Soccer Mom Crash Course

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the Soccer Complex. Osprey soared through the blue sky over the fields and the air was thick with excitement, sweat, and apprehension. It was the first game of the season…and Kiddo’s first game ever.

I had the requisite folding chairs and Kiddo’s water bottle. Hubby and I should have just settled down in the sunshine to watch a pack of six and seven-year-old chase a ball around a field. Right? Wrong...

This is Kiddo’s first season playing any sport. My Hubby still sacrifices himself to the Soccer Gods each Sunday, so I wasn’t exactly overeager to give up my Saturdays as well. We waited for Kiddo to tell us he really wanted to play. It just took a while for him to tear himself away from his Legos and hours of free play.

His team has had a whopping three practices. Basically, the coach showed them how to kick a ball. We haven’t really gotten to distance, passing or even much aim. Several times the players had to be rounded up from playing tag or picking dandelions. Kiddo was excited to have cleats (excuse me, boots) and knee socks (a.k.a. soccer socks) like his Daddy. Two little girls showed off their new shoes with pink stripes and chased their matching pink balls. Most kids were in Kindergarten. Newbies. Fresh meat.

Hubby (soccer show-off that he is) volunteered to help the coach wrangle kids and herd them towards their correct goals out on the practice field. He had no official position–it was just a fun way to blow off some steam after a stressful day at work. But last Thursday after practice the coach pulled him aside and said he couldn’t make it to the first game Saturday and the assistant coach had been a no-show for two weeks. Could Hubby possibly help out?

How could he say no? Hubby was drafted.

Now, it’s Kiddo’s first game ever and our first time even watching a kids’ soccer match, and suddenly Hubby is the fearless leader of a pack of wild and mostly untrained players. We figured it would be fine–just some low key bumble-bee ball. He’s played for 30+ years himself. How hard could it be?

We arrived to find the opposing team doing organized warm-up drills called out by a drill sergeant. There were a lot of them–the field was aglow with future World Cup contenders zipping along in their fluorescent green jerseys. And they were all easily a head taller than our biggest player and probably double the weight of our smallest. They looked as if they had been playing together since they were waddling in diapers. Ugh oh…

Their coach must be a professional high school football coach and/or a Marine drill sergeant. He paced the sidelines barking orders and calling plays like, “Hey Wolf–get on that kid–take him down!” and “Defense stay in your positions– knock ’em out!”

Coach Hubby ran along with the kids yelling, “Just kick the ball! No, our goal’s in the other direction!”

The other team had fourteen players. They switched the entire squad on the field out every few minutes for freshly rested and watered reinforcements. We had one sub. Our little guys and gals were thirsty, unsure, and exhausted. Their goalies hunched in front of the net wearing special pennies and goalie gloves. Our goalies wore one of Kiddo’s X-men t-shirts and I caught one picking clovers in the grass. At half time the other team had an organized huddle while their coach dressed them down and went over new strategies. At half time our team drank all of their water and tried not to cry.

Coach Hubby just shook his head and muttered how it was like reliving The Bad News Bears. Except soccer instead of baseball. And he couldn’t drink beer at the field–although we probably all could have used one.

In the end, it was a debacle. The league is *not supposed to* keep score, but we went down in flames 13-0.

The parents still cheered as loud as we could each time one of our players got a foot on the ball or made a run towards the goal. We took pictures and gave pats on the back. We shouted words of encouragement. Since there were so few players, we quickly learned all their names and ages and previous experience (or lack of). We discovered who had unexpected speed and who wasn’t afraid to lock horns with kids twice his size. We saw how amazing our kids were no matter how they played. And they did play well–the other team just played better. We were all proud.

After the game Kiddo knew his team had been spanked. But he still had fun. And so had Hubby. That made it a great day anyway.

And I hope when our team gets into the swing of things we come back and kick the green team’s collective ass.

