What is the point of word problems? I sucked at them when I was in school, and I still suck at them now while I try to help my children, who also suck at them. My husband is no help either, because he too sucks at word problems. The teachers must also suck at them or else they would do a better job of explaining them to my daughters. Maybe the problems are designed to make both the kids who are good at reading and the kids who are good at math suck at the same time? You know, to bring them down to the level of the kids who can’t read or add?
My older daughter E is in fifth grade at public school, and my younger daughter S is in third grade at private school, so they are pretty much on the same level of math, and consequently, word problems. They both come home with worksheets that should have a little travel pack of Kleenex attached, since all word problems are accompanied by crying. But beyond that, how these problems are written is very different.
S’s word problems tend to revolve around money. She brings home these sheets of problems about ordering off some restaurant menu. If Luka orders a Hawaiian hot dog and a tropical shake, but Mia wants some hurricane nachos, how much will it cost them to get the family meal if their mother gave them $30 to get lost for an hour or two while she talks to the cabana boy. Whenever I help her, I imagine we are at the Sawgrass beach club in Florida, ordering a little nosh while we wait for adult swim to end. To me, the answer to every one of these problems should be “just put it on my account.” Daddy can pay the bill when it comes, and we don’t really need to worry about how much all that food cost, because Mommy found lipstick on his boxers. Instead of figuring out if we have enough money, maybe we should be more concerned with whether Mia and Luka should be eating that junk. Perhaps Mia should lay off the nachos and get an organic fruit smoothie before she can’t fit in her bikini.
S’s problems seem trivial compared to E’s, which sound a bit more like government census work. If 8 boys are Hispanic and 2 girls are Native Americans, how many federal dollars can be awarded to the school when they excel at their standardized tests? Mario has five blue pencils. If he stabs Thad in the neck with one of them for calling him a bean eater, how many years will he get in juvie? If Tammy sleeps with 15 boys from her high school and 10 boys from another high school, what are the chances that her uncle is the father of her baby?
I don’t remember word problems being quite like that when I was in elementary school. We did get those lovely mimeograph copies, which smeared purple ink on your hand and were most excellent for sniffing. The problems all had to do with transportation, if I could remember anything past huffing my copy. Trains. Ah, yes, trains leaving from one town to another, at varying rates of speed, and something about the estimated time of arrival. No wonder they had to change the problems. Who rides a train anymore? The only time we hear about trains these days is if they derail or if one hits a pick-up truck that stalled on the tracks. But passenger trains? They went the way of 8 track players, leaded gas, and key parties. Plus, when I was in school, they tried to pull that new math crap on us, getting us all confused with the “metric” system, and we all know how good that turned out. Sure, they can skimp on the 2-liter of soda, but real Americans want their gallons of milk and gasoline.
The thing that really sucks about word problems is that since they are so complicated and time consuming, teachers will only put about five or six of them on a quiz. Inevitably, all the kids except the Asian one will miss at least one of the questions, leaving little Tomiko or Sanjay with the only passing grade in the class. And the rest of the kids? Well, the cash register at McDonald’s does the math for you, as long as you press the buttons that match what the food looks like.
On second thought, we better take another crack at that page of homework. McDonald’s sucks even worse than word problems.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Dark Side of the Moon
So many people are confused by Jewish holidays because they change every year. It’s not like Thanksgiving, which was conveniently moved to November by FDR for economic reasons, much to the chagrin of turkeys everywhere. You always know that come the third week of November, you better get your cranberries in that shopping cart. Instead, Jewish holidays revolve around the lunar calendar, which doesn’t always have the same set number of months in a year. Even when Jewish holidays begin is confusing. Why sundown instead of the next day? That too is because of the moon. According to something I should know but don't, God created night then day, so Jews believe that a full day actually begins at night. We get the party started right, instead of calling it the eve.
Do you know what else follows a lunar month? That’s right, ladies, your periods. Most women’s cycles are 28 days, which is pretty much the length of a lunar month. Just like some months have a blue moon, an extra full moon, sometimes we lady folk get the curse twice a month, and aren’t we lucky? If you think about it, fertility has been linked to the phases of the moon forever, which means that maybe women aren’t from Venus after all, John Gray.
