Today is the first day of the rest of my life...
Do you remember a few weeks ago, when I wrote this post about how I was yearning for the position I passed up not once, but twice? Well, fate knocked on my door this week, and thanks to that post, I didn't make the same error for the third time.
Here's what happened:
Three years ago, I was producing the 11pm show at my TV station. It's a key time slot, and is usually reserved for the most-senior producer. Just 2 years into my career, I should have been thrilled to call it mine. But I wasn't; in fact, I was miserable. At age 25, being at work at 11pm on a Friday night was in severe conflict to my social life. So, I told my boss I wanted a different shift, and he graciously obliged.
Fast forward to last November; the producer who had taken over that 11pm shift left our station (to take a cush job as a college journalism professor at a nearby university; YES, I am-- and everybody else at our station was, too!-- incredibly jealous). I was asked, again, to take over the show. I politefully declined, preferring to stay on the 5pm as I had since refusing the shift the first time.
Then earlier this spring, I was asked to fill in on that same shift a few nights. I thought I'd hate it; but instead, I found myself enjoying it. I spent the morning with G, running errands, cleaning the house. I arrived at work at 3pm, having spent a full seven hours with my daughter. It was heaven.
I thought filling in on that shift was the only opportunity I'd get to enjoy mornings at home, at playdates, or at the pool. But fate smiled on me, and last week, the producer who'd accepted that position surprised everybody when he announced he was leaving (he proceeded to call in sick on Friday, just two days after his surprise announcement-- can you say tacky?). I rushed into my boss's office, and basically begged for the job I'd given up two too many times before.
What changed to make me want the 11pm? As G has gotten older, I feel like I've missed out on so much of her life, so many of those developmental milestones. I've been increasingly determined over the past few months not to let any more moments slip away. DH & I have actually been planning some monumental changes to our household (NO, I'm not pregnant, although I get asked that on Facebook at least three times a week); but those changes are far off in the future, and I feel like this is the perfect opportunity to try out being a stay-at-home mom with a full-time job.
So, if you would, cross your fingers for me today as I set out on this new adventure, both professionally and personally. I couldn't be more excited about this serendipitous turn my life has taken in the past few days!
When I was in college, I had a job teaching dance classes at a local studio. It was the best job I've ever had; I was doing what I loved, plus I made $20/hour doing it. Even better? I had accepted the job even though I didn't need too, meaning I was free to spend absolutely every dime I earned.
And spend I did.
Every month, I cleared about $800 dollars. And every month, I would cash my check and head straight to the mall (the glorious, brand new mall with all my favorite stores just a short drive from campus). It wasn't uncommon for me to drop my entire paycheck on just a handful of items. Suffice it to say, I was one of the best dressed college seniors I've ever known.
Sadly, those days are O-V-E-R. 
I'm now a news producer, married to a sheriff's deputy: we don't make a lot of money. Plus, we have bigger financial goals than splurging on a new outfit (or six) from Lilly Pulitzer (though, Lord knows, I've tried to persuade DH that should be one of our goals!).
I've actually learned that blogging can be rather profitable; there are a ton of websites out there that teach you to coupon like a pro, make a little extra money (doing surveys, reviewing products) on the side, and help you stretch any size budget to the limits.
At a time when the national unemployment rate still hovers precariously close to 10%, it seems like just about everyone has a secret for saving money. I want to hear yours!
So tell me...
The more "out of the box", the better!
Two months ago, I swore off doing giveaways on my blog. I had decided that I was going to separate the business of blogging from the pure joy writing brings me.
I was at peace with that decision.
And then Todd emailed me.
Ahhhh, good old Todd. You knocked me off my moral high horse, played into my selfish need for material wares, and proved that I can be bought (actually, not really; he just sent me a really nice email). And now EVERYONE gets to benefit!
Todd asked me to do a review for Athletica.net. It was perfect timing. I had just lost a giveaway on another blog for an Athletica gift card (can you say serendipity?), and was pining for new workout clothes.
The kind folks at Athletica sent me these two items to review. The first is their Combed Cotton Basics Jazz Capris. The capris are offered in either black or heather grey; I went with the black since it's slimming.Slipping on these pants was like slipping on a pair of pajama pants (which, I have to admit: I've worn these pants to bed more often than I have to the gym... that should not reflect poorly on Athletica or this product... just on my exercise habits!). They are a super-soft cotton (I guess that's what they mean by "combed cotton"?), and fit me like a glove. I also found the sizing to be accurate, which is a plus when you're ordering something online.
I also got to review the Combed Cotton Basics Roll Waist Pant. I was especially excited about this product, because of my-- well, just read this post, and you'll know what I'm talking about. I find pants that sit right on my hips with a thick band of elastic to be constricting and downright un-flattering. But the roll-down waist on this pair definitely suited my figure. I might not look like that skinny little model in the picture, but for a product that is 10% spandex, I didn't look like I was squeezing into my high school dance costumes. Another success!One note on sizing, that is specific to the pants (not the capris, or at least, not as much): if you're between sizes, I'd suggest going with whatever size would fit your inseam. The give of the pants-- thanks to that spandex and the super-soft cotton-- is generous. But you can't get extra length, and I like my workout pants to cover my ankles, thank you very much! I found the medium to be snug but not tight in my hips and thighs, and the perfect length as well-- even with tennis shoes on!
