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A Letter To My Daughter’s Dance Teachers

Dear P&T;

While I try to wrap my head around the news of your retirement, while I let it sit and I become used to the notion, I think of how much you have impacted my child’s life these past 12 years.

I know I’m not a hardcore dance mom. I can’t tell you the difference between a horn pipe and a slip jig (just kidding…one is heavy shoe and one is light, umm, right?). I couldn’t name many of the judges and didn’t even know there was an online irish dance forum until 2013 (that’s an exaggeration…it was 2011). But I do know what I know, and that is you have had a tremendous effect on our child’s life.

You were such a huge part of her childhood. You helped raise her. She is the person she is because of you. You have taught her so much in the years she has been under your wing. I can’t thank you enough for giving such a huge part of your life to make such a difference in her life.

We chose you, not only because you are amazing teachers, but amazing men. You are strong in character and superb role models. The manner in which you have conducted yourselves the past few years, most especially this past year, speaks volumes of who you are. I couldn’t be more proud to call you my child’s dance teachers. You have taught her to rise above, to always be kind, while others were less than so.

So, here we are, just days after your announcement and I wanted you to know what you have done for our child.

You have given her confidence and courage. Taught her about teamwork and commitment. You have introduced her to lifelong friends. Taught her about disappointment and how to pick herself up and dust herself off.

You have given her the gift of true sportsmanship and compassion. You have taught her how to take care of herself, be passionate and disciplined. You have shown her respect and how to respect. She has learned how to push herself to her limit, to persevere, and not give up.

All of these things, and more, are skills she will take with her throughout her lifetime. The memories you helped to create will be told time and time again to her own children (Future Irish Dancers of America?).

I cannot begin to make you understand how much we will miss having you so close within our lives. I will think of you often when she competes, dances across the kitchen floor and ties up her ghillies. You will always have a special place in all of our hearts.

Please enjoy the next phase of your lives, and always remember the lives you have touched during your long, wonderful career. You should be very proud. We love you.

Gratefully yours,

Maureen

 

Hello, I’m Not Dead.

images-3I’m here, I’m here! I haven’t contracted the Bubonic plague or fallen off the Brooklyn Bridge (I did walk across the Brooklyn Bridge once so it could have happened). Nothing earth-shattering occurred to cause me to stop writing and communicating to all of you. I swear it.

So, what DID happen to me, then? I mean, it has been nearly a lifetime since I’ve last published a post (in case you are dying to know, that lifetime ago was August 8th).

I’m going to be straight with you, you know, shoot from the hip (do we know what that even means?):

I cannot chew gum and walk at the same time

That’s about it. After I went back to work full-time, I swear it was like someone took a sledge hammer to my life.

Or the proverbial Mac Truck drove right down the middle of me. Leaving my guts all over the sidewalk.

On that sidewalk are also dirty toilets, a sink full of dishes and two weeks’ worth of laundry. Never mind what that thing is growing inside my refrigerator. I suppose it could be The Kid’s science project, but I’m afraid to ask. Because I have a sneaking suspicion it isn’t. Call it intuition.

When I get home from work, and after I make dinner (yes, I do that. It takes the last hair of energy I have left but we do have to eat and take-out every night will only put about 50 pounds on me a minute. And besides they say it is bad for you and I can’t do that to my family. Although, so is my cooking, so…), I leave enough DNA on the couch I can actually be cloned. (Not a bad idea. I hope she does windows.)

June CleaverI have a lot of respect for women who can do it all…raise a family, keep the house in order, all that crap…while working at the same time. You are rock stars and make the rest of us look like slugs. Thank you for that.

I am here to say I have started to peel myself off the leather davenport, so worry no more. It took a couple of months, but I’ve devised a plan to get myself back among the living and do what I love most — write.

Who am I kidding? I’m not a planner. There is no plan. How about I just refer to it as “I’m Getting Off My Lazy Ass and Doing Something?” Works for me.

Writ'ers Block

Maybe this has been my problem all along?