My body is more in tune with the moon than your average Jewish female. My cycle likes to start on Jewish Holidays, even Shabbat. If the opportunity to be embarrassed arises, my uterus is all over it. I am a member of the board of my temple, and one of the duties of that position is to represent the board during Shabbat. During weekly services, one of us has to sit on the bimah, the little stage in the front of the sanctuary, behind the rabbi and help him do his rabbi stuff, like opening the ark doors that house the Torah and reminding everyone to turn off their cell phones and their crying babies. Sitting up there is supposed to be an opportunity to show our support and availability to the congregation, which is defeated by the being above the masses aspect of sitting in a throne-like chair on the elevated platform. At our temple, most of those chairs are upholstered in lovely cream fabric and are about as comfortable as resting on the edge of a trampoline, complete with that feeling of springs up your ass.
The first time I had bimah duty, as we on the board like to call it, I started my period at sunset, or more accurately, at moon rise. I don’t want to get all graphic on you, but I am not a teenager. I am a grown woman who has birthed two children. I am what my gynecologist likes to call a super soaker. I armed myself with protection, the ultra thin womanly version of body armor, only in my crotchal regions. I took my place behind the rabbi, acutely aware that my chair was free of any stains and glaringly beige.
I grew nervous, both because my nether regions might resemble a crime scene and because I was behind the rabbi, a holy man several years my junior. Was the room warm, or was it me? Was anybody else sweating? I even screwed up my few jobs. I opened the ark when I was supposed to gather the papers with the names of the ill for whom we would say a prayer. I stood awkwardly behind him while he read from the Torah when I should have remained near my throne. I felt my face flush, and as I sat down again, I felt moisture where no menstruating woman wants to, convinced that all my protection had failed me, that there was a breach at the reservoir.
What could I do? It wasn’t like I could stand up again, in front of God and everyone, and check for blood on the bimah chair. No wonder the orthodox men don’t want to sit on a chair tainted by a woman who was menstruating. Maybe they had a point after all. It turned out that I did not ruin the throne of the chosen people. When the services were over, I stood as discreetly as possible and gave that seat cover a good once over. It looked as good as it did before I sat down. Being nervous, I got all sweaty, yes, down there, which explained my misperception.
Now I am teaching Sunday school, which means I am at the temple all the time, especially for all those holidays. I made it through Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur with no flying colors. The next holiday up was Simchat Torah. I know we Jews have a lot of holidays that don’t make sense, and this is definitely one of them. Simchat Torah celebrates the Torah, our religious text, which is handwritten by scribes on a scroll of animal skin, er, parchment. We commemorate the day by unrolling the Torah the rest of the way, reading the last few lines of it, going back to the beginning and reading the first few lines, and then rerolling it to begin a new year. If that doesn’t sound like a party, I don’t know what does.
To make it more festive, our temple celebrates Simchat Torah at religious school, allowing all the children of the congregation to hold the scroll as it is unraveled around the room and rerolled. These children’s hands, normally used for such things as butt scratching and nose picking, were now holding the Holiest of Holies between their dirty fingers, with us grownups interspersed between them so that the scroll wouldn’t hit the ground and become tainted. While I carefully held the parchment between my pinched thumbs and forefingers, I felt that familiar dampness. Yes indeed, my womb decided to pick that very moment to shed its unfertilized lining. I was an impure woman with my hands actually on the Torah scroll. I couldn’t exactly share my predicament with my eight year old students, or anyone else for that matter, but the irony wasn’t lost on me.
I don’t blame being unprepared. I blame the moon. Perhaps in the future I should limit my contact with holy doctrines and white seat covers when celebrating the Jewish holidays. Or better yet, I could dress up as a giant tampon for Purim, a holiday I like to refer to as the Jewish Halloween. That way I have all my bases covered, thank you Jesus.
Do you know what else follows a lunar month? That’s right, ladies, your periods. Most women’s cycles are 28 days, which is pretty much the length of a lunar month. Just like some months have a blue moon, an extra full moon, sometimes we lady folk get the curse twice a month, and aren’t we lucky? If you think about it, fertility has been linked to the phases of the moon forever, which means that maybe women aren’t from Venus after all, John Gray.