My Word(s) in the Sentinel

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I have not been getting much writing or blogging done lately for many reasons (i.e. spring yard work, concerts & late nights out, family things). But one of the main culprits behind my writers block is how preoccupied I have been worrying about The Sunshine State’s new governor and how his insane budget proposals may utterly wreck my family’s world. Nearly everyone in my family and many of my close friends are employed by (or retired from) the state…at least for the moment. They might not be for long…

My Op-ed piece My Word: Public-private apples-orange was published in the Orlando Sentinel today. It does feel so very nice to see your name, your work, on crinkly paper and in black and white.

Now I should feel inspired and get back to work on my book…I can do it, I can do it…

She Writer Blogger Ball Redux

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I’d like to welcome any She Writes members dropping by from the Blogger Ball Redux. I had a such wonderful time discovering fellow member’s blogs last go round and can’t wait to connect with some more talented writers this weekend.

As part of the getting to know you suggestion, I thought I’d share the first ten quirky things about me that come to mind:

1. I can still recite the entire To Be or Not To Be soliloquy from Hamlet at a spit-fire pace twenty years after I memorized it for drama class.
2. I am distantly related to a famous pirate.
3. I cannot think of a dessert I do not like. Some may be better than others, but they are all good in some way, shape, or form.
4. I don’t like big weddings and think everyone should just elope. And don’t even think of asking me to be a bridesmaid. Guess that’s why running a bridal boutique was not the right career for me.
5. I can’t watch television, work out, or do much of anything without a book in my hands.
6. I think I am the only person in America who has never had a Starbucks coffee or watched American Idol.
7. I’ve never really seen snow.
8. I used to be nicknamed “concert girl” because I adore the thrill of getting lost in live music and would travel far and wide to see my favorite bands.
9. I actually liked being an only child and now have an only child. And yes, it will stay that way.
10. My hubby, brother-in-law, cousin and I all share the same birthday. And yes, I was careful not to get knocked-up during a certain window to carry on that tradition.

And now I’m off to dust off my dancing shoes to prepare for the ball… No, wait–actually I’ll sit here in my gym/writing clothes as I waltz through the blogosphere. I’ll save the dancing heels for my concert Sunday night…

Dropping the Bomb on Motherhood

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Imagine it is just another rough day in the mothering hood. Children are crying and wiping snotty noses on your shirt. The laundry pile is multiplying exponentially as one child had an accident and another spewed chocolate milk across the room and the white dog. You haven’t seen a television show without singing puppets, trains, or fairy princesses in years. Your nails are chipped, your legs unshaven, and your not quite sure when you last washed your hair. Each day is a struggle to find that precarious balance between family, daily responsibilities, job, and an occasional moment for yourself. Your life is full, yet you feel as if you lost a bit of yourself somewhere amidst the debris on the delivery room floor.

You may have dreams of escape…those moments when you imagine yourself lying serenely on a beach with a hunky cabana boy bringing you luscious umbrella drinks and there are no children in sight, or perhaps even ON your island oasis. You may even be lucky enough to enjoy weekends escapes or small vacations sans children every once in a while.

What if an amazing opportunity came up–your dream job–and you could reclaim some of your previous life and revive your career? The only caveat: you would have to live on the other side of the world from your children for months at a time. What if you did it? And while you were living as a single, childless professional you decided you liked it better than your real life of chaos back home. You realized maybe you never wanted this whole kids and family thing anyway.

Could you leave them all behind?

Author Rahna Reiko Rizzuto appeared on the Today Show this morning to promote her memoir Hiroshima in the Morning. Given an opportunity to write about the survivors of the nuclear bomb drop in Japan, she left her husband and two small children, ages 3 and 5, for six months to follow her career. While she was away she discovered she had never really wanted to be a mother and didn’t want her children or her husband anymore. When she returned home Rizzuto divorced her husband of 20 years and gave him custody of their small children. She spoke out about her struggle with her identity and her utter ambivalence towards her children and husband.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Ruzzuto now parents at her own leisure and sees her now teen children several times a week to play games and watch television shows together. The “heavy lifting” and day to day dreariness of parenting is left to their father. She says it works better for them, because now their relationship is based on “what we want to give, rather than our obligation to give and our assumptions of what we should get.” In a heavily debated Salon.com article she wrote, “I was afraid of being swallowed up, of being exhausted, of opening my eyes one day, 20 (or 30!) years after they were born, and realizing I had lost myself and my life was over.”