I’m back and I’m on a mission. As soon as the blood finds it’s way to my brain and I actually know what I’m going to write about. I suppose I have also been in Writer’s Block Hell. It’s a place.

Next, I’ll tackle the toilets. Maybe. So what shall I name her? You know, my clone?

Ten Simple Rules To Dating My Daughter

Disclaimer: This post is not about The Kid’s boyfriend. They have been dating for some time now and he is an amazing young man. I completely approve of him and their relationship. He is a good rule follower.

Ahh, the teen years. With this stage comes mood swings, driving, mascara, and boys. Just to name a few.

Boys. That one scares the shit out of me as much as driving. Although, having your head ripped off for saying “good morning” isn’t much fun either. File that under “mood swings” and shake it off.

But we can’t shake off everything. Like boys. It’s inevitable, so there’s no point in fighting it. We can have some control though, don’t you think?

Sure we can. The boys just need to follow a few simple rules.

  1. Keep your hands above the fabric. Keep your hands above the belt. Keep your hands above the neck. In other words, keep your hands to yourself or lose them. No one likes a hand-less boyfriend.
  2. Make sure she’s back by curfew. And when I say curfew, I don’t mean 11:01. I don’t even mean 10:59. Learn that I usually don’t mean what I say. Also, learn what I really mean.
  3. Do not drive like a maniac while transporting my daughter. Stay well within the limits of the speed (have you ever heard of getting a ticket for going too slow? Do that). Do not, I repeat, do not text and drive. The same thing goes for drinking, talking to Siri and putting your hands on her knee (if you do this last thing, you have violated Rule #1).
  4. Do not take her anywhere you wouldn’t want your younger sister going. The mini golf place? Acceptable as long as you don’t hide behind the windmills. The back row of the movie theater? Not.
  5. When you come to pick up my daughter for a date, always, always come to the door. Always. There are no acceptable excuses like you are running late or you have been maimed by the neighborhood dog and are bleeding to death.
  6. If you hurt her in any way, I will make a voodoo doll with your name on it. I don’t know how to make a voodoo doll but I’ll figure it out. I’m crafty like that.
  7. Do not make her do anything she doesn’t feel comfortable doing. If she says no, she means no. If you don’t understand what that means, perhaps you need to go back to kindergarten.
  8. Don’t be a player. Don’t “see” other girls. If you do, see #6.
  9. Be chivalrous. I believe in equal rights for women but don’t be a jerk. Please open doors for her, don’t walk ahead of her, offer your jacket when she is cold, make her feel safe. Now, when you two have jobs, she should be paid as much as you. Maybe even more.
  10. Treat my daughter with the utmost respect. When I say respect, I mean see Numbers 1-9. Rinse. Repeat.

That’s not too bad, right? I made it easy. Just follow the rules and you will have my undying love and affection. And if you don’t follow the rules? Well, like I said, I’m crafty.

Mo Choices Coming To a Blog Near You (umm, well, MY blog anyway)

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Leftovers from The Cookhouse in New Milford. It was great the first time, even better the second.

I’ve always had this interest in food. As in tasting it, eating it, devouring it. Please don’t be confused with me actually making it. No. I’ll leave that part to the experts.

For someone who loves food so much, it’s funny how I abhor the kitchen. In fact, I wouldn’t mind if it fell off the house and floated out to sea. Just as long as it leaves the fridge behind. I like the fridge.

Anyway, in case you haven’t figured it out, I like food. I mean, I didn’t get my chins and tummies by not liking it. DH calls me a foodie. Which is funny. Because like wine, I know nothing about it.

I’m no culinary expert by any stretch of the imagination (I lost count on all my fingers and toes how many times I’ve had to call my mom or someone to get me out of a cooking pickle. You know, like when I add so much salt to a recipe, I swear the Atlantic is sitting right there on my stovetop — I’m sensing an ocean theme here. Hmm. It’s a good thing I like seafood).

I can’t tell if there is white pepper or vanilla in a sauce (I’m that way with wine too. Please don’t put me to the test because I’ll fail miserably. Just hand me a glass of Cabernet dammit).

