My Cheeks Were Red

I stopped into Victoria's Secret the other day. It should have been fun. I mean, what's not to like about buying yourself something a little bit fun and frivolous?

Well, you know that classic nightmare that people have, about standing in front of a large audience, dressed in nothing but their underwear? I would argue that the real-life version of that nightmare is standing in a crowded lingerie store and having a clerk ask, "So how did that thong work out for you?"

Really, what's the right answer to that question? What came to my mind was, "None of your damned business." But she was just being helpful, doing what she was trained to do, which apparently involves making a grown woman squirm with embarrassment. And sadly, as much as I wanted to turn and flee, I really needed her to tell me where to find a matching bra.

I managed to grind out the necessary words, only to have to decide, out loud of course, while flanked on one side by a 19-year-old whose thong probably worked out great for her, and on the other by an entire family buying a bathrobe for Grandma, whether I preferred the demi or the push-up style.

Sad to say, I've managed to reach middle age without having the first clue how to answer that question. So I had to go try on some bras, but only after the clerk whipped out a measuring tape right there in the middle of the store, wrapped it around me, and then told me and everyone else my measurements. 

I was reminded of a time years ago, when I was working as a part-time sales clerk in a department store, and I had to cover the lingerie department for an hour. A nervous husband approached me for help. He wanted to buy something nice for his wife, but he couldn't remember her size. He thought I was about the same size, though, and so he asked me my bra size. There are very few situations in which that is an OK thing for a man to ask a woman, and this wasn't one of them. I waited a beat, but he was too far gone with nerves to see what was wrong with his question. Lucky for the guy I felt sorry for him, and I helped him out, without telling him my size, but without making him feel any worse either.

He should have just followed me into Victoria's Secret. He would have had his answer. Hell, everyone in that store now has the answer. And I knew exactly how he felt, because I swear I felt exactly like a poor, clueless man, trying to buy underwear for a woman.

I don't know if most women are born knowing how to do this kind of shopping, or if their mothers or older sisters teach them the ropes, or if I missed a critical day in school. I'm pretty sure it helps to drink first.

At least I came away knowing everything I need to know about these matters. Really. Ask me anything. For example, I know enough about bras now that I can say definitively that "demi" is just code for "padded" and "push-up" is code for "very very padded." I mean seriously padded. You could easily use one of those babies for a throw pillow. A very expensive, lacy throw pillow that looks like a bra, but still.

Blushing smiley face image from Bruno Maia, IconTexto

Remedial Bake Sales

I just don't get bake sales. You have to spend about 5 or 10 dollars on ingredients to make baked goods that will raise about 3 dollars in sales. Of course, if you factor in a mother's labor (which we never do) then you're spending more like 50 or 100 dollars to get those 3 dollars in sales. And of course you're not done, because you still have to give your kid money to buy something at the sale.

Decorated cupcakes - how much would you pay?

Back in college, I once took a class in the business school. I remember walking into the building one day to see a sign advertising a bake sale to raise money for the Entrepreneurs' Club. That still makes me laugh.

We would all come out ahead if the moms skipped the baking, and just wrote out checks for 10 bucks. But that's something only a bad mother would do.

OK - I can see benefits to bake sales too, besides the (little bit of) money that they raise. They can generate some publicity, and that's good, right? And there is the whole community-building aspect, which can be nice - people pitching in to contribute to something they value, people getting to know each other by volunteering together. And sometimes it's even fun to turn the baking into a project - planning with my daughter what to make, and then making it together.

Thinking about the positive bits helps, because the fact is that most of the time you can't get out of bake sales. So I'll pass along a few survival tricks I've learned through the years.

• Ghiradelli Triple Chocolate Brownie mix makes better brownies than any I've ever made from scratch, and they go together in about 7 minutes.
• Brownies are easy to slice if you use a plastic knife on them, after they're completely cool. I just learned this one recently from my mom. It's like magic.
• Food on a stick - this is a tip from my friend Annette. If you want your items to sell out quickly, just put them on a stick. One time she made cookies and put them on sticks. For the last bake sale she did something even easier - she put marshmallows on skewers, then dunked them in chocolate and sprinkles. They all sold. She says people can never resist food on a stick.
• More about food on a stick - also from Annette - you have to display it right. Don't put the food on a stick and then just lay it in a pan, or you don't get the benefit. You need to stand the food up, so it's obvious it's on a stick.