Men say things like this every day, and society generally does not think worse of them. Men can have a mid-life crisis and decide to leave their families because they are not fulfilled. They abandon their children completely for a job or another woman or to rediscover themselves or just slowly drift away into until their presence becomes unexpected and inconsequential. But they are fathers…

Why do we judge mothers on a different scale?

I cannot speak for all mothers. We are a diverse sisterhood, each with our own circumstances and backstory. But I can confidently say that having a child, whether by giving birth, adoption, or other means intrinsically changes you.

I know I would rather cut off my right arm than give up my child. I could be offered a million dollar multi-book deal and a villa in Tuscany and I would turn it down flat if it meant leaving my child permanently. There is nothing wrong with wanting more in your life than carpools and crappy diapers, but once you have made that decision to be a parent it IS your obligation to give unconditionally to that child and provide them with what they need. And yes, sometimes it’s inconvenient and hard and excruciatingly exhausting. It’s a part of the job. Get over it.

Motherhood isn’t always what we signed on for. It takes far more time, effort, compassion, and strength than I ever imagined I had to give. It means sacrifice and change. It also takes courage…and yes, some days that may mean the courage to keep giving when you feel as if you have drained yourself dry. It means having the courage to stay.

As my child grow more independent I struggle with my identity each and every day. But I know no matter how my life grows and I choose to define myself, I will always be a mother. It is a primal concept that Ruzzoto is to selfish to grasp.

Turning the Screw on State Employees

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The media, Tea Partiers, and Republicans have been on a crusade against state workers, denouncing high level bureaucrats with disproportionately high salaries and pension fund double-dippers. They argue it’s only fair to bring state worker benefits more in line with what’s offered in the private sector. Meanwhile, the average State of Florida public worker has been vilified in the rhetoric, turned into a scapegoat for all of Florida’s budget troubles.

The public sector IS NOT the private sector.

When times are flush, private sector employees are rewarded with raises, exorbitant bonuses and solid benefit packages. They are compensated for exceeding quotas and getting their job done. I have never heard of a DCF employee receiving an all-expense paid trip to Hawaii for meeting his quota. Public employees are lucky if a co-worker organizes a potluck holiday party in the break room during lunch.

Here is a sample of current State of Florida job openings with annual salaries:

Psychiatric Aid (Night Shift) $18,259

Gaurdian Ad Litem Case Coordinator $15,762

Juvenile Probation Officer $21,642

Wildland Firefighter $24,579

Correctional Officer $28,093

Child Protective Investigator $28,093

High School Math Teacher for the Deaf and Blind $33,250

Unlike the private sector, there is not much hope of these salaries increasing when the economy improves. State employees have not had a raise in five to seven years and Scott wants to permanently eliminate any annual cost of living increases. Now Scott also wants employees to pay a mandatory 5% of these paltry salaries into a retirement fund. If employees had any chance of a raise they might be much more open to this option. Currently, after 30 years of low pay serving the people of Florida, most employees accrue less than half their annual salary. State workers who have any hopes of actually retiring already pay into supplemental 401k accounts. Scott is changing the rules on many workers midway to late in their careers to suit his own needs. Many employees believe they have been contributing already, a trade-off of non-competitive, poor wages for benefits. The rug has been yanked from under their feet.

And ~~Czar~~ Governor Scott’s absurd new budget proposal would also raise an employee’s family medical insurance premium to $9920 per year, thereby cutting employee’s pay by $7760. For many employees, that $643 per month would be over half their paycheck–gone. If that passes, many full-time state workers will be living in virtual poverty.

Let’s use an example. A Child Protective Investigator is called out day or night, often into dangerous neighborhoods and extremely volatile family situations, to save children who are being physically and/or sexually abused. The investigator’s judgment and experience (or lack of) can literally mean a child’s life or untimely death. If these proposals are passed, that college educated full-time public employee will bring home $322/week before taxes. After taxes, he would do better receiving unemployment.

The Juvenile Probation Officer would be raking in just over $200 per week before taxes. That is not a living wage.

