Yeah.  So where were we?

Oh yeah.  You all were berating me for not including a photo in the skinny jeans post.

I had good reason.  You see, I’m not a fan of flash photography.  And by the time I realized what I was going to blog about, it was too late to take a photo of me wearing aforementioned skinny jeans.  But I wasn’t about to leave you wondering.  Promise.

See?

Here I am in all my skinny denim glory.  Pardon the photo.  This was the best I could get.

What’s that you say?  My hair?  Why yes.  I am a brunette now.  Thanks for noticing.

I’m going dark for the winter.  What do ya think?

You won’t believe this.

I wouldn’t believe it myself had I not been been the one to do it.

I bought something.

Something I never ever in a plazillion years would have thought I’d buy.  Last week, though, I found myself out shopping.

Out shopping specifically for this item mind you.

It was like two universes collided out in the depths of space somewhere and, as a result, all my fashion sense went out the window.

Except for one thing.

Once I found what I was looking for, I felt exactly the opposite.

Like all my fashion sense had been in hiding, and it suddenly came into light.

Like my super-fly fashion potential was unlocked.

Like I should sit by the phone and wait for Mr. Armani to call.

Okay.  Maybe that’s taking it a tad too far.

But still.

So.

You wanna know what I bought?

Okay.

I’ll tell you.

It was jeans.

Of the skinny variety.

Yes.  I’m serious.

And when I wear them I feel like one of those catwalk models.

Only much shorter.

And thicker.

And happier.

But totally hip nonetheless.

Oh wait.  It’s so 1990 (or 1975′ish) to say hip.

Totally sick then.

Sick like hot, not sick sick.

You know what I mean.

Anyway.

My purchase was in preparation for another trip to Walt Disney World.

I’m leaving this weekend.

Alone.

For three glorious nights.

I’ll be representing the Disney World Moms Panel, and meeting a fabulous group of blogging mamas.

And then, collectively, we’ll be meeting one of Disney’s new VIP’s.

As in, Very Important Princesses.

She’s gorgeous, by the way.

Her dress puts my new skinny jeans to shame.

On the bright side though – all I had to do was shell out $80.

She kissed a frog.

Who came out ahead in that deal?  Ahem.

I’ve been saying things lately that make me feel old.

They do more than make me feel old actually.

The fact that I say them is enough to qualify me.

Not five minutes ago, these very words came out of my mouth: “I’m not running a diner here.”

I said it response to Kennedy when she asked if her and her overnight guest could have ice cream.  At nearly 10:00.  As in PM.  I mean, I don’t know about your house, but around here the kitchen is absolutely closed at 9.  Period.

And earlier today I swear I heard myself telling Cassidy something to the effect of, “that’s what happens when you make bad behavioral choices.”

That one didn’t make me sound old so much as just really geeky.

And it’s not just the things I say.  That which I do is also proof.

I’ve taken to shaking my head in disapproval when I see kids on roller skate shoes in the stores.  Or with saggy pants.  Or two-toned hair.

Those freaky piercings in which they insert random wooden hexagons or screws or whatever the heck they are thoroughly disgust me.  As do skinny jeans on otherwise respectable young men.

I refer to the majority of Torri’s iPod playlist as noise (with the obvious exception of her Disney selections, which I highly approve).  And I honestly can’t remember the last time I even casually flipped to MTV.

The other day Jeff was telling Torri that I liked the book she’d recommended so much that I’d kept him up really late because I wouldn’t turn the lights off until I’d finished just one more chapter.

How late? She hedged.

Like, 11:30.

11:30?  Wow.  Move over Farrah and Michael, we’re talking newsworthy here.

See what I mean?  Old.

And I used to be so cool.

Next thing you know I’ll be griping about the bus-stop kids walking through the yard.

Or better yet.  Talking Jeff into hiding one of those little zapper do-dads at the perimeter so they get a little juice pumped into ‘em if they opt for the shortcut.

Yeah.  It’s official.

Send Depends.

So I was over here the other day reading about how velour jogging suits leave an utter distaste in the mouths of many.  Honestly, I’m not clear on why that is.  Personally, I love love love my velour suits.  I have two.  One is brown and one is navy.  Whenever I wear them Jeff calls me ‘leisure suit larry.’  Pff.  What does he know?