My body is more in tune with the moon than your average Jewish female. My cycle likes to start on Jewish Holidays, even Shabbat. If the opportunity to be embarrassed arises, my uterus is all over it. I am a member of the board of my temple, and one of the duties of that position is to represent the board during Shabbat. During weekly services, one of us has to sit on the bimah, the little stage in the front of the sanctuary, behind the rabbi and help him do his rabbi stuff, like opening the ark doors that house the Torah and reminding everyone to turn off their cell phones and their crying babies. Sitting up there is supposed to be an opportunity to show our support and availability to the congregation, which is defeated by the being above the masses aspect of sitting in a throne-like chair on the elevated platform. At our temple, most of those chairs are upholstered in lovely cream fabric and are about as comfortable as resting on the edge of a trampoline, complete with that feeling of springs up your ass.
The first time I had bimah duty, as we on the board like to call it, I started my period at sunset, or more accurately, at moon rise. I don’t want to get all graphic on you, but I am not a teenager. I am a grown woman who has birthed two children. I am what my gynecologist likes to call a super soaker. I armed myself with protection, the ultra thin womanly version of body armor, only in my crotchal regions. I took my place behind the rabbi, acutely aware that my chair was free of any stains and glaringly beige.
I grew nervous, both because my nether regions might resemble a crime scene and because I was behind the rabbi, a holy man several years my junior. Was the room warm, or was it me? Was anybody else sweating? I even screwed up my few jobs. I opened the ark when I was supposed to gather the papers with the names of the ill for whom we would say a prayer. I stood awkwardly behind him while he read from the Torah when I should have remained near my throne. I felt my face flush, and as I sat down again, I felt moisture where no menstruating woman wants to, convinced that all my protection had failed me, that there was a breach at the reservoir.
What could I do? It wasn’t like I could stand up again, in front of God and everyone, and check for blood on the bimah chair. No wonder the orthodox men don’t want to sit on a chair tainted by a woman who was menstruating. Maybe they had a point after all. It turned out that I did not ruin the throne of the chosen people. When the services were over, I stood as discreetly as possible and gave that seat cover a good once over. It looked as good as it did before I sat down. Being nervous, I got all sweaty, yes, down there, which explained my misperception.
Now I am teaching Sunday school, which means I am at the temple all the time, especially for all those holidays. I made it through Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur with no flying colors. The next holiday up was Simchat Torah. I know we Jews have a lot of holidays that don’t make sense, and this is definitely one of them. Simchat Torah celebrates the Torah, our religious text, which is handwritten by scribes on a scroll of animal skin, er, parchment. We commemorate the day by unrolling the Torah the rest of the way, reading the last few lines of it, going back to the beginning and reading the first few lines, and then rerolling it to begin a new year. If that doesn’t sound like a party, I don’t know what does.
To make it more festive, our temple celebrates Simchat Torah at religious school, allowing all the children of the congregation to hold the scroll as it is unraveled around the room and rerolled. These children’s hands, normally used for such things as butt scratching and nose picking, were now holding the Holiest of Holies between their dirty fingers, with us grownups interspersed between them so that the scroll wouldn’t hit the ground and become tainted. While I carefully held the parchment between my pinched thumbs and forefingers, I felt that familiar dampness. Yes indeed, my womb decided to pick that very moment to shed its unfertilized lining. I was an impure woman with my hands actually on the Torah scroll. I couldn’t exactly share my predicament with my eight year old students, or anyone else for that matter, but the irony wasn’t lost on me.
I don’t blame being unprepared. I blame the moon. Perhaps in the future I should limit my contact with holy doctrines and white seat covers when celebrating the Jewish holidays. Or better yet, I could dress up as a giant tampon for Purim, a holiday I like to refer to as the Jewish Halloween. That way I have all my bases covered, thank you Jesus.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Who Could Ask for Anything More?
My ten year old, E, is a few weeks away from her eleventh birthday, and she is very busy preparing for the big day. She has created a whole series of lists which she has conveniently left in the middle of the kitchen counter because God forbid she put anything away. The guest list for her birthday party. The list for the theme and party favors. The menu for the picnic. The games she wants to play. Never mind that she isn’t supposed to have big birthday parties anymore. When she turned ten, the big party extravaganzas were to give way to a more subdued and mature celebration of either a few friends going out for dinner and a movie, or maybe one or two girls for a sleepover. I guess I was so distracted by her wish list that I forgot to remind her that the next big birthday party won’t be until her bat mitzvah, and until then, birthdays are meant to be understated affair.