Going against his own campaign slogan, “Let’s get to work!” Scott has plans to eliminate 7% of state government jobs, resulting in nearly 7,000 layoffs, with more cuts to come in the following year. So those left with a job would be doing twice as much work for considerably less pay.

Supporters say if state workers don’t like it, they can find another job. Perhaps they can, but someone must do these jobs, and many of these positions are hard to fill under the best of circumstances. Cutting wages and benefits will lead to a mass exodus of qualified, dedicated, and honest employees and increase corruption, complacency, and crimes against the citizens of Florida. With his sketchy history Gov. Scott will feel right at home.

And although Florida is in such dire straits, Scott is nearly doubling the budget of his own office to $635 million. This would go into his own private slush fund so he can dole out our cash to his big business buddies, money he claims is designated to entices business to our sad state.

Too bad no one is going to have any paycheck to spend. State workers will join ranks of the million others out of work and on the unemployment line…if there is anyone left to work it.

Just DO it.

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A quick welcome to all the SHE WRITES BLOG HOPPERS who may be stopping by for a quick read. I cannot wait to discover all of your blogs about books and writing, my greatest passions. Thanks for dropping by and feel free to sit down, relax, and stay for a little while….
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I’ve been on a bender. A writing bender, that is. (Well, there was some wine involved, but regular consumption doesn’t count and is good for you.)

I’ve convinced myself that I have no hopes of ever finding a real paying job due to the crappy economy, hiring freezes at all my previous places of employment, and my complete absence from the job market for the last seven or so years. I can imagine the human resources director, her face screwed up as if she has just been squirt with Tabasco sauce, as she reads that I have “wasted” nearly the last decade at home raising my kid. SHE manage to work and raise kids. What have I been doing all that time besides eating chocolate covered Oreos, taking tennis lessons, and catching up on all the fine daytime television programs on Lifetime and WE?

I’m not even going to begin to defend myself for being a SAHM and raising a fabulous kid. Or mention that I basically remodeled my house with my own two hands. Or that I wrote a book.

Oh wait, I haven’t finished that yet. But I’m working damn hard on it. I work on my manuscript as if it is a real job. If I win the writing lottery, it’s something which might actually earn me a pittance someday so I can deduct my lovely home office on my tax return. It’s something that brings me overwhelming joy and a sense of accomplishment some days, while others I want to chuck my laptop into the pool–kind of like a real job.

As of today’s count I am at 65,000 words. That’s a whopping 260 pages of words, my words, flowing across the pages…err…screen…and maybe they don’t all quite flow…yet… Okay, so I may have 260 pages of absolute crap that would embarrass a 5th grade teacher–I just don’t know yet. Some days I am exuberantly proud of what I created, others not so much. I hit my goal of 5,000 words per week for the last two weeks. I am inching closer to the end of my first draft, the plots are coming together in a somewhat tidy little bow and the end is in sight. I can get there, I CAN.

And then the rewriting will begin. The merciless editing. Can I rip sentences and entire scenes I agonized over for hours or even days to shreds? Will I be able to banish them from the manuscript completely into the black hole of the delete button? Can I do it? Am I that strong? I think I need an editing boot camp class.

I am desperate to find some critique groups, others writers or editors who can read whatever crap I may be spewing out and tell me how utterly screwed up it is (and how to fix it). I need to reread all the grammar and structural guides I poured over during school. I want my killer Northwestern journalism professor to attack my printed pages with his omnipotent purple pen, slashing away at my misplaced modifiers and dangling participles.

But first I must just do it. Writing is something I love, something I need…even if some days I am terrified of my own keyboard.

How Vintage Nike Ads Kept Me Off Prozac

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all your life you are told the things you cannot do, nike inspiration

This page is yellowed with age, wrinkled from at least a dozen moves, and stained with mysterious drops which could be anything from tears to beer. It has been taped to dorm room walls, lost in precious memory boxes, emblazoned across my fridge with kitsch magnets, and currently graces my office bulletin board where I can read it every day.

