


Which is arguably the worst costume ever because ninjas don't wear army green. And no you can't have a gun to go with it because, here's your martial arts lesson for the day: Ninjas don't use guns. They are skilled in the art of stealth. Besides, everyone knows that ninjas used firecrackers. Thanks so much for waiting until we got home and you tried the costume on then decided that you really wanted to be the banana after all. Mama wants to know this: what ever happened to boys being Dracula for Halloween? I hope you're happy that you're robbing me of the opportunity to paint your face and apply fangs to your uppers. What about my needs?

Love and guilt,
Mama

*******************************************

Dear Party City,

I don't have time to beat around the bush due to your lack of sufficient staff scheduling. It is no secret that Halloween is your busiest shopping season. Why, fortheloveofgod, is there only ONE, yes one, employee on hand to retrieve costumes from the stock room for a store FULL of customers? And why does that one person have to be seventeen and kind of assholey? But I sort of can't blame him for being assholey because I would be too if I were the ONLY person having to accommodate all of those people less than two weeks before Halloween. And I would be telling people left and also right that we're out of this size or that costume altogether if it would mean just one less person I'd have to deal with, "Yes I'm sure we don't have that size. Yes I checked. Your kid can be a ghost. Use a sheet. Now get out."

I know that other teenaged girl was scheduled to work that day, but according to her she "was on a break". I know this because when I asked if she was helping people, that was her answer. Except she said it in such a way that you'd think I'd just asked her to perform some duty that didn't involve either of us wearing any pants.

For future reference, just so ya know, Halloween = super busy.

Have a great day!

Your's Truly,
Tootsie Farklepants

P.s. Bite me.

Subliminal, Who?

(Tootsie on the right and her friend who we'll call Dorkanna because that's what we call her to her face and in her Christmas cards. It's okay, don't worry, she likes it)

Mr. Farklepants and I started dating in 1994. Happy Birthday to me That year was going to be our first Thanksgiving together, the first year we'd celebrate Christmas together, and our birthdays...we would be celebrating a lot of firsts that year and I'll just leave you with that image. You're welcome.

Any-old-who...the company we worked for was kind of known for their holiday parties. Happy Birthday to meeee They were the stuff of legend. They were something you planned for months in advance. They were black tie. They were the kind of parties that had our clients throwing down clamoring for a coveted super secret invitation; so much so, that come October it was the clients that were kissing our ass and not visa versa. They were the cause of large groups of us being banned from several hotels in the greater Los Angeles area. And probably the cause of the company eventually going out of business. Too much money spent on elaborate parties. But I digress much. Happy Birthday dear, Tootsie Party on Wayne. Party on Garth.

Back to the picture. More specifically the dress. And if you're still laughing at the ivory colored pantyhose we're both wearing I just want to remind you that it was 1994 and still considered a fashion staple at black tie functions. But I understand and I will give you a minute to gather yourself. I'll wait. Ahem. The dress. In October of that year I was reading Vogue and came across an ad for I don't remember jewelry or something and the model was wearing that exact dress. I told my girlfriends and probably Mr. Farklepants that THAT was the dress I wanted for that year's holiday function. Of course, it wasn't an ad for the dress and I had no idea who the designer was or where it could be found; nor did I think that I'd have the salary to afford it even if I did make some magic happen. Eventually the dress was forgotten. Well, not really forgotten but put in its special place. A place called: unattainability.

When my birthday rolled around, Mr. Farklepants gave me a box. And in that box was that dress. Apparently he had torn the ad clean out of my magazine, squirreled it away to some secret hidey-hole and was all, "I will find this dress...oh yes...I will find it". And find it he did. He was on a mission from the fashion god - the make my new girlfriend happy god [totally one of my favorite gods which is quickly replaced by the less popular but more familiar: when is your birthday again? god, reserved for wives].

It still hangs in my closet today. It is one of my most memorable presents. Sometimes it really is the thought that counts. And when I say thought I mean: think about it and actually follow through with it. Happy Birthday tooooo meeeeeee

What's the most memorable gift that you received? You'll note that I didn't say today is my birthday it had to be a good one.

Okay. Who's still laughing at my pantyhose? Or is it my Rachel hair?

Brief Post Where I Ask a Series of Burning Questions

Esquire claims this is one of the season's hottest toys:

Okay. I give. $24.99 to $39.99 for a.....pancreas? What the hell is that thing?