Back to that birthday gift list. When she first started making her list, mere days after her tenth birthday, her wish list was reasonable. She wanted a Timex sports watch, a Razor scooter, and some clothes. I had no problem with the list, except for the fact that she had to wait over three hundred days to get any of it.
Since then, she has morphed into a tween, so her needs and wants have changed. The new number one must have item became a cell phone. I used to tell her, “Who are you gonna call? Me?” but apparently the entire fifth grade, except for E, has one. I am standing by my no. She doesn’t need to text “LOL” to the girl next to her; she can just actually laugh out loud. At least a laugh can’t be taken away by her teacher.
So she changed her list again. This time she wanted a bike. Now, this one I am almost okay with. She got a bike for sixth birthday, and she has kind of outgrown it over the past five years. Of course, she didn’t learn to ride it until about a month ago at ten and a half. Her knees hit her throat with every rotation of the pedals, which made it challenging for her to really ride effectively. My husband was the one who balked at the bike. He doesn’t want to sink the money into something she won’t use, since we have already done that. She won’t get any better at riding, though, with a too small bike. That only works well for Shriners with fezzes. And I insist my kids wear helmets, without tassels.
Next she decided on cash. “For what?” I asked. “For things I need,” she told me. “This isn’t college,” I pointed out. “I buy you the things you need. I am not giving you money to blow on crap.” That didn’t go over well with E. She hates it when we sat her things are crap. But seriously, I am her mom, not her grandmother. I am not cutting her a check for a couple of hundred bucks so she can buy stuff I normally wouldn’t let her. The same goes for gift cards to her favorite stores. I am not giving in that easily.
She moved on to wanting her bedroom redecorated. She went through the Pottery Barn Kids catalog and selected a loft style bed nicer than anyone could make in a college dorm and a matching desk. The loft cost almost two thousand dollars, also more than anyone would spend on a loft for their dorm. I told her that it just wasn’t happening. We moved in our house three years ago, and redecorated her room then, from the cute ladybugs she adored in her old room to the horses she was too scared to ride but loved. My sister even came and painted a horse mural on one wall to match the overpriced bedding and accessories I got her, since she loved horses. Now, three years later, she could care less about horses. She wants a loft bed, and a sitting area, and nothing to do with horses.
I told her, emphatically, that we are not redecorating her room this year, and even if we were, we would not be buying all new furniture. Period. No discussion. If she wants to sit in a sitting area, she has a choice between the bonus room, the living room, or the den. If she wants to sit in her room, I recommend the bed or the floor. And seriously, she is scared of heights. I don’t see her climbing up a ladder every night to go to sleep. I see her, instead, curled up in the fetal position on the floor under her loft, wishing her bed wasn’t so far from the floor.
Now that the big day is drawing closer, however, she has dropped all of that because she has finally decided on what she wants more than anything in all the world. The one thing that she absolutely, positively can’t live without is a dog. She doesn’t want just any dog; she wants a pug, one of those flat faced, curly-tailed, asthmatic, bug-eyed creatures that is kind of like the platypus of the canine world. I do like pugs from the front, with their so ugly they’re cute good looks, but from the back, they have the butthole of a much larger breed, made visible because that curly piggy tail doesn’t cover it. I don’t like to look at an anus and have it look back at me.
E, though, seems okay with a pug butt, although she would prefer I not discuss it. She has even selected the name for this alleged dog, Nubs. Well, Nubs is its nickname. Its full name is Stubby Nubs. Since she dreamed up this vision of the perfect dog, and hence, the perfect birthday gift, Stubby Nubs is all she can think about. She has borrowed my friends’ dogs so she can practice dog care. She is scooping kitty litter to demonstrate her responsibility. She is also driving me bat-shit crazy about this dog, moaning its name at the breakfast table and in the car pool line. I hate Stubby Nubs, and I don’t even know him.