I’ve never taken a cooking class in my life. (Unless you count the time I watched a chef cook for me while I got drunk on the wine they served while I took notes on the little recipe sheets that went straight into the trash when I got home because umm, Beef Wellington? Really? What even is that? If I want to cook beef, I’ll shove it in a bun. But, it was good. That’s because I didn’t make it. Get my point?)

I don’t watch the Food Network because I can’t actually eat the food they make or have a desire to make it. But I did watch Julie & Julia. Twice. Does that count?

So why have a page dedicated to restaurant reviews if I don’t really know anything about food? Because I know how to eat it. How to appreciate it. How to savor it. I can tell if something sucks or if it’s the best thing since sliced bread (that’s a really stupid expression, don’t you think?).

I also like to eat different things. I will search the menu at a restaurant for something I’ve never tried before. I’m adventurous that way. I have tried everything from frogs legs to snails (yes frogs legs really do taste like chicken).

Most of the time it works in my favor. There really isn’t much I don’t like or won’t try (except chicken liver, anything veal and raisins. Oh, and caramel. I hate caramel. I know. Weird, right?)

When I see something on the menu that floats my boat, my eyes light up, and I jump up and down in my chair like a little kid getting ready to go for a ride on Magic Mountain. I promise you, the feeling for me is better than Christmas morning. Sometimes, dare I say, even better than sex. I said sometimes.

So, due to DH’s persistence, I have decided to have a page on my Momfeld blog dedicated to reviews of places I’ve eaten at. And I shall call this page “Mo Choices.” (DH came up with that…clever, isn’t it?).

I understand this really pretty much only benefits the local folk, but when I’m out and about traveling for one irish dance competition or another, on a college tour trip or family vacation, I’ll be sure to record my findings there.

So, stay tuned and check it out. I hope it helps you decide where to go next time a date night or girl’s night out is in order.

And if one of my local readers finds something or knows of a place you think I might like, please share! (This does not include Chick-Fil-A because I’ve already tried it and well, does the fact that I have 42 containers of their sauce in the veggie crisper of my fridge say anything?)

Bon appetit, happy eating or whatever!

Where’s the CPU?

There really needs to be a refresher course, or should I say — some seriously intense classes — offered for women (or men) reentering the workplace, whether it be after raising children, or just taking a long break for whatever reason. Technology change is enough to make me feel like I’m on a ship during a tsunami. It makes my head spin. Yesterday there was the rotary phone. Today there aren’t any phones at all. I’m not lying.

I started a new job less than a month ago. This company has a “Workplace of the Future” environment. The first day, it took me about an hour to lift my jaw off the ground when I found out there are no phones. And another hour to wrap my head around the fact that there is no voicemail.

Well, hell. I remember when voicemail first showed its face, now they are doing away with it? How can that be? I also walked to school barefoot in the snow. Uphill. Both ways. Then they invented shoes. Oh sorry. That’s my mother’s story.

There are no offices either. Just a large space with about a million cubicles. There are “white noise” speakers in the ceiling so you can’t hear each other’s conversations. Everything is done online. It’s all very futuristic. Although very different from the type of corporations I used to work in when I was a young woman, I have to say I like it.

But all this new technology put me in a little bit of a situation a couple of weeks ago…

CPURemember the CPU? I believe it stands for “Central Processing Unit” and it is, or was, the size of one of those mini-fridges you keep in a dorm room. In my day, they sat under the desk practically at your knees. Where you would slam your legs into it and your stockings would get snagged on the metal edge causing your stockings to run.

If you were lucky enough to find someone who had clear nail polish on them, you could stop the damage before half your leg skin was exposed. Possibly the worst thing that could ever happen. Showing skin in the office? Now it’s all you see. But I digress.

I had to upload (download? who knows the difference?) some software to my computer for a task I needed to complete. I took the CD (I could have said floppy disk but I’m not THAT old…okay I lie, I am) out of the sleeve it was stored in and proceeded to insert it into the computer.