These pages were a part of a phenomenal print ad campaign which ran during some the most formative and tumultuous times of my life, those last years of high school and early college. Angst filled years when I didn’t fit in with any crowd. Insecure years when I doubted not only my external beauty but the depth of what was hidden inside. Experimental years when I vacillated between the girl I was and the woman I wanted to become. Years when I made terrible mistakes and lifelong friends as I lost both my innocence and my mind at times.

you do not have to be your mother,

These ads spoke to me, were written for me, they were modern day mantras that boosted my spirits and kept me from drowning myself in vodka or Prozac. I actually changed my major from journalism to advertising as these ads flooded the pages of my Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and Rolling Stone magazines. I too wanted to create edicts of empowerment for the women of the world.

But the power of persuasion can work for both good and evil. Most advertisements, whether print, television or online, tell women we are never thin enough, not attractive or sexy enough, and we have horrible hair. We drive a car our kid’s hate and our husbands must not love us since they don’t give us expensive jewelry in front of a roaring fire. Their message is clear: we are not good enough.

Nike told us we were.

And 20 years later, we still are.

Thanks, Nike.

Chicks Dig Vino: Fab & Funny Wines for Any Girl Gathering

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Yes, I admit it, I am a label whore. I will buy a wine simply because the label intrigues me or makes me laugh so hard I snort wine out my nose. Sometimes it’s just not the points that make a wine pourable. Sometimes the wine’s personality is so just much more intriguing. A bottle or two of these hip vinos is sure to get more than just gossip flowing at your next gathering of girlfriends. Cheers!

Mad Housewife
At the end of a absurdly long day don’t we deserve to leap off the carousel of household catastrophes to savor a much deserved glass of Chardonnay…or two…or three…? For red vino aficionados, a Cabernet and a Merlot are also available from the vineyard that was supposedly inspired by the film “Diaries of a Mad Housewife.” I am going to have to splurge on one of their “Don’t be silly darling, it’s just a wine…” t-shirts immediately. Tons of neat stuff to check out on their website Mad Housewife Cellars.

Bitch and Sassy Bitch
When the party turns into an all-out Bitchfest it’s time to pull out these cute little numbers. All the way from South Austraila, the Bitch Grenache is rapidly becoming available in local markets. The newly discovered Sassy Bitch simply screams for a night out with girlfriends, gossip, and a bit of glamour. Every girl should be entitled to revel in her bitchiness every now and then.

Mommy’s Time Out
Heaven would be a quiet corner where a perfectly chilled Pino Grigio is waiting for me while my child is left to figure out that temper tantrums, baby powdering the bedroom, and flushing frogs down toilet does NOT make Mommy happy. All by himself. While I get some much deserved chill-out time. Wouldn’t it be lovely if life actually worked that way? I have a bottle of this tempting Italian White I am saving for the moment I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.

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Working Girl Wines
We all know that every woman is a working woman no matter what her official title may be. These labels from Olympic Cellars Winery, “Created by women, in support of women,” include Go Girl Red, Working Girl White, Rose the Riveter, and the token hot guy Handyman Red. And you can gulp your glass guilt free, for portions of the profit support various women’s charities. WorkingGirlWines.com

Old Tart
We all have one of these in our circle of friends…or family. This blend of Sauvignon Blanc and Terret is supposedly flying of the shelves across the pond. Made for adult consumers who with voluptuous bodies, who are fresh, fruity, and a bit up-front. OLD Fart Grenache is also available, but personally, I’d prefer this dame at my party. As the bottle says, “Be smart, enjoy the tart!”

Cat’s Pee on a Gooseberry Bush
Sometimes we need an escape from our furry babies as well. Having been the mom of five fab felines, and I have cleaned more than my share of ill placed puddles and piddles some memorable days. So, I simply couldn’t resist including this New Zeland Sauvignon Blanc, self described as “Extremely playful, with aromas inclined to leap out of the glass at you and a long and racy body.” I’m assuming those aromas are much more pleasing to the palate than than the name suggests.