Hate is a strong emotion though, and really not necessary, because E is not getting a dog either. I have offered a Fur Real Friends dog, a Build-A-Bear dog, and a dog video game, but we are not getting a living, breathing, eating and shitting dog, no matter how bulgy its eyes, wheezy its breathing, or rank nasty its breath. It’s not because my other daughter is scared of dogs, and it’s not because of the two cats that no one but me feeds. It’s because I am not picking up one more piece of poop for one more creature. I am at my poop, vomit, and urine capacity. I don’t want to have land mines in the back yard. I don’t want to have little gifts waiting for me if I am too long with the running of the errands. At least the cats shit in a box; I don’t have to go searching for it by following the smell or discovering it on the bottom of my shoe. No matter how much she wants or begs for a dog, all it will take is one good turd on the floor of her bedroom to end that love affair. And then I will be the primary shit scooper for the next twelve years. No, thank you.
So, with a few weeks to go, E has exhausted all ideas for what she wants. She is now going with nothing, which she tells us in as dramatic a fashion as possible, since she is not allowed to have anything she really wants. All because I am so mean, not allowing her Nubs, a cell phone, or a brand new room. If she keeps this up, all she will be getting is the opportunity to live to see her eleventh birthday, which will be a truly generous gift. Happy birthday, E, be thankful I didn’t kill you. Here are some socks. Now eat your cake and stop crying.
Back to that birthday gift list. When she first started making her list, mere days after her tenth birthday, her wish list was reasonable. She wanted a Timex sports watch, a Razor scooter, and some clothes. I had no problem with the list, except for the fact that she had to wait over three hundred days to get any of it.
Since then, she has morphed into a tween, so her needs and wants have changed. The new number one must have item became a cell phone. I used to tell her, “Who are you gonna call? Me?” but apparently the entire fifth grade, except for E, has one. I am standing by my no. She doesn’t need to text “LOL” to the girl next to her; she can just actually laugh out loud. At least a laugh can’t be taken away by her teacher.
So she changed her list again. This time she wanted a bike. Now, this one I am almost okay with. She got a bike for sixth birthday, and she has kind of outgrown it over the past five years. Of course, she didn’t learn to ride it until about a month ago at ten and a half. Her knees hit her throat with every rotation of the pedals, which made it challenging for her to really ride effectively. My husband was the one who balked at the bike. He doesn’t want to sink the money into something she won’t use, since we have already done that. She won’t get any better at riding, though, with a too small bike. That only works well for Shriners with fezzes. And I insist my kids wear helmets, without tassels.
Next she decided on cash. “For what?” I asked. “For things I need,” she told me. “This isn’t college,” I pointed out. “I buy you the things you need. I am not giving you money to blow on crap.” That didn’t go over well with E. She hates it when we sat her things are crap. But seriously, I am her mom, not her grandmother. I am not cutting her a check for a couple of hundred bucks so she can buy stuff I normally wouldn’t let her. The same goes for gift cards to her favorite stores. I am not giving in that easily.
She moved on to wanting her bedroom redecorated. She went through the Pottery Barn Kids catalog and selected a loft style bed nicer than anyone could make in a college dorm and a matching desk. The loft cost almost two thousand dollars, also more than anyone would spend on a loft for their dorm. I told her that it just wasn’t happening. We moved in our house three years ago, and redecorated her room then, from the cute ladybugs she adored in her old room to the horses she was too scared to ride but loved. My sister even came and painted a horse mural on one wall to match the overpriced bedding and accessories I got her, since she loved horses. Now, three years later, she could care less about horses. She wants a loft bed, and a sitting area, and nothing to do with horses.
I told her, emphatically, that we are not redecorating her room this year, and even if we were, we would not be buying all new furniture. Period. No discussion. If she wants to sit in a sitting area, she has a choice between the bonus room, the living room, or the den. If she wants to sit in her room, I recommend the bed or the floor. And seriously, she is scared of heights. I don’t see her climbing up a ladder every night to go to sleep. I see her, instead, curled up in the fetal position on the floor under her loft, wishing her bed wasn’t so far from the floor.
