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Confessions of a Shopaholic


To introduce my following post, I’ve elected to provide you with a PG-13 excerpt from my previous blog. It’s one of the few that didn’t, at some point, cross over into the pornographic or detail, in the graphic sense, my gross problem with binge drinking. My then-boyfriend, now-husband (weird how that works) had just insulted my entire wardrobe by saying “[my] closet could double as a Halloween Express.” With that said:

“Sure I had an outfit specifically purchased for picnicking, a dress that would put the Chiquita Banana lady out of business and sequin-covered leggings that caused elderly women to purr in my direction and gave me the need to unnecessarily jive in public places, but I didn’t own a cowboy hat, anything that resembled animal ears or a feather boa. So I have made a few eccentric choices regarding the contents of my closet: specifically the patent leather pants I wore nearly once a week my entire sophomore year of high school, a seafoam-colored dress that could’ve passed as the offspring of Sesame Street’s Big Bird and the fact that I still own the leotard I used to be a French women for Halloween last year. 75% of what resides on hangers is constructed of animal print, faux fur or anything that has a remote shimmer to it. It’s like I had been going for unconventional but took a wrong turn somewhere around the land of Las Vegas showgirls and ended up with what resembles the bridesmaid ensemble closet from 27 Dresses.”

Now that you have a firm grasp on my fashion sense you can imagine the confusion I experienced when the ultrasound tech stated “well, you’re having a boy.” Up until this point I was excited to go shopping for fun-size leggings, tutus and rhinestone tiaras, to coordinate outfits and someday pass down my most prized fashion possessions to my hypothetical daughter and she could say “oh this, it’s vintage. My mom wore it when she freelanced as a bar columnist and met that washed up MTV reality star Pauly D.”

Okay so maybe she wouldn’t really want that outfit, it wasn’t the most flattering and the shoes pinched the shit out of my heel so I sold them in a mini-auction on Facebook. But I’m sure you’re picking up what I’m laying down here. I didn’t know the first thing about dressing a person of the male variety. Notice how I used the noun “person” rather than baby; at that time I was still in denial that my womb was harvesting an infant but thought instead, a moderately-grown teenager would get up and walk out when he was ready, probably cursing and carrying a 30-pack of Busch Light. I was even more confused when it seemed like all the garb geared toward baby boys was covered in monkeys, or trucks, and God forbid, sometimes even monkeys driving damn trucks, while the girls racks had ruffles and polka dots and lace.

I had many a meltdown in which I was convinced that my son would wear only a diaper and one of my dishtowels; at least those were black and void of any offensive pattern. The people who design baby clothes should really reconsider their design choices when a new mommy has honestly considered buying “baby togas” in the “Household” section at Target.

Then, I was very pregnant and very crazy. Now, I couldn’t be more thankful that the ultrasound tech detected a penis. Had it gone the other way, I’m pretty sure I would be drowning in debt and could probably premier on a crossover episode of Hoarders and My Strange Addiction where I’m featured crying into mountains of tiny dresses and my daughter would most certainly be a frequent runaway. Shopping for baby-Levi’s jeans and manly-but-miniature cardigans can be pretty entertaining and much to Rinn’s dismay, I do occasionally find opportunities to coordinate outfits (see below.) As far as delegating outfits in my living will, forget it. In the section where it dictates what I shall be buried in, I’m writing “ALL OF IT.”



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