The Swimsuit Fiasco of 2011

Within the first week of school #2 came home and announced she would be needing a new swimsuit for gym class. They would be going to the local outdoor swimming pool before it was drained for the season. At the beginning of the summer, she had been in such a hurry to get a suit that she simply couldn’t wait for Mom to take her shopping. She went down to the local store and bought one, all by her 13 year-old self. As the summer progressed she became more and more uncomfortable in the suit and the idea of putting it on in front of her entire class was not going to be an option as far as she was concerned.

The Saturday I chose to go shopping in a neighboring town I asked Jackson if he wanted to go with us. Jackson is not a good shopper, but we had not spent much time together in the past weeks – it would be good to spend some windshield time with him and hang out as a family. Really?! Did I just try to validate my decision to invite my husband swimsuit shopping for our daughter by saying it would be a good time to spend together?! Really?!

We arrived at Scheels and headed right to the swimsuit department where we could indulge in after-season clearance specials. Dad headed straight to the 85 year-old, full-coverage, head-to-toe swimsuit section as our daughter headed directly for the mix-and-match, barely-there, two-piece section. I had my work cut out for me. I tried to steer #2 towards a stylish one-piece that was sure to gain her father’s approval. I was given a look that all but said, “Seriously, Mom, you are so lame. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that.” I had to change my tactics. I agreed to let her try on a couple two-pieces she had picked out if she would please just try on a one-piece and a sporty competitive two-piece I had located while scouring the clearance rack. She headed off to the dressing room while Jackson kept shouting things like, “Why can’t she try on this?” and “You don’t seriously think we are going to leave the store with THAT, do you?!” Oh, life was good.

The look on #2’s face as I opened the door to the dressing room to see her first selection said it all – THIS was the suit she was meant to wear. It had been made specifically for her. Now, I’m not suggesting that she didn’t look good in it. Let’s face it, if I had a body like hers I’d wear nothing BUT bikinis 24/7 – to the office, to the grocery store… but she is not me; she is the teenage daughter of a man that knows all too well what boys think when they see a girl in a bikini.

She was eager to try on a few more that she had picked out. She was not so sold on them (one was too low cut, one was too high cut, one was simply uncomfortably small). Then it was time to try on the suits I had picked out. They were “okay”, but they were not that first suit – THE suit. I asked her to try THE suit on one more time and she was happy to oblige. Then the moment came. I asked her to show her father. She refused. “So let me get this straight. You want me to buy you a suit to wear in public that you won’t let your father see?” She knew as well as I did that he would NOT approve.

He approached the situation and overheard the discussion. He promptly ordered her out of the dressing room, swim suit and all. She, being as stubborn as he, was not about to come out of that dressing room. Unfortunately (for her) her father is much more refined in his game of bullheadedness by demanding she come out, there would be no more discussion. Then the two of them disappeared from my view. When they returned she had been crying and would not even so much as look at me. Her father had a satisfied look of disdain on his face. There would be no swimsuit bought today – not at this store.

In an attempt to smooth things over I assured her that we could find something online when we got home. We still had plenty of time before she needed it. We would find her a nice competitive two-piece that her and her father could agree on. That seemed to do the trick.

Once we arrived home we spent nearly an hour on the internet scouring the stores for a suit (1) in a style we could all live with, (2) in a color/pattern she didn’t find disgusting, (3) in her size, and (4) in a price point I could afford. We found nothing. I was tired, she was frustrated. I gave her the criteria and she spent the next 2 hours looking on her own. At the end of it all, she brought me two options – ONE PIECE SWIMSUITS! I’m not even kidding. After all of that, she had decided she would rather have a one piece.

I asked her father what he had said to her to change her mind. “I took her over to that poster, the one with the scantily clad girl in a swimsuit. I asked her what she saw.” What our 13 year-old daughter saw was a pretty girl in a swimsuit that she liked the color of. “Then I told her what I saw – from a boy’s perspective.” Well, that did it. #2 is definitely going to need therapy.
I ordered one of the newly chosen, covered mostly everything, swimsuits she had chosen after being scarred for life.

That’s not even the end of the fiasco. The suit I ordered was going to ship from the east coast (New Jersey, I believe). We ordered the suit on Saturday night and by Wednesday morning it still had not shipped. As it turns out there was this little storm called Hurricane Irene that was likely wreaking havoc on the US Postal Service delivery schedule. I sent an email to the east coast supplier and told them I understood their predicament, but would have to cancel my order as I was working on a deadline. I reordered the suit from neighboring Minnesota which carried much higher shipping rates.

That afternoon (Wednesday afternoon to be exact) #2 announces, “Oh yeah, I need my suit by THIS Friday, not next Friday like I thought before.” Of course you need it IN TWO DAYS! I logged on to the computer again only to find that the package had shipped and I would not be able to change to overnight shipping (costing me more than our overweight bulldog eats in a given month). I explained to the chubby-cheeked, tear-stained face that I had done my best, but there was little to no chance she would have her suit in time. She understood and resigned herself to rifling through #1’s old (more modest) swimsuit collection.