Now that the big day is drawing closer, however, she has dropped all of that because she has finally decided on what she wants more than anything in all the world. The one thing that she absolutely, positively can’t live without is a dog. She doesn’t want just any dog; she wants a pug, one of those flat faced, curly-tailed, asthmatic, bug-eyed creatures that is kind of like the platypus of the canine world. I do like pugs from the front, with their so ugly they’re cute good looks, but from the back, they have the butthole of a much larger breed, made visible because that curly piggy tail doesn’t cover it. I don’t like to look at an anus and have it look back at me.
E, though, seems okay with a pug butt, although she would prefer I not discuss it. She has even selected the name for this alleged dog, Nubs. Well, Nubs is its nickname. Its full name is Stubby Nubs. Since she dreamed up this vision of the perfect dog, and hence, the perfect birthday gift, Stubby Nubs is all she can think about. She has borrowed my friends’ dogs so she can practice dog care. She is scooping kitty litter to demonstrate her responsibility. She is also driving me bat-shit crazy about this dog, moaning its name at the breakfast table and in the car pool line. I hate Stubby Nubs, and I don’t even know him.
Hate is a strong emotion though, and really not necessary, because E is not getting a dog either. I have offered a Fur Real Friends dog, a Build-A-Bear dog, and a dog video game, but we are not getting a living, breathing, eating and shitting dog, no matter how bulgy its eyes, wheezy its breathing, or rank nasty its breath. It’s not because my other daughter is scared of dogs, and it’s not because of the two cats that no one but me feeds. It’s because I am not picking up one more piece of poop for one more creature. I am at my poop, vomit, and urine capacity. I don’t want to have land mines in the back yard. I don’t want to have little gifts waiting for me if I am too long with the running of the errands. At least the cats shit in a box; I don’t have to go searching for it by following the smell or discovering it on the bottom of my shoe. No matter how much she wants or begs for a dog, all it will take is one good turd on the floor of her bedroom to end that love affair. And then I will be the primary shit scooper for the next twelve years. No, thank you.
So, with a few weeks to go, E has exhausted all ideas for what she wants. She is now going with nothing, which she tells us in as dramatic a fashion as possible, since she is not allowed to have anything she really wants. All because I am so mean, not allowing her Nubs, a cell phone, or a brand new room. If she keeps this up, all she will be getting is the opportunity to live to see her eleventh birthday, which will be a truly generous gift. Happy birthday, E, be thankful I didn’t kill you. Here are some socks. Now eat your cake and stop crying.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Retail Therapy
I took my older daughter, E, shopping at the mall on Saturday night, against my better judgment. I wanted to go see a band which was playing for free downtown at a street festival. Bands that I like don’t usually come to my town, so I was pretty bummed to miss it because I had to go shopping, or that I didn’t have a babysitter to do the shopping part for me. But E was even more bummed. Her pre-pubescent hormones were on a rampage and none of the friends she called at the last minute were available to hang out. The only way I could console her, since the little squares of dark chocolate I normally use to calm her were not working, was a trip to Aeropostale for a new t-shirt that looks like all the other t-shirts she owns from Aeropostale. I wish someone could explain to me the power this store has over tween girls.
It doesn’t matter, though, because she was happy with a $15 Henley and a $5 headband from JCrew. It’s cheaper as an evening out than going to the movies, and as long as I kept my mouth shut, which meant no comments out loud about her selections, or the stores in general, or the other mall patrons being her boyfriend, or singing along with the background music, or anything else that could be classified as embarrassing, then she could consider the evening a success and I could still be viewed as appropriate company for her to keep.
I didn’t go shopping in malls with my mother when I was a kid. Being the youngest of three girls, I was subjected to more than my fair share of hand-me-downs. My only saving grace was my extra plumpness, as I could not fit into many of my string bean older sister’s discards. That was my ticket to new clothes. I could only squeeze myself into so many dresses that looked like sausage casing before my mother was forced to do something about it.
What I so desperately desired were those pricey Garanimals, which were sold at department stores. They had animal tags that you could use to determine what tops went with what bottoms, in case you were too inept, color blind, or stupid to figure it out on your own. I am pretty sure Garanimals are now yet another crappy line of clothing available at the local Wal-Mart, but back in their heyday, they were expensive, cute, and totally out of my league.
