A Day of Miracles

Happy 15th birthday to the Girl-child. 15. There’s a miracle right there. I know what you’re thinking. How can someone as young as me have a 15 year old kid? And if you weren’t thinking that, let me remind you that this is my blog, so play along. That’s better. I am awfully young. For the record, I was only seven when a fairy dropped the kid under a cabbage leaf and all that. For the record.

Anyway, we spent a whole day together to celebrate her birthday. That’s minor miracle right there. I have a teenager who doesn’t mind being seen with me. Most of the time. So we went to the mall. I’ll jump right in here and explain that neither of us are mall-rats by nature. But she was running low on fragrance, and I had a get stuff for free coupon! Off to Bath and Body Works we went.

Miracle #1: I found a fragrance that did not make me smell like a middle-aged streetwalker. If you have ever read this post, then you know how strongly I object to being labelled middle-aged. Here’s the sad part. Girl-child liked it, too. No teen one wants to share a scent with their mom anymore than they’d want to wear her polyester pant suits. I granted Girl-child full custody. After all, I spend a lot of time at the zoo where fragrance is frowned (and often sneezed) upon, so I couldn’t wear it much anyway. ***

Miracle #2 I bought new clothes. No, really. Like new-new clothes. It’s the first time in 10 years or so that I have actually bought clothes anywhere other than a thrift store. Unless you count my collection of Severus Snape t-shirts, and I don’t. Because Severus isn’t clothing. He’s family. I digress. New clothes! On sale!  A pair of capris, some shorts, a new shirt that, for the record, does not contain the image of a certain Slytherin headmaster.

Miracle #3 Pants and shorts were in a single-digit size. Could be vanity sizing, could be I don’t care. Single digit, friends. That’s all this girl needs. I can ride this particular high for a week. Maybe longer.

Miracle #4 Girl-child let me pick the music. Sort of. We I bought a stack of CDs at the used bookstore for under $1 apiece. And my companion let me listen to some of them in the car. Without gagging up a hairball or leaping out of the moving vehicle. That’s huge. Granted, none of it was Simon and Garfunkel. She has a generous, but she has her limits.

Miracle #5 I got out of Hot Topic without getting into a brawl. Oh, wait. I haven’t told you that story, have I? I keep promising sj that I’ll blog about that one someday. When it’s not quite so fresh and humiliating. When I can find the funny in it.

*** Update*** The second time I tried the smelly stuff, it made me smell like a mildewed sandbox. Not such a sacrifice to let Girl-child have it. It actually smells great on her.

Where I Draw the Line

I know now why middle aged women begin to wear questionable clothing. Sequins, stretch pants (hopefully not the same outfit), weird jeans, etc. It’s not because they’ve suddenly gone blind or lost all fashion sense. It’s because their teenage daughters have begun raiding their wardrobe. These women haven’t given up on looking good, they’re just desperate to have something in their closet that will still be there when they go looking for it, something their teen wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I can now relate.

She’s not after my jewelry, I know that. There’s only one thing of value, and I’m not sure she’s all that interested in a macaroni necklace. And I don’t worry about my jeans. She weighs about 12 pounds with rocks in her pockets. I weigh closer to 15 pounds, you know. And she’s not interested in my makeup. Because I don’t actually have any. Well, I do. but a half-tube of mascara I got free from Earth Fare last year and some eye shadow left over from the last century don’t seem to speak to her. Weird, I know. The things that are disappearing from under my nose are my tops.

I give her credit. She does ask before she borrows. Except for my Birkenstock clogs, which I know are hidden away in her room somewhere, and I will find them or die trying. I told you Birkenstocks are cool!  I digress. She asks. But it still bugs me. She raided the storage shelves yesterday and emerged bearing an armload of treasures, which, to add insult to injury, she proceeded to model for me. It is really unfair that they all look so much better on her. They were are mine. The really cute oversize sweater makes her look like an adorable little elf. The same garment makes me look like the Michelin man. The old sweat shirt makes her look all cozy and comfortable. It makes me look like I’ve given up on life.

Fine. She can have them. I can’t wear them again knowing how good they could look (but don’t). And she uses lots of products from the Lotion and Smelly Stuff Works, so she has effectively scent-marked all my sweaters. We know I won’t be wearing those again.

It’s not all bad, I guess. In a way, it’s validating. My taste can’t be too far off if my kid wants to wear steal my clothes. And there’s plenty more where that came from. All I have to do is go back to the thrift store to replenish the wardrobe. But this time, she went too far. She asked to wear my Slytherin t-shirt.

Is nothing sacred?

She has yet to ask to borrow THIS sweater. It is made from genuine boomkin pelt, I think.