Thursday afternoon #2 called me the minute she got home from school to see if I could check on the tracking of her package. Sure enough, that thing was on a big brown truck bound for our house – expected delivery date – TODAY. She squealed with delight. I arrived home around 6:00pm only to find a disappointed daughter whose new swimsuit had not made its way to our door. Around 6:30pm the UPS man pulled up to our house and you’d have thought she had won the lottery. I love making her happy.

Friday, it rained.

P.S. The east coast supplier sent me a very nice email on Thursday morning that they could not cancel my order as the package had shipped. I now have 2 identical swimsuits – neither of which has ever been worn.

The End.

Blonde Moments

Today has been one uncharacteristic blonde moment after another.

At break this morning I shook my bottle of vitamin water AFTER I had removed the lid. I ended up with orange Spark all over my pants, both of my shirts, my face, and in my hair. Sticky and smelly I made my way back to my desk to send out a notification letting my team know I intended to return home. I sent out my email, “Heading Home – will be back online in about an hour: As those of you sitting at break are well aware… I shook vitamin water all over myself this morning (not really my brightest move). I’m heading home for my second (or third if you count the shaking episode) shower of the day. I will plan on being online all day, but don’t plan on making the trek back to work.” and went home.

Before I made it out of town, I suddenly remembered I had not completed a task that was going to hold up payroll. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the office. As I waited for the automated system to finish, I kept thinking, wow this is really hard to hear. It turns out I had my phone upside down. I got the payroll coordinator on the phone and began blabbering an apology. I promised to do it before I showered. I felt so bad. “Uh, Tina, it’s Wednesday. Payroll posted yesterday. You go ahead and shower and get that job set up whenever you get time today.” DUH! “Please forget everything I just said and pretend I didn’t call. Sorry to have bothered you.” What a freakin’ scatter brain I had turned in to.

After a much-needed shower, I checked my email. Much to my horror I realized I was in a co-worker’s email file when I sent out my email. Thus the notification went out to the entire accounting department looking as if she was the moron that can’t handle her vitamin water. I quickly sent out this disclaimer, “HOLY MOLY I’M AN IDIOT! Wow, has it ever been one of those days and it’s not even noon. TINA threw vitamin water all over herself and had to go home to shower – not (insert co-worker name here)! TINA will be working from home this afternoon. (Insert co-worker name here) is out of the office today. Pray that I make it through the rest of the week without lighting myself on fire!”

Dude, I’m a hot mess!

I’m Not THAT Old!

My 4 year-old niece has been chompin’ at the bit to spend the night at our house. Growing up with two older brothers leaves her yearning for some female bonding time, understandably. Through a series of events we found an opening at Hotel Fort Cronin and extended the invitation to Miss Shelby. So last night the mother of said child dropped her off and ran for the hills.

Number three will be turning 11 in just a few months, and I think it’s safe to say I’m a bit rusty on how to deal with a small child. I did what any self-respecting mother of three girls would do – I delegated her care to my offspring – after all, I wiped their noses and…well, you get the picture.

My younger sister gave me rough directions on what it would take to safely deliver Miss Shelby to pre-school this morning after our sleepover. I heard something about a code, and something about downstairs, and something about a cubby followed by, “Shelby will help you out and tell you what to do. She knows her code and won’t hesitate to boss you around.” Fabulous, finally a constructive outlet for her bossiness.

We arrived five minutes before school was to begin. We (Shelby, #2, and myself) walked in the front door and I said, “Shelby, what do we need to do.” She responded with “Go downstairs.” So we tromped past the front desk and made our way downstairs. We followed Shelby to her room and she made a beeline for her cubby. We helped her get all her bags, pillows, coat, and car seat (boy little kids come with a lot of luggage) crammed in and around her cubby. I said, “Okay, Shelby, now what?” She looked at me like I was a moron and said, “See ya’ later.” Now, I’ve never been to this preschool before, but I definitely remember her mother giving me more directions than “drop her off and you’re done.” “Don’t we need to put your code in somewhere?” “Yeah, upstairs.” “Okay. Can you tell me what your code is?” “I dunno.” YOU BIG LIAR! Your' mother definitely said you knew the code. But it was too late. She was off and running into a sea of germy snot-nosed children and I was not about to dive in.

I shot a despairing look at to adults standing near the door. The younger of the two looked like she may be able to help. “Her mother said I have to put a code in somewhere…?” “Yes, upstairs. The girl at the front desk can look up Shelby’s code if you need her to and show you where to put it in.” “Thanks.” Then I walked away and everything was fine.

No wait, that is not where this story ends.

THEN the older of the two ladies opened her mouth and THIS came out, “So are you Shelby’s grandma?” I turned my head, shot her the look of death, and simply answered, “No.” and turned and walked away.

Number 2 took this opportunity to shout as she was running to catch up, “Nana, wait up.” “Shut it.” was the reply she deserved and received. She was still laughing as we reached the front desk to inquire about the damn code.

And this my friends, is why I will NEVER take Miss Shelby to pre-school again.

What is wrong with people? This is the third time in the last two years that have been mistaken for being old enough to be someone’s grandmother. Julie, are you reading this? Whatever dye you are using on my hair every 6-8 weeks is NOT working. I want my money back!