White Trash White
It’s a scenario that is all too familiar. After a few glasses of wine someone inevitably breaks out the country tunes, and often a sing-along ensues. Next time anyone attempts to subject me to such a situation I’m going to insist this wine is served. Perhaps not for the Manolo and martini set, but guaranteed to give the rest of us a good chuckle. The back lable reads: Nestled in the scenic foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the quaint community of Oildale. Strategically planted btween pumping oil wells and oil sumps are rows of grapevines. This blend of oil and tar-tainted soils leds itself to a wine grape flavor seldom duplicated throughout the world of viticulture. At your next trailer park potluck, surprise your neighbors with this teasingly trashy white. No catfish should be served without it.
‘Nuff said.

Tiny Bubbles
Yeah, she looks like she would be the life of any party or its obnoxious downfall. This cheap bubbly should be good for more than a few giggles once her cork is popped. And she kind of reminds me of my 4th grade teacher. Another amusing addition from the Harper Hill Oildale Winery.

UTTER bastard
No night of female bonding is complete without a little man bashing. This lively little Syrah would be the perfect accompaniment to trashing any bastard in your life (whether he deserves it or not). If you prefer a Chardonnay or your man can stand to lose a few pounds, the FAT BASTARD is also readily available.

SinZin
Who can resist this lusty little Bacchus? Perhaps we should save the sinning for a weekend in Vegas, but this Greek God of wine and intoxication is sure to get any party started. My husband wanted to have this label tiled on the bottom of our swimming pool. Seriously. Damn tasty Zinfandel though.

Rude Boy
No need to hire a stripper, Ladies. The back label “warns,” When this bottle of wine is chilled Rude Boy will reveal all. This hunk’s pants disappear when this South African Chardonnay hits the right degree. Never has reaching the proper temperate been so climatic. I will be on the hunt for this hunk for my next soiree…be waiting for it ladies…

Frozen at Age 36

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Thirty-six. Most days I simply cannot believe that I am a grown woman, age 36. Yet apparently, I am the perfect age now. The Guardian’s Observer Magazine proclaims 36 is the age of the “year-zero” face. The age women are spending tens of thousands of dollars to remain looking like forever, attempting to stop the hands of time with plastic surgery and botox.
I was intrigued as this morning I read a BlogHer article debating the issue.

At 36, I look in the mirror and I am relatively satisfied with what I see. Hours at the gym and a healthy diet have kept me somewhat fit and lean but cannot erase the slight sag still stretched across my lower belly or the few faint silver scars that remain as a testament that this body that has grown a child. The first signs of sun damage are appearing, freckles and stubborn age spots that refuse to fade. I’ve come to accept the deepening creases creeping from the corners of my eyes. I will try to slow their growth with drug store face creams, but no botox or plastic surgery for me.

But what if not only our bodies were frozen at age 36, but our entire lives?

At 36, I have the most amazing child I could have ever imagined. He grows more independent and self-sufficient each day yet he still needs me, my unconditional affection, support, and guidance. He is grown enough to be reading and riding a two-wheeler but is still lost in the magic of childhood fantasy and beliefs. He knows wars are real, but so is the Tooth Fairy. I may have yearned for more children in the past, but at 36, I know just one child, this child, is right for me.

At 36, I have found the love of my life and we will be celebrating 11 years of marriage this Spring. He is my best friend, my partner, my lover. I wouldn’t change a thing.

At 36, I am not forced to slave away at a job I hate. I’m still not sure what career I will hold when I grow up, but I have the luxury of a little time to discover myself as I transition from “just a SAHM.” I have time to read and write and think. My family is far from wealthy but we have enough to feel safe and pay our way.

At 36, I have a true home. It may not be grand, but a wave of calm and security washes over me each time I step inside. I can look at the wood floors, the shower tiles, the sun streaming onto the sunflower walls and feel a sense of pride that my sweat, my hands created this small haven.

At 36, I am grateful to still have my parents and family nearby. I’ve matured enough to respect their choices and I often look to them for their wisdom, support, and understanding. I’ve lost some loved ones over the last few years and I may not spend as much time with my extended family as I should, but I still cherish each moment I have with them.

At 36, I’ve stood in the ruins of the Colosseum, exchanged wedding vows in a 2,000 year old Roman monastery, and splashed through a flooded Venetian piazza. I’ve stood transfixed in the pre-dawn light watching lava crash down a volcano as the rainforest woke around me.