Instead, my mom would take me to Marshall’s and TJ Maxx, from which I wore a lot of odd colored items and socks that were sewn so poorly I couldn’t get them over my feet without cutting off the circulation. The bulk of the merchandise there was of the irregular or damaged variety, instead of the overruns or past season items that you can find nowadays. New clothes shopping was not a back to school adventure, but rather a desperate attempt to find something to fit, occasion by occasion, and I don’t remember ever getting anything just because I liked it. What I wouldn’t have given for a Target about twenty years ago.
My mom, on the other hand, treated herself like the queen she thought she was. She bought clothing at fancy mall boutiques to supplement her own discount store purchases. I remember her in all sorts of draped fabrics, odd hemlines, shoulder pads, metallic leather belts, and many other things that looked like they could have come from Stevie Nicks' or Grace Jones’ wardrobe. She favored neutrals to colors, and had a vast array of rags that looked remarkably like the other rags next to them, all of which cost more than they should have just because they had a Norma Kamali tag.
What she loved most of all were shoes. My mother could buy shoes the way other people bought eggs. She wore a size 5 ½ and at her petite height of barely five feet, she was partial to heels. She had heels in all styles to match any kind of outfit she might possibly throw together: wooden Candie’s slides, clogs, mules, boots, pumps, and spectators.Once she even bought a pair of size four Hippopotamus pumps in purple and white because they were a steal, even though she didn't own anything either purple or white, nor could she squeeze her trotters into them.
I could spend forever in the shoe department, trying on the ugliest, highest heels I could find, real stripper shoes. It was a quest every time to try to find the most nauseating footwear available and teeter around in them until my mom would yell at me. I delighted in my game, however, and always found the price of a public berating worth it.
While I did outgrow the hiding in the circular clothing racks until Mom would yank me out and yell at me, I never did outgrow my love for trying on shoes. I made E take a break from the Hollister and American Eagle Outfitters to join me in the Macy’s shoe department long enough to soothe my inner foot model. And that is where I found the perfect pair of shoes. It was halfway between a pump and a boot, with a bit of Mary Jane strappiness thrown in for good measure. It was a dark saddle brown, and while it had what looked like a bronze rivet or button on the side, it was purely for decoration. It did not require unfastening or untying, and only a true shoe person would understand how to wear it. I slid my foot into the sample size, and it fit like a glove designed for a foot, which is not the same as a sock at all.
I loved it. I loved the way it made my ankle look. I loved the fact that it wasn’t too high, and almost felt comfortable. I loved the way it would have looked just as good with jeans as it would with a dress. I loved that it felt like it was made for my foot alone.
I slipped it off and looked at it closely. Yes, I was a bit put off by the $199 price tag. But what disturbed me more was the way it smelled exactly like the shoes my mother would bring home for herself. It was the smell of good, rich leather. It was a smell I remember her saving for herself. It was not a smell I remembered ever enjoying personally, but rather, a smell I always associated with my mother and how she reserved the best things for herself while I grew up being the third person to wear some cheap store brand panties. I put the shoes down and took E to the next store she wanted to visit.
I can afford the occasional pair of fine leather shoes, if I can get past the memory that comes with it. But that Saturday night shopping trip wasn’t about me. It was about my daughter and making up for the fact that she is having a tough time starting out her teen years. If a new shirt can make her happy, for just a little while, and she understands it is not because she demands or thinks she deserves it, then yes, ask and ye shall receive. A just because shirt is enough to show her that what she wants does matter and what she needs can be provided. Maybe it wasn’t the purchase so much as my time that made the evening a success. When she was three, it was a kiss or a band aid that made all the difference. Now, it is the sacrifice of a Saturday night at the mall to show how much I care.
It doesn’t matter, though, because she was happy with a $15 Henley and a $5 headband from JCrew. It’s cheaper as an evening out than going to the movies, and as long as I kept my mouth shut, which meant no comments out loud about her selections, or the stores in general, or the other mall patrons being her boyfriend, or singing along with the background music, or anything else that could be classified as embarrassing, then she could consider the evening a success and I could still be viewed as appropriate company for her to keep.
I didn’t go shopping in malls with my mother when I was a kid. Being the youngest of three girls, I was subjected to more than my fair share of hand-me-downs. My only saving grace was my extra plumpness, as I could not fit into many of my string bean older sister’s discards. That was my ticket to new clothes. I could only squeeze myself into so many dresses that looked like sausage casing before my mother was forced to do something about it.