I'm guessing you all have some of your own tricks to share. I'd love to hear them.

When Herbicide Has a Name

Maria the mum

This fall we finally broke down and hired a landscaping company to do something with our yard. After a decade of gardening attempts and failures, and I'm sorry to say that I'm not putting too fine a point on this, I finally, officially gave up. My compost heap is filled with the evidence of the plant carnage I have wrought through the years. It's safe to say that I don't have a gift for gardening. At all. And after a decade of failure, I don't even like gardening any more.

So, we hired a company to fix things. And fix things they did. For the first time since we moved in, the yard looks great!

That's the good news. The bad news is that the pressure is on. We paid a talented professional a good deal of money to draw up a plan, and to do the work, and now we have to keep it up. And that's a lot of pressure.

Decorative grasses Grace, Greg and George

But then today, the stakes got much, much higher. Today, my daughter went through all the flower beds, and gave names to all the new plants. I couldn't believe it. I would have been plenty happy to keep the yard looking nice, and the flower beds weeded. I would have been happy to learn a thing or two, like the types of plants we have, and suggestions for care. But it turns out that's not enough any more. Now I need to be able to address them by name. Just to give you an idea - we have a shrub named Sarah and another named Leana, a day lily named Amanda, some creeping flox named Tommy, Jonathan, and Samantha, and a hosta named Kayla.

It's a given that some of these guys aren't going to make it. It's a sad fact that I don't know how to prevent the widespread death and suffering of the plants in my yard. And now it just got personal. I have a horrible suspicion that there are going to be dozens of little plant funerals in my future.

Halloween Costumes

My daughter decided three things about her Halloween costume this year. First, she wanted to be a black cat. Second, she wanted me to be a black cat too. Third, she wanted us to make the costumes.

I was delighted, and not just because she wanted us to match. Face it, I'm a sucker for my daughter wanting to match me. Plus, I know the window for that happening is pretty narrow.

No, I was delighted because I believe, sincerely believe, that Halloween costumes are meant to be home-made and not store-bought - in part because I value creativity, and in part because I value being cheap.  So, for the first three years of her life I made her Halloween costumes. In retrospect, that may just have been overcompensation for being a full-time working mom. Whatever.

Then, when she was four, she decided to be a princess, no wait a ballerina, no wait a fairy, no wait all of them, and I didn't have a clue how to make that costume. When my sister-in-law sent a picture from a catalog that met all those requirements, I considered it a miracle, and bought it, along with some pale pink tights, and some sparkly fairy shoes, and the pink turtleneck and pink sweatshirt to wear under so she wouldn't die from exposure during Trick or Treat. What I spent on that year's costume was obscene. In retrospect, it may just have been overcompensation for being a full-time working mom. So sue me.

Sometimes I think sternly that she doesn't need a new costume every year, that as long as it fits, she should wear the same costume from year to year. When I was growing up, that's what we did. But that thought is usually swamped by the awful memories of that awful costume that we had to wear from year to year, an awful, baggy, pink nylon costume that said "Princess" across the chest in sparkly blue lettering, which we wore over our jeans and our winter jackets. It came with a cheap plastic mask of what appeared to be a grimacing woman wearing a tiara. We used to long for a different costume. Anything our friends wore was better. So if my daughter wants to pick out a different costume every year, I find I'm willing to take out my credit card and make that happen. No doubt it's just overcompensation, yadda yadda.

Then this year, out of the blue, she decided it would be fun to make our costumes, and I was delighted. But the funny thing is that it turns out to be at least as expensive to make a costume as to buy it, because it turns out we aren't actually black cats, and we don't have black cat stuff around the house. She had head bands and pipe cleaners, and I had black pants and shirts and shoes. We had to buy a black turtleneck and black sweatshirt for her. They don't even sell them for girls, so we had to buy them in the boys department, which caused a certain amount of drama, which was appeased in part by buying her black boots. And we needed black mittens. And black fleece for the tails and ears. And pink fleece for the insides of the ears. And stuffing for the tails. And face paint.

So we spent a small fortune, and we hot-glued ourselves some tails and ears, and we donned our black clothes, and we painted each other's faces. She was inordinately proud of our fairly crude results. People seemed to able to tell what we were supposed to be. She was happy. I was happy. I know the window for the two of us being happy about the same thing is fairly narrow, and I'm enjoying it while I can. And for a whole glorious day, I can feel like a good mom.