I’ll tell you what he doesn’t  know.  He doesn’t know that I’m cold-blooded.  Okay, maybe he does know that.  It’d be hard for him not to know that based on the temperature of my bare toes and scantily-clothed boo-tay when I push both of them up against him in bed on winter nights trying my darndest to steal his warmth.  Based on my cold-bloodedness alone he should understand why the velour jogging suit is one of the most treasured outfits in my winter wardrobe.  But wait, there’s more.  If you’ve invested in a velour suit of your own I don’t have to tout the comfortability factor to you because you’ve already discovered that for yourself.  It’s like wearing pajamas.  Really.  Only without the holes.

So what do people have against these babies?  What more could a girl want out of a winter time outfit than warmth and comfort?  What’s that you say?  Style?  You don’t think the leisure larry suit is in danger of making the cover of Vogue anytime soon?  Pff.  Okay.  I’ll give you that.  The models who grace it’s cover are usually adorned in butt-ugly taffeta numbers or even worse, skinny jeans.  Blech.

While the leisure larry suit might not scream ‘style’ apparently it does scream something else.  Soccer mom.  Minivan mom.  GoshdarnitIusedtobecool mom. 

With the recent passing of birthday number 31, I’ve accepted that whatever I wear will blow my cover.  Yes.  I’m a mom.  A mom of four actually.  And I like to be comfortable.  And warm.  So sue me.

So guess what I did on Saturday night.  I ordered two new leisure larry suits.  Uh-huh.  I live on the edge my friends.  They were buy one get one half off.  How could I pass that up?  Here’s the link if you’re interested.

Enough about me though.

Guess what else I did on Saturday.  (Yes I know I’m still talking about me it was a little joke, get it?).  I went to visit Grams and Gramps.  I had to see Gram’s zero-gravity Halloween decorations for myself.

You’re wondering what zero gravity Halloween decorations are aren’t you?  Don’t worry.  I wouldn’t have known either had Gramps not explained it for me.

Zero-gravity Halloween decorations, apparently, are the kind Grams used to decorate the RV.  And whats more is that she also brought along Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentines and St. Patricks Day zero-gravity decorations.  Gramps calls them zero-gravity because he says that Grams can bring boxes and boxes of them into the RV and no matter how many she brings they equal up to NO added weight, which in turn means they don’t require ANY more gas to get that big ‘ol rig from point A to point B. 

Aw, Gramps.  Such a killjoy you are.

How can Grams keep her Martha Stewart of RV’ing title if she were to leave behind the decorations?

Apparently I get my Martha Stewart ways from Grams.  Jeff refuses to let me live down the fact that I have a box of Cinco de Mayo decorations in the garage.

But I’m an equal opportunity gene inheritor.  I got my cheery disposition from Gramps.  :)

He tried to disguise his cheery disposition with a big ‘ol grumpy frown when I was taking this picture.  I wouldn’t let him though.  I told him to just drop the act and let his inner Rainbow Bright break free.

And he did.  Can’t you see it there, in his boyish grin?  I feared he might break into song right there in the middle of the campground but Gram kept him grounded. 

Yeah.  She has a way with defying gravity.

When I was in middle school, I was embarrassed by typical things that kids are expected to be embarrassed by: kissing my parents goodbye in the school parking lot, geeky clothes, that sort of thing. Totally within reasonable limits don‘t you think? I do. Once you get to high school, all bets are off and while you still are embarrassed by those reasonable things, there is a whole new list of stuff that makes you want to do like the ostrich do and bury your head in the sand until those four miserable years are up. I suspect that the things that are mortifying for students in one part of the country may be less so for students on the opposite coast, but I could be wrong.

Here is a partial listing of the things that were off limits in California in the early 90‘s:

- Having to ride the bus to school
- Worse than having to ride the bus to school, having to sit in the front of the bus
- Being dropped off/picked up at school by your mom or dad.
- Really the only cool mode of transportation was to either drive yourself or hitch a ride from a friend. Extra cool points if you rode sitting on the bench seat of your boyfriend‘s truck so that a slip of paper couldn‘t fit between his leg and yours.
- Bringing a lunch from home
- Eating a school lunch in the cafeteria
- Really the only way to be cool at lunch time was to buy a Taco Bell burrito or cookies from the snack counter.
- Dropping a tampon/pad while digging through your backpack for an algebra book
- Not being asked to Prom, or Homecoming, or Winter formal.
- Worse than not being asked, being asked by the President of the debate team.
- Wearing Birkenstocks without socks. (You read that right. Birkenstocks were only cool when worn with socks, at least in 1992).
- Being in band
- Being on drill team
- Being a flag girl
- Really you were only cool if you were a cheerleader, football or basketball player, dancer, or Aggie