What I so desperately desired were those pricey Garanimals, which were sold at department stores. They had animal tags that you could use to determine what tops went with what bottoms, in case you were too inept, color blind, or stupid to figure it out on your own. I am pretty sure Garanimals are now yet another crappy line of clothing available at the local Wal-Mart, but back in their heyday, they were expensive, cute, and totally out of my league.
Instead, my mom would take me to Marshall’s and TJ Maxx, from which I wore a lot of odd colored items and socks that were sewn so poorly I couldn’t get them over my feet without cutting off the circulation. The bulk of the merchandise there was of the irregular or damaged variety, instead of the overruns or past season items that you can find nowadays. New clothes shopping was not a back to school adventure, but rather a desperate attempt to find something to fit, occasion by occasion, and I don’t remember ever getting anything just because I liked it. What I wouldn’t have given for a Target about twenty years ago.
My mom, on the other hand, treated herself like the queen she thought she was. She bought clothing at fancy mall boutiques to supplement her own discount store purchases. I remember her in all sorts of draped fabrics, odd hemlines, shoulder pads, metallic leather belts, and many other things that looked like they could have come from Stevie Nicks' or Grace Jones’ wardrobe. She favored neutrals to colors, and had a vast array of rags that looked remarkably like the other rags next to them, all of which cost more than they should have just because they had a Norma Kamali tag.
What she loved most of all were shoes. My mother could buy shoes the way other people bought eggs. She wore a size 5 ½ and at her petite height of barely five feet, she was partial to heels. She had heels in all styles to match any kind of outfit she might possibly throw together: wooden Candie’s slides, clogs, mules, boots, pumps, and spectators.Once she even bought a pair of size four Hippopotamus pumps in purple and white because they were a steal, even though she didn't own anything either purple or white, nor could she squeeze her trotters into them.
I could spend forever in the shoe department, trying on the ugliest, highest heels I could find, real stripper shoes. It was a quest every time to try to find the most nauseating footwear available and teeter around in them until my mom would yell at me. I delighted in my game, however, and always found the price of a public berating worth it.
While I did outgrow the hiding in the circular clothing racks until Mom would yank me out and yell at me, I never did outgrow my love for trying on shoes. I made E take a break from the Hollister and American Eagle Outfitters to join me in the Macy’s shoe department long enough to soothe my inner foot model. And that is where I found the perfect pair of shoes. It was halfway between a pump and a boot, with a bit of Mary Jane strappiness thrown in for good measure. It was a dark saddle brown, and while it had what looked like a bronze rivet or button on the side, it was purely for decoration. It did not require unfastening or untying, and only a true shoe person would understand how to wear it. I slid my foot into the sample size, and it fit like a glove designed for a foot, which is not the same as a sock at all.
I loved it. I loved the way it made my ankle look. I loved the fact that it wasn’t too high, and almost felt comfortable. I loved the way it would have looked just as good with jeans as it would with a dress. I loved that it felt like it was made for my foot alone.
I slipped it off and looked at it closely. Yes, I was a bit put off by the $199 price tag. But what disturbed me more was the way it smelled exactly like the shoes my mother would bring home for herself. It was the smell of good, rich leather. It was a smell I remember her saving for herself. It was not a smell I remembered ever enjoying personally, but rather, a smell I always associated with my mother and how she reserved the best things for herself while I grew up being the third person to wear some cheap store brand panties. I put the shoes down and took E to the next store she wanted to visit.
I can afford the occasional pair of fine leather shoes, if I can get past the memory that comes with it. But that Saturday night shopping trip wasn’t about me. It was about my daughter and making up for the fact that she is having a tough time starting out her teen years. If a new shirt can make her happy, for just a little while, and she understands it is not because she demands or thinks she deserves it, then yes, ask and ye shall receive. A just because shirt is enough to show her that what she wants does matter and what she needs can be provided. Maybe it wasn’t the purchase so much as my time that made the evening a success. When she was three, it was a kiss or a band aid that made all the difference. Now, it is the sacrifice of a Saturday night at the mall to show how much I care.
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