I looked under my desk for the CPU. It wasn’t there. I looked on my desk, behind my desk. I got on my hands and knees and followed the cables into the wall. Can you just picture my forty-eight year old black-slacked ass sticking up in the air? I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.

With all this new-fangled technology, perhaps they keep the CPU INSIDE the walls? Or in a nearby closet? Don’t tell anyone, but I even looked on the ceiling. I was desperate. Not to mention perplexed. I was thisclose to hauling out a ladder and climbing on the roof.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally established there are no CPUs. They went down the river with the voicemail. I started to feel around the computer screen. They have televisions that you can put a DVD directly into. Why not a monitor? After about twenty seconds, I realized, no. Not in the monitor. Not this one, anyway.

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These are dinosaurs…

...these are not.

…these are not.

I sat there with my head in my hands repeating to myself, “think, think think,” when I noticed the laptop that is “docked” on my desk. “But I don’t use the laptop,” I thought to myself. I use the keyboard and a large flatscreen monitor when I do computer work.

The laptop is so I can take it home with me to do work if I need to stay home for the day or whatever. I thought it was just sitting here staying charged in that thing the people around here refer to as a “docking station.” But I took a shot and felt the side of it. What did I have to lose? Nothing. Because I hit pay dirt. BAM! There it was.

With a red face and the push of a button, I was in business. And I didn’t even have to ask anyone. I do have to admit that I felt like my grandmother at the time.

After three weeks, I still work there so I guess I’m doing something right. What I’m trying to say is, if I can do it, so can you. So, good luck to all you people who are going back to the grind. I have hard core respect for you.

Oh and I still wear stockings. Old habits die hard, my friends. Except now I keep a bottle of Maybelline Clear Coat in my bag at all times. But I don’t think I’ll be needing it. After all, there is no CPU.

Multi-Task Your Way to Insanity Or Just Don’t Do It

Who here is a multi-tasker? I don’t mean making a list and completing it within six months. I mean an honest to goodness, true multi-tasker. In case you aren’t sure who you are, this is what I’m talking about…

The woman (or man) who can hold down a full-time job (or part-time job, or even no job because that doesn’t really matter…all that does is complicate things), take care of the kids or animals (aren’t they the same?), keep the house, do laundry, do the grocery shopping and put dinner on the table every night.

And THEN do all the other shit that pops up…you know, your second job as Mom’s Taxi Service. Call the insurance company to fight a claim they once again screwed up on. Pull the weeds out of the garden. Service the hubs (or wife or significant other). Go to PTA meetings and/or serve the poor at the local soup kitchen. Not necessarily in that order.

Family members birthdays to buy for (they all seem to be in the same month) and a Bunco outing that is a complete necessity for your sanity even though you really should stay home and knock a couple things off the list. I could seriously go on here, but I’m getting a little nauseous and feeling like I need to lie down (is nap on this list? No, probably not).

If you are one of these people who can straight up do all of the above or something close to it without batting an eyelash or have a full-blown anxiety attack, I give you a standing ovation. Because I can’t do it. I don’t like to do it. And most importantly, I don’t want to do it.

This is one of the reasons why you haven’t heard from me. In addition to taking a really intense writing course, I’ve been looking for a job. I’m still trying to get shit settled from The Kid’s accident with the insurance company. I’ve got phone calls to make and crap to write. I’ve got a kid who still likes me to drive her around although she has her license because — and I swear if I didn’t actually see her pass through my down-below I wouldn’t believe she was mine — she hates to drive.

My house is in shambles. We have a new dog who sheds like it’s his damn job. The dog slobber and dirty paw prints are just about sending me into orbit. Before we didn’t have a dog, I was a lousy housekeeper. Did I paint you a picture yet?

I have books I want to/need to read, blog posts from fellow bloggers that I have to get to. And three games that used to be thirteen but I was a responsible adult and put a kabash on them on Words with Friends. Throwing my iPhone into the lake sounds like a responsible thing to do, don’t you think?