At 36, I have a good life.

But I don’t want to stay frozen here forever. I will let my body age with pride, confidence, and grace. With my husband beside me, I will guide my child through times of joy and turbulence and watch him grow into the fine man he is meant to become. I have books to write, skills to develop, a career to grow, passions to discover. I still have many acts left to be written and performed in my life. I have an entire world to explore.

At 36, I still have so much to learn, experience, and feel.

Thrift Store Shopaholic

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I have a confession.

I rarely set foot in real stores yet my closets and drawers are overflowing. I was forced to buy two packs of hangers last week and cleared out the guest room closet to handle the overflow. My Kiddo has a wardrobe stocked with the next two sizes up just waiting for him to grow into. And I would rather slit my wrists than pay retail.

I am a thrift store shopaholic.

I’ve been a savvy clearance shopper for years. I bee-lined to the back of every store I set foot in and had sale rack scanning down to a science. I memorized store mark-down schedules and regularly made the rounds. But that just wasn’t enough for me.

I had to take it to the next level.

I decided to brave a thrift store.

I admit, I hung my head slightly as I shuffled across the parking lot, hoping no one driving by would see me and think I was there because I HAD to be. I hugged my purse tighter and was a little afraid of who else may be lurking inside. Despite my doubts, I was overwhelmed as rack upon rack of colored and styled clothes stretched as far as I could see. Thousands of items, each one unique, and all begging for a new closet. I started flipping through the rack timidly, assuming it would be worn-out discount department store rejects. After 5 minutes my arms were overflowing with finds and I went in search of a shopping cart. Cashmere sweaters, preshrunk designer jeans, adorable summer skirts, vintage little black dresses, chic leather jackets, unique accessories–I had died and gone to budget fashionista heaven.

A few of the tips I have learned through trial and error:

Ignore sizes. They vary brand to brand anyway. Almost everything is pre-washed and preshrunk. If it looks like it might fit, try it on.
Know the merchandise. A used Walmart t-shirt for $2–not such a deal. A NWT Banana Republic cashmere sweater set for $3–a steal. Learn how to spot quality fabrics and brands from a distance.
Dress for success. Some stores don’t have fitting rooms. Some fitting rooms have a half-hour wait. If you come prepared in a skinny tank and leggings you can find a mirror and explore your inner exhibitionist.
Buy off-season. If you go looking for warm jackets during a January cold snap you will be sorely out of luck. Look in July and you may have dozens to choose from.
Ask if the store runs sales. Many stores discount a particular colored tag each day. My secret store is 50% off all clothes each Wednesday. It’s an absolute madhouse–but utterly worth it to me.
Carefully check out the goods. They are “recycled.” Some stores inspect items thoroughly but others may put out items stained, ripped, or torn. If it needs to be repaired, it had better be worth the work.
Check back often. You never know when some style maven may clean out her closet because she’s bored or changed sizes.
Don’t get discouraged. Some days I find 25 steals I simply cannot live without. Some days I find crap. You never know.

The only time I venture into a mall now is when I get my coupon for free Victoria’s Secret panties in the mail. I have nearly stopped making my rounds at Ross and T.J. Maxx because I know if I am patient, persistent, and sometimes just plain lucky I can find whatever I am looking for (and usually more) for practically pennies.

Every Wednesday I am overwhelmed with the urge to be at my secret store. I shudder imagining the steals someone else is swiping if I am not there. I feel the store calling me, tempting me, like a discount liquor and package store calls every alcoholic for miles. My family now has so many clothes I often show up at the thrift store with a bag of donations. I’m all for recycling.

Amongst my fellow thrifty SAHMs I will gladly brag about how cheap I find my clothes. (Them: Love your shirt. Me: Thanks! {whispered} Salvation Army. $1.50!) I try to convert my friends after each compliment I receive but only if they don’t wear my size. I don’t want the extra competition.

When complemented by other less enlightened folk I simply give a knowing smile and a modest “thanks.”

It’s vintage. It’s recycled. It’s unique. It’s me.

Now if I only had someplace to WEAR all my little black dresses…