This week has been the boys’ spring break (holiday from school). Big Angel went to a Hunger Games camp, and Little Angel had a few days of his Special day camp (program for people with Developmental Disabilities — bless them). In Big Angel’s Hunger Games happened to be a classmate who lives up the street: we discovered this on the first day, so the mother asked me if we could carpool. She’s one of those for whom I’ve always had little respect, but listening to her complain yesterday definitely made her respect-free in my book. They are financially comfortable, have three children (the youngest of whom is an “oops,” about which the mother loudly brags [I wouldn’t, both afraid the children would hear and understand as well as how offensive to those who want children but are unable]), the mother doesn’t work (in or out of the home), they have a cleaning lady, and her parents live nearby so up they come a few times a week to help her with her children. She was boo-hooing because her mother was unable to come up more than twice this week … and her eldest two were in camp.
I rest my case.
But I am so excited about the near-completion of our bedroom and my spring and summer sartorial choices! Superficial, thy name is moi.
I have long loved Eileen Fisher, even though the fit of her clothes is inconsistent. Last year I espied the most delicious ultraviolet silk dress of hers hanging in Nordstrom. It was $338, so on the rack it remained. But then for some reason in January I was on the Neiman Marcus website where the dress was, only now $119. I didn’t think at all, let alone twice, before purchasing it.
Come to maman! but never, ever with ridiculous shoes like these
For whatever kind reason the Eileen Fisher company sent me a generous and unsolicited gift card, so I made good use of it purchasing this sweet double-breasted cropped jacket
which I think will look fantastic with the dress! I’m already planning on wearing it to the Big Angel’s fifth grade culmination ceremony.
And I’m pretty gaga for Fly London shoes, so I got these black suede peep-toe lace-up booties:
They are sinfully comfortable so I’m sure I’ll enjoy them.
I’ve also been feeling snakeskin, so found some cute flat sandals which will probably end up as my go-to this summer.
I’m having fun with asymmetry, wearing a side drape tank
with an elliptical cropped linen top over (a blouse I purchased and had altered so much it is no longer recognizable). I love, love this asymmetrical pant with panels attached.
I purchased new frames even though I just had glasses made in February — I want more than one pair of this prescription (progressive — I need both now!).
Little Angel has taken to pulling fecal matter out of his diaper and smearing it all over, his bed, his body, his mouth, when he has a BM at night. During the day I am able to prevent this by changing his diaper as soon as he goes. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m having Special Needs onesies made (like a baby onesie, only sized for a big boy), but that’ll take a spell.
I may be incredibly banal, vapid, and vain, but I am grasping at straws here. His fantastic and safe Special Needs bed has nine million nooks and crannies, and that means in the middle of the fucking night I am cleaning and then disinfecting nine million nooks and crannies, in addition to bathing him and trying to keep him out of mischief (like cat food, kitty litter) as I do all this. (He has pica, which means he’ll put just about any- and everything in his mouth.) It is near impossible. He is turning into a nightmare to deal with, and I hate myself for thinking and writing that, as he is profoundly, deeply disabled, and he is profoundly, deeply sweet. He has no idea what he’s doing but I KNOW EVERY FUCKING THING. And I am so sad and so mad, and angry with myself for being mad about it.
So if I want to buy ridiculous clothes and shoes I figure I’m going to do it. This is my payment for cleaning poop and listening to stupid mommies who have no idea what it’s like to have to really work, what it’s like to be really scared, yet who have the gall to complain about their protected and pompous situations.
Eating my feelings is no longer helping me, and since I don’t drink I am honestly unsure what to next turn. Recreational drugs are a no. Being snarky is a big yes. Luckily at that I excel.