I start a new job next week. So, now I have to add that in there.

I wasn't kidding

I wasn’t kidding

I am here writing this post when I should be making phone calls and faxing important documents. I really should clean out the garbage pail in my office that is so overflowing with shit it’s reaching halfway up my wall. I really should put the laundry that has been sitting in my washer since nine this morning into the dryer.

I haven’t even mentioned a little thing called a shower. That might be important since I do have to look presentable for the three things I must do this afternoon outside of the home. You know, in public. In about thirty minutes.

This was supposed to be a post about multi-tasking and it has turned into a full-on bitch session for me. Thanks for listening. Do you want a turn? Go for it. Bitch away. How do you get it all done? (Keeping a bottle of wine or whiskey close by doesn’t count because that’s a given.)

For me right now, I’m going to take a nap. After I shower. And run errands. And make two phone calls. Or not.

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day. It means different things for different people. For some, it means four generations of mothers/daughters dressing up in the same outfit and flaunting their threads at the local Chinese buffet.

For others, it means hosting a party and inviting every mother within a ten mile radius.

And others still, a nice quiet day with the family or breakfast with mom is all they wish for.

I have done all of the above at least once in my nearly seventeen years of being a mother (except the twinsie thing; as cute as that may be, it’s just not for me).

Mother’s Day is a day to celebrate and appreciate your mother. Or if you are a mother, for your children — those little creatures you’ve helped bring into the world and raise — to appreciate you. Or both, of course.

Since I am lucky enough to still have my mother, I will stop and show my appreciation with a phone call, an e-card and a gift she practically ordered herself. She knows I appreciate her. But it’s my day too. Call me selfish, but I’m still raising my kid and that shit is hard work. I need a f*cking break.

Every year there is really only one thing I want to do. Be alone. I know, I know. I should want to spend the day with my kid. I’m being completely selfish (again). What kind of mother am I? But can I ask one question? If I do decide to spend Mother’s Day with my child, what makes this day any different from the rest?

I have a friend who used to get completely incensed at me for wanting to just be left alone on Mother’s Day. “Mother’s Day is so you can spend the day with your children.” No. Not for me, it isn’t. Oh and hey. Do me a solid. Don’t judge my decision and I won’t judge yours.

I love my crotch fruit more than I do myself or any other being, dead or alive. I will lay myself down in front of a speeding freight train and move mountain and earth for this kid. I will drop what I’m doing at any given moment if she needs me to. I am there for her through thick and thin. I don’t need to spend my Mother’s Day with her to prove that.

Quite honestly, I would like to let my family off the hook. Go. Go do something else. Go to the mall. Go to a museum or for a walk. Go read a book. Go pick your nose if you want to. Just don’t do it within ear or eye shot of me.

HAPPY MOTHERS DAYAnd when The Kid is a grown up with children of her own? A phone call or card will be fine with me. I know we are always mothers until the day we depart this fine world, but my job will be done. It will be time to pass the torch.

So, what am I doing today? What I always would prefer to do, whether I get there or not…sit on the back deck with a good book and a pitcher of margaritas. Alone.

I think I make it pretty easy. So, happy Mother’s Day to all mothers near and far. I hope you get what you want. Now, I’m going back to my margarita so leave me alone.

 

Saving Lives One Boob at a Time

A couple months ago, I told you about my friend Wendy and her cancer diagnosis. If you missed it, you can read about it here.

But to give you a recap, she was dying her hair in her gorgeous red signature color when she dropped a blob of dye on her left boob. When she went to wipe it up, she felt a lump. Talk about  a sign from God? Geez, it doesn’t get any louder than that.

Anyway, it turns out she has a very rare form of breast cancer called Triple Negative Metaplastic Carcinoma. It is so rare, it only occurs in 1% of women. And because of her love for red hair, she caught it while she was in Stage 1.

