Puppy Power

Yesterday I had to take Hannah and Brandon into the mall. Yes, you read that correctly. The mall. With kids. In December. Two of those three are on the "things that make Jenny curse" list - I'll let you decide which two.

We were there because Brandon HAD to have a white button down shirt for his choir concert the next night and I had been avoiding this trip like the plague for weeks. Shopping with my son is like one big scoop of annoying with frustration sprinkles on top.
"Hey buddy, here are some shoes that look cool."
"Yeah, but they are too shiny."
"Brandon, here are some nice jeans in your size."
"Yeah, but the pockets are fancy."
"Brandon, how about I kick you in the rear end unless you agree to this shirt?"
"Yeah, but then you would be a horrible mother."

So,on this day we went into four or five stores looking for one boys white button down - size 10 that was just right. Only it wasn't Brandon being picky this time. It was me. You see, we were not just in any old mall. No. We were in a mall that, well, how should I say this...didn't cater to boys who wear white button downs.

Anywho - after much grumbling and complaining (from me) we finally found our shirt and headed towards the exit. I was tired from the day and the shopping and grumpy doesn't really begin to describe my mood. And that's when it happened.

Hannah spotted it first. The saddest place on earth next to glue factories and clown colleges. Yes, I'm talking about the mall petshop. She begged to go in. She had been dragged to every boys department in the mall and she looked at me so pathetically that I agreed. As I followed her in, I saw something that instantly made me forget how horrible I had been feeling and forced the sound, "Awwww..." out of my body. People...I don't make that sound. Ever.

His name was Mr. Puddles - at least it should be. He was a chocolate brown long- haired daschund puppy with light brown paws and eyes that make you tilt your head and raise your eyebrows at the same time. He must be mine. Nevermind the fact that this would be absolutely the worst time EVER to get a dog, or the fact that my husband would probably not let either one of us in the house, or the fact that I know better than to support petshops and the puppy mills they probably come from. He looked at me and said, "Hello lady. You are mine and you know it."

I think he'll look awfully cute in my stocking. But we might need a place to crash Christmas night. Any takers?

Bridal Magazines. Seriously?

The other day at the bookstore (actually the same day that I encountered Mr. Tumnus) I had the misfortune of sitting next to two college girls who were thumbing through a three foot tall stack of bridal magazines.

Mind you, neither one of them had an engagement ring on and based on the loud and annoying conversation I overheard, neither one of them were even dating.

There they sat, misty eyed over $1000 dresses and china patterns all gushy about how one day, they would have the perfect wedding - as if that had any impact on the type of marriage that would follow. I wanted to walk over to them and say with a syruppy smile on my face, "You'd be better off spending that $1000 on marriage counseling. That's what you'll really need. Almost 60% of first marriages end in divorce, you know. Have a great day!"

Now, before you get the wrong idea, I'm not really a mean person. I just have really mean thoughts. I ususally talk myself out of them soon enough, and in fact, that's what I did while I sat there and thought about my reaction to Barbie and Muffy.

Once I thought about them for a while and put myself in their flip flops, I realized something. They weren't that much different than me - just younger. And more tan. All they want is a little hope. A little happiness. Ok, so they are looking at unrealistic scenes of marital bliss and thinking that if they buy the perfect dress, then the perfect guy will pop out of the woodwork as well. Yeah - it's ridiculous and shallow. But don't I do the same thing? Only I don't look at Bridal porn, I drool over West Elm and Pottery Barn catalogs. I see the outdoor parties with the perfectly color coordinated table settings and outdoor paper lanterns but what I'm really hoping for is a set of beautiful friends like the ones adorning the pages of these catalogs.

When I see the casual yet organized family room spread peppered with the sandy colored haired surfer kids smiling broadly, doesn't a small part of me actually believe that a cherry colored media center with labeled bins will get this for me? You'd better believe it.

So maybe I should lay off of the sorority set and realize that I'm just as bad, if not worse. I should know better. I have lived long enough to know that no amount of stuff can bring you happiness. Just like a dress won't bring the perfect man (because, news flash - he doesn't exist), a coordinated room of Pottery Barn furniture won't bring a perfect set of friends and a perfectly organized house. But to be fair, I think I should give it a try....just for the sake of investigative journalism.