wherein i admit all those manipulating, reverse psychological guilt trips mom gave me as a child, finally paid off.

i saw the most awesome quilt EVER today...you have to go look at it .

speaking of birth, and motherhood, as the 2 tend to go together, it was pointed out to me the other day that i am The Great Manipulator.

score one for mama.

so i had to get up early for a staff meeting tuesday morning and afterwards, spent the better part of my day doing something i haven't done in ages and i love: thrift shopping.

now i'm a weird kind of chickadoo. i've got my favorite hang outs, sure. i am woman, hear me roar. but with the exception of holiday aisles, book stores, yard sales, flea markets or specialty/crafy type stores, i don't really *get* shopping. i'm not a big fan. i'm in, i'm out. but i loves me some thrift stores.

i'm picky about my thrifting tho.

first, i have to be in the mood. one does not feel like digging for treasure thru stacks of junk just any old day. i once embaressed the living crap out of my abundantly patient husband who'd tagged along with me one sad, sorry, of-that-we-dare-not-speak-of saturday to a jc penney's clearance sale. i thought i was being cool like all the other cool moms but ohhhh was i sadly mistaken. you get trapped in there with 50 other women shouting over racks of clothes, pushing and shoving in one gigantic mass advertisement for the upside to lobotomies, and you slowly feel that small sacred thread of sanity loosen itself from your death-grip clasp, then dissapear like a fart in the wind. i literally slid down a wall onto the floor in the ohm position and summoned me some bob marley.

loud. and off-key.

next, my thrift shopping experience has to be, in my mind, cheap. jason thinks i shouldn't use the word *cheap*. that it sounds dirty. like a loose harlot. but these are the breaks, kids. so cheap it is. dirt cheap. so cheap that its almost ridiculous, cheap. like manna from heaven, cheap. like you will pay ME to take your rockin' slate gray with the purple butterfly & softer than old navy's, aeropostle teeshirt, cheap.

which is another shameful tidbit i will now admit to. i am the first mom to step up with an"oh no you dih'unt" at the mere mention of designer labels. you think i don't have rants? i have rants. its not important.... popularity has way more to do with your awesome character than how cute your jeans are, etc....

not to mention that i personally think it borders on retarded to go to the mall and spend $40 on a blouse with nothing more than a 1 inch *ae* splashed in the middle, ok? howEVER.....if i find said teeshirt for 50 cents in the bargain bin at ye old thrift store? glory halleluiah, my friends. glory halleluiah. i or my husband or my child will wear that puppy proudly while i do a secret high-five with the G-man, and fist in the air, mouth

"yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaah. i...am allllll that is mom!!!

but let me get to the good stuff.

living in a "historical district", grants you a unique birds eye view into a plethora of over-the-top lifestyles. and i, being this lover of people, this culture afficianado that i am, love this. what we refer to as our 'hood' largely consists of an eccentric hodge-podge of people in the arts... professors...the retired....activists... members of the symphony....your smattering of college kids.....where the yuppies go to plant their gardens.....and more than our share of ye modern day hippies. more living rooms painted red than i care to mention. yes, i look. and all dog lovers. every one of 'em, bless 'em.

so this gigantic, invisible, yet strangely neon sign kind of looms over the tree streets:

go green! reduce-reuse-recycle! begin your compost pile today!

which is all just so great and awesome and something really uber cool that i totally aspire to do some day when i'm not, i dunno, busy. in all fairness, and in effort to thwart a backlash of hate-mail, listen, i care as much as the next guy about preserving this magnificent place most of us call earth. probably even more. and believe it or not, i even have my causes that are near and dear to my heart and that i am staunchly supportive of, and passionate about. i am mother natures' favorite great grandaughter. however. paying monthly, for special plastic tins (hellooo? plastic? can i get a contradiction-in-terms witness, around here??) so the city can come and pick up my nicely seperated garbage is not top on my list of priorities. cast your stones now. i totally get it. while we're at it, i still use cat litter. you know. the bad kind.

why? because its cheap.

anywhoo. this happens to be a great source of aggravation for my child, who cannot fathom, cannot wrap her mind around, why her parents aren't cool like all the other cool parents, from, you know, the cool side of town. she's always harassing me about how important recycling is. how we're not doing enough for our part. and all this, while i'm doing really cool stuff, too, like still cooking with grease and oogling the new dvd kiosks at walmart. have you seen these things? you can now rent movies at walmart for $1/day am i the only one properly amazed by this concept?

i digress.

anyway, my daughter hates to shop. i know, i know. enjoy it now. enjoy it while she doesn't understand the concept of the gap or can recognize a coach bag at 50 paces. i've always harbored this secret hope that she will love thrift stores like me. that she'll *get it*. she'll understand the
concept. she'll make her own clothes. her own style. she'll revel in her unique-ness. she'll sew this and that together like a patchwork quilt and be the grooviest kid because she's her own person.

that and unfortunately we aren't nudists, so we have to wear clothes and they may as well be cheap affordable.

so every time we're in the need of something outgrown, i put on my bravest face and channel my Voice Otherwise Reserved for PottyBreaking humans and House-Breaking dogs. something to the extent of: "hey! i have the coolest idea! lets go to ____ and look for JEANS! won't that be FUN? won't we Pee Our Pants With Enthusiasm?? good grrrrrrrrrl!!"

yah. so that goes over like a lead balloon.

every. single. time.

until.

one particular day, Once Upon A Brilliant Time.

i, in typical awesome mom character, rally my troop of one, after school, announcing we are going shopping for pants. pants without holes in the knees and bum and crotch. pants that have not become high water waders. pants that fit, pants. and the resident red-head, in typical bemoaning character, flops around like a dying fish in the backseat, muttering something about torture.

we get there, and i proceed to spend the next 20 minutes feverishly searching thru racks and bins. even my patience is waning thin. but by this point, it has become my mission. my fist-pounding "principle of the matter". we will find pants, so help me and the little baby Jesus, we will find pants.

my child is no help. everything i find remotely suitable, she has some ridiculous rebuke for. things like: "its too tight.... its too loose.... mama? this one has a rip...."

eesh. details.

i had finally reached the end. i could feel it, my sanity, teetering ever so precariously on the edge of oblivion. bella kicks me while i'm down, with a "why do we hafta shop here, anyway."

and like a bloodied, match-weary prize fighter miraculously, against all odds, getting that 2nd wind, i looked my 8 year old in the eye and without so much as a blink, i said:

"because, bella? in this family we recycle."

and as i blazed ahead on that trail of improv passion for our recycling brothers and sisters, my daughter stood there, mouth dropped open. oh i could see the pride and adoration in her face. it was tangible now, as i sang the praises of the lost and forgotten garment. as i raised it up from the proverbial dead and draped it lovingly across her shoulders!!

and when i was finished, an elderly woman nodded, wiping tears from her eyes. as my daughter tackled me in a hug, i became a hero, my friends. a hero.

***********************

i was sharing this little story with my sister yesterday and i could just imagine her own adoration of All That Is Me, her mouth dropped open, in awe and respect.

instead, she laughed. a hearty laugh at that, the little nematoad.

and said, "You. Little. Manipulator."

i have just one thing to say to that: you. aaaaaaare. welcome.