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My friend Wendy

She has started her chemo treatment which has made her hair fall out. She is in the process of getting a wig, but I have to say she pretty much rocks the do-rag. In fact, if you ask me, she looks downright gorgeous! But I’m not here to tell you about how she looks without her hair…

I’m writing to you for a few reasons. The first and most important reason is to remind you to give yourself a breast exam. I never did before and now I do regularly. If Wendy saves even one life, I know it will be worth it to her.

Second, with her treatment and inability to work full-time, her expenses are creeping up. If you so desire, please help her and her wonderful family. Even a $5 donation will mean a great deal to them. Click this link if you would like to make a contribution.

Third, she is building a team of walkers for Relay for Life in her town. Please consider buying a t-shirt (they are so cute), making a donation to the cause, or if you are local, joining her team. Here is the link for that.

She started a #myleftboob campaign after her diagnosis to raise awareness of this disease. She’s amazing and probably one of the strongest women I know. The things she is accomplishing while she is undergoing treatment makes Oprah look bad.

If you are interested in joining her in her campaign, just Instagram or Tweet a photo of you and your left boob. Not the naked boob because well, you’ll get in trouble. Here is a sampling of what I did. Just make sure you hashtag it like this: #myleftboob and tag Wendy by doing this: @wendipoprock so she can see you and say hello.

picstitchWendy is an awesome writer and has a blog so if you’d like to follow along on her journey with her, click here. She’s also in the process of doing a documentary but you can find all that information on her blog.

See, I told you she has a lot going on. I feel like a damn slouch. But I’m not here to talk about me.

I know that was a lot of information and links. So, choose one or all. Wendy’s story is interesting. And who knows? Maybe she’ll save your life.

Hairy Legs and Brain Farts

This morning I was futzing along. Getting some laundry done. Straightening up the kitchen from the breakfast mess. Making some beds. You know, like I said, futzing along. Not a care in the world.

At 8:23am I was thinking about the other things I needed or wanted to get done. There is a difference you know. The need vs. want thing. But let’s talk about that another time.

I decided to take a quick look on my trusty iPhone calendar because even though I didn’t think I had anything on the agenda (besides some things I needed and wanted to do), I probably should make sure.

My eyes went wide and I shot up to a standing position. I did one of those back and forth circular motion panic things that you do when you aren’t quite sure what to do. I probably resembled Yosamite Sam on speed. Or Popeye. Or well, just me.

I had seven…count ’em…SEVEN minutes to get to my annual gyno and mammogram appointment. An appointment I’ve had since January. Holy shit. Anyone who knows me, knows that I am punctual to a fault. And if I am late, I can blame my family for that. Seriously. It’s usually their fault.

Anyway, a quick call to the office and a fast explanation about how I suffer from the periodic Brain Fart and how it’s a problem I should probably have checked out (too bad I couldn’t get a 3-in-1 deal but this is a doctor for down below although it seems my brains were where the sun don’t shine this morning so maybe?), the nice receptionist lady said “hurry up.”

This is the look I was definitely trying to avoid. It was a close call.

This is the look I was definitely trying to avoid. I have to tell you it was a close call.

But I wasn’t showered. There is no way in hell I am going to lay back on a gurney with my legs hiked up spread eagle without a shower. There are things you know? Like possible dingle berries and well, things. Amiright?

I grabbed a wash cloth and a towel from the linen closet and busted my ass, really only paying any attention to all that is between my belly button and upper thighs. Anything else that may have been left behind was just going to have to be a surprise.

Seven (because seven is my lucky number today) minutes later I was backing out of my driveway. My hair was unbrushed, my legs were hairy and I was without a stitch of makeup. I had the same clothes on from yesterday because who had time to decide that? But I changed my underwear because my mother raised me right.

Twenty minutes later and a half hour late, I walked into my appointment. They took me right away and I had all of the above mentioned done (except the Brain Fart check-up). My heart slowed down, I was safe. Phew. That was hairy. Well, so were my legs so who cares?

I rushed to this appointment only to find out that I have lost an entire inch, I have gained 23 pounds and was told I should probably go have a colonoscopy. Because what? I wasn’t accosted enough? Just what I need. I have truly hit mid-life. I’m going back to bed. And no. That is not on my calendar.