If you were a student at PRHS at any point between 1992 and 1995 any of the above applied to you could pretty much count on spending your Friday nights watching Star Trek reruns with your band friends.
Back in the day there was also one car that was so utterly and completely uncool that should you ever be in the unfortunate position to be seen driving/ riding in one, you could safely assume that at school the following day you‘d have a reserved seat in the cafeteria where at least the lunch lady would take pity on your unfortunate situation and dish you up a heaping helping of mystery meatloaf. You’d sit alone there amongst throngs of drama geeks and what we then called Mods but have now become known as Emo‘s. Even they would shun you though because the shame of the Pinto was that far reaching and widespread.

During my freshman year my family came upon some hard times. My dad‘s really cool Toyota truck with the turquoise and hot pink pin striping was promptly, though discreetly, collected by the nice man at the bank who wasn‘t exactly understanding, shall we say, of our unfortunate situation. My dad, though, still needed a means of transportation. I betcha can see where I‘m going with this.

Yep. You guessed it. There was enough in the family budget to pay cash for a Ford Pinto. Oh, and wasn‘t I thrilled when they brought that bad boy home. You might be wondering what color it was right? I mean, at least it was gray or black so as to sort of blend into the background and not call a lot of attention to the monstrosity parked in our driveway.

Nope. It was orange. Bright-as-day pumpkin orange. It looked suspiciously like this.

From time to time I had no choice but to ride in this vehicle. I remember it smelling like Pinto. The seats, I believe, were white with orange detailing. This I remember because on the rare occasions when riding in it was unavoidable I would bend at the waist and bury my head between my legs, my face smooshed against the leather (or vinyl more likely) seat. I would stay that way for as long as we were in the car so that nobody could see me through the windows. You wouldn‘t believe what I would have given for some tint on those things.

I realize now how entirely self-absorbed and insanely materialistic this type of behavior was. My only excuse is that I was a teenager and much of my self image at the time hinged on what was considered acceptable and not so much so by my peers.

Okay, so anyway, all of that was brought to mind by a recent conversation I had with Kennedy (my stereotypical redheaded daughter). Precursor to this story is that her older sister has been wearing deodorant for quite a few years. Though a skinny little thing older sister Torri started producing some serious B.O. at an early age. It really was enough to knock a person out with one whiff. Anyway, Kennedy does not seem to have inherited that same trait. Get this though, she wishes she had.

I know. Crazy doesn‘t even begin to explain it.

The following is an excerpt of the conversation we had that brought my shameful Pinto memories to life again.

Kennedy: Mom, can you check if I need deodorant yet?
Me: Um, (insert a slightly puzzled sideways glance here) I don‘t think you do babe.
Kennedy: Well, can you check?
Me: I‘m pretty sure I would have noticed in passing if you had B.O., kay?
Kennedy: Please mom. Please just check (as she sort of lifts one arm into the air so as to grant easy access to her pits).
Me: (Considering carefully just which child it is I‘m dealing with and coming to the realization that there is but one way to end the discussion) Sniff. Sniff. Nope, you‘re not stanky. Lucky you. Luckier me.
Kennedy: Awww. When am I going to need deodorant?
Me: I don‘t know. Why do you want deodorant?
Kennedy: All my friends wear it.
Me: How do you know that?
Kennedy: They told me. And it‘s embarrassing that I don‘t wear it.
Me: Well, just don’t tell them then. They‘ll never know.
Kennedy: Duh. I ‘m not going to tell them. It‘s still embarrassing though.

Um, okay. I don‘t fully understand the reasoning here and I doubt I ever will. Call me crazy, but when did stanky pits become a commodity for tween girls? I mean seriously, she‘s ten people. Ten.

Oh but it doesn‘t stop there. My thirteen-year-old has what I fully consider to be a skewed sense of cool (though hers does line up with that of her friends so whatever). Nowadays, cheerleading is so ten minutes ago. Oh, and since we’re talking about smelly, how‘s this for gross. It is perfectly acceptable to pull out your pair of Abercrombie jeans from the bottom of a pile of dirty clothes and wear them to school. Better that than the freshly-laundered Levi‘s hanging neatly in the closet. Because God forbid she wear Levi’s to school.

Oy vey. Pray for me people. I‘m most definitely going to need it.