Here ya go kids... Merry Christmas?

Not Your Sunday Morning Religious Stop Motion Animation

Ohhh Davey, we're discussing this sleeping apparatus:

When you watch cable television you are witness to local retailer's commercial spots. And then you're introduced to blog fodder such items as a ridiculously huge mattress with an equally insane price tag. This mattress, from Living Spaces, measures eight feet. EIGHT FEET! Which I guess would interest those whose children still share their bed with them, or if you're married to Shaquille O'Neal, are the Incredible Hulk, or are not even kidding about your personal sleeping space, or suffer from GIGANTANISM [that's right spell check, there is no alternative so sayeth I]. If you're a professional basketball player you probably wouldn't balk at the Goliath's $4490.00 price tag and the additional $500.00 if you'd appreciate a base to go with it; because if you're a professional basketball player you probably don't have to add a wing to your house to accommodate such a behemoth.

The real question here is: where does one find sheets for this bitch? Where is the tarp that David Copperfield covered the Statue of Liberty with when you need it?

p.s. If I haven't been by your blog lately I apologize. It isn't intentional I've just overextended [in a good way] myself volunteering in the classrooms. I lamented to Mr. Farklepants that it's like having a job but not getting paid. To which he replied, "that's pretty much the definition of volunteer". I'm kinda fond of him. It's a shame I'm going to have to destroy him.

A Then and Now Tutorial Courtesy of Google Images

Then (can you say orange?):

Now (can you say cha-ching?!):

Then (French-cut and pantyhose?):

Now (viva la comfort):

Then:

Now:

Then:

Now:

Then (condom failure):

Now (condom failure):

Brought to you by the extravagant cost of hair maintenance, the too often occurrence of work-out clothes as a fashion staple, the straight hair revolution, battling chin acne in my thirties, and stepping on an empty box of PlanB in the parking lot of the grocery store [Teenager? Or mother of four that was all, oh heeellll no? Discuss].

The More Than Adequate Bowl's Fifteen Minutes

In response to yesterday's post, O'Neil left the following comment:

"Wait, what about that awesome green bowl? What do I need to do to win IT? I got a thing for green in my kitchen ;) lol!"

Well, let me tell you about my little green bowl. I bought it just after Christmas last year at Cost Plus World Market -and if you don't have one of these near you that is a crime and you should draw up a petition, hit the pavement, and contact your state and city officials to get a team on this toot sweet because this is the greatest store ever and if you were wondering what to get me for my birthday that's coming up in the next couple of weeks, gift cards are welcome. I'm kidding. My birthday is twenty-nine days away- ahem. The bowl. I spied it sitting precariously on the clearance rack, our eyes met, and I knew she had to be mine. She was originally $19.99 with a red 40% off ticket slapped on her backside -the saucy tart. This put her at twelve dollars. But wait! She was sitting on the 75% off shelf! [I did the math in my head and was all, so are they going to pay me to take this? Answer: Repeat basic math you insufferable dolt] ...Which took an additional $9 off of that sale price. She was mine for the low low price of $3, that's right. [Or as my mother in law would say, what a coup! That's for you Mr. Farklepants because I've now saved you the trouble of typing those exact words in the comment section. You're welcome]


Warning: the bowl is made of wood and only good for dry items like dinner rolls or fake food or contest giveaways. In other words, it is not water tight which I found out while demonstrating a more v less experiment for Boy-Child#2 and poured three cups of water into it. Which promptly leaked all over the kitchen counter - who knew?

If you like green you will probably also be interested in my massive water wine goblets [also from Cost Plus World Market but not for three dollars]:


They were a Christmas gift from Mr. Farklepants. And also my parents. Because it was one of those random occurrences where everyone got me the same gift where random equals every damn holiday [the rest of the family is also not immune to multiple duplicate gifts and you'd think by now we'd remember to hang on to receipts -not bloody likely]

Now I've got my eye on this beauty:


However, I doubt I'll walk away with her for three dollars. And she's much too pretty to sit on or rest your stinkin' feet. Because if there's one more thing my family has been begging for it's another piece of furniture they're not allowed to touch. I've heard whispers of a mutiny being staged.

*bowl and goblet photos by Dorothy Z. Stool photo Cost Plus website