 

Everything’s Coming Up Lillies

Worse than any hangover I've ever had. Okay. Third worst.

Worse than any hangover I’ve ever had. Okay. Third worst.

I woke up with a Lilly hangover this morning. What is a Lilly hangover you ask? It’s when you stay up until the wee early morning hours in the hopes of being one of the first online to scap up some Lilly Pulitzer for Target crap.

Have I lost my mind? Yes, I have. I will tell you something else. I’m pretty sure Lilly is rolling around in her grave right now. Because…Target. (I love Target, don’t get me wrong. But Lilly in Target? That’s like Imelda Marcos in Payless.)

In case you live in a box, cave or have a life, here’s a recap…

The powers that be at Lilly Pulitzer, for reasons I don’t really know because I know nothing about economics or consumerism or whatever, decided to collaborate with Target.

My best guess is that the Lilly people basically dummied down their product and slashed their prices by a million percent so that middle America could afford it. So these people get a taste of Lilly and the patterned gold and will want more. Except if they want it, they’ll have to go get the real stuff. We’ll just call them Lilly Teasers.

I am not a Lilly fan. My style is relaxed moms-wear, preferably in browns and blacks with the waistband of my jeans landing somewhere north of my belly button. My idea of bold is wearing mismatched socks.

A little over a year ago, I had never even heard of Lilly. So, why the (partial) all-nighter? I’ll give you one hint. She’s an off-spring of mine. And her wish list was long.

Just so you know, I didn’t have to stay up until 2am. I didn’t do it for moral support or to be a cheerleader. But because leaving your credit card alone with a 16 year old is probably not the wisest decision. Although by the end of the hour, she had those 16 digits committed to memory. Twenty something hours later, she still knows them. I’m a little bit scared.

So, here’s how it went down:

After stressing for two days because we weren’t going to be near a Target on the coveted day because we were away at a dance thing with other Lilly-loving junkies, we found someone to follow on Facebook that would keep us in the know. In other words, tell us when Target/Lilly would be releasing the goods online.

We refreshed and refreshed some more ’till the cows came home when suddenly our new Facebook Lilly friend made an announcement to “QUICK HURRY UP AND SWITCH TO YOUR MOBILE DEVICE!!!” In layman’s terms, that means that you could only order via your smart phone. Don’t ask because I don’t know. It’s one of those technological mysteries.

buying lilly

The Lilly Brigade

After much screaming, a broken eardrum and some pissed off neighbors, everyone had their phones ready to go. We were now prepared to procure some of the cheap coveted Lilly wear. Our new Facebook Lilly friend posted links to specific items in drips and drabs. This all happened before the actual online sale started.

After we were able to purchase some items, I saw a comment that the links were “leaked” and that Target found out and put a stop to the madness pronto. Now, I don’t know if that is true or not. But that’s what I read. And since the links stopped coming and from what I’ve seen in the wake of the madness, I believe it to be true.

Finally at nearly 2:30am, the heavy lidded teens and temporarily insane moms went to bed. I awoke to pissed off people on Facebook complaining about the injustice of it all. When they did finally announce the sale online, most everything was gone. Or gone within minutes. Possibly even seconds.

Pictures of brick and mortar Targets with lines wrapping halfway to the back parking lot were being posted. Hey, you people at the back of the 300 people deep line? Go home. You’re not even getting a nail file (which could have been yours for $2).

Apparently, we were very “lucky” to be able to get what we got. Now to wait for the shipments to come in. If the quality is at least better than a paper bag, then we may be keeping it. If not? We’ll have years of gift giving sitting in the closet. Oops. Did I just say that out loud?

Oh, and one more thing…if you tell anyone I actually was a willing participant in the madness? I’ll deny it. And you’ll never get a cheap cute Lilly headband that I bought for $15 from me.

And may I please introduce to you....The Final List.

And may I please introduce to you….The Final List.