The Combed Cotton Basics Jazz Capris normally sell for $50, but are on sale for $29.95. The Combed Cotton Basics Roll Waist Pants are normally $55, but are also on sale. The price? Just $32.50. Also, shipping is free from Athletica.net on all orders over $125.
One lucky reader will win a $50 gift card from Athletica.net to use on an item (or items, if you're a frugal shopper) of your choice!
MANDATORY ENTRY: Visit Athletica.net and tell me what you'd buy with your $50 gift card! This entry must be done before you can do any of the extra entries, or they won't count. Please make sure your email is accessible on your profile; otherwise, leave it in your comments.
EXTRA ENTRIES:
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Make sure you leave a separate comment for each entry (so if you follow on GFC, you get 5 entries, so leave 5 comments), or it will not count!
This giveaway will close at noon on Sunday, July 4th (how patriotic!). The winner will be chosen using Random.org and announced on this blog on Monday, July 5th (because I have the day off and will have time!). That person will be notified via email as well. The winner will have 48 hours to respond, or another winner will be chosen. Sorry, US & Canadian residents only.
I was given a pair of Combed Cotton Basics Jazz Capri and Combed Cotton Basics Roll Waist Pants for the purpose of this review and giveaway, totaling $62.45. The reviews expressed in this giveaway are my own, and were in no way influenced by the sponsor.
NOTE: I was having issues with the post link for the initial version of this giveaway, so I had to repost it-- that's why the first two entries have my Blogger name, "via" another reader. No funny business there, I promise!!!
Scarlett O'Hara bragged about her 19-inch waist in "Gone With The Wind" (my all-time favorite book, thank you very much Margaret Mitchell).
Rapper Nelly crooned about a girl with 36-25-34 inch measurements in "Ride With Me".
And Sir Mix-A-Lot, the cast-off of British royalty, apparently, fantacized about a woman with measurements of 36-24-36 (but only if she's 5'3").
Yes, like it or not, our measurements are a part of our culture (pop culture, even).
This week, I was lucky enough to win a great giveaway from Table For Five (if you haven't visited that site, you should; Nancy has the hook up on great products!). My prize? An item of my choice from online clothing shop Down East Basics. I'd never shopped with Down East before, so I had to first acquaint myself with their sizing chart.
Boy, let me tell you, that was fun. (Sense the sarcasm?)
Before we even began, there was the simple matter of locating the measuring tape. Actually, it wasn't so simple. G likes to play with it from time to time, so DH and I spent a solid 15 minutes on our hands and knees, scouring all her usual stashing places. He ultimately located it tucked between two couch cushions in our sunroom.
First up, measuring my waist. I've long known this is probably my strongest feature, so I wasn't frightened. An early morning measurement on an empty stomach meant a flattering number- 27 inches. Really solid for a 28 year old mother of one. Ego stoked, we moved on.
I needed DH's help to measure my chest; he didn't protest. I honestly don't remember the last time I'd had my bust measured, but I do remember the number: 38 inches, a nice, full-chested number that accurately reflected in all my pre-pregnancy C-cup bras. No sooner did DH line up the tape, though, than I saw it read 35 inches. 35? 35? It was just a reminder of the saggy nature of my post-baby breasts. I knew nursing for 14 months had taken a toll on my body; here was the concrete proof.
With my ego brought back down to size, DH slid the measuring tape down my torso and to my hips. A brief debate ensued-- did DH measure the part of the hips where I normally wear my pants? The widest part? Somewhere in between? For safety's sake, we measured the widest part.
MISTAKE.
"41," he whispered.
"Come again?" I asked.
"41," he said a little louder, refusing to look me in the eye, as if he were responsible for the post-baby inflation of my lower body.
I was incensed. I've spent far too much time in the gym over the past year and a half to be saddled with... well, saddle bags! No wonder every pairs of pants I've worn in the past year that have fit in the waist have been far too tight through my hips. I made DH measure again, but it was no use (it was actually closer to 41.5" the second time around, but I refuse to acknowledge that second, slightly higher number). My post-baby body had betrayed me.
I went to work this morning plotting various ways to move some of the bulk from my lower body to my chest. Lipo and breast implants? Nah, plastic surgery is too expensive for where I am in my life right now. Spanx and a Miracle Bra? Not in the budget either. What about three extra weekly trips to the gym? I can't afford the time away from my family and friends.
I skipped lunch, the measurements of the morning still weighing heavily (no pun intended) on my appetite.
Then I had a revelation.
My body bares the scars of my battle to become a woman. It shows the evidence of a job that, while I might not love, I do well. It shows proof that I've carried a baby for nine months inside of me, and nursed for over a year more. It's me-- through and through-- and while I might not like the numbers I see on the tape measure (or more frequently, on the scale), I'm comfortable in my skin. I like who I am-- inside and out.
So, no extreme dieting or workout regimines or plastic surgery for me. Sir Mix-A-Lot may never rap an ode to my chest-to-butt ratio... but as long as DH isn't complaining, neither am I.
Maybe you aren't familiar with the word "Sororstitute"... but when I was an undergrad, it was a word you heard a lot. A lot.
It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Although it definitely wasn't a good thing, either. Despite its entomological origins (in case you haven't figured it out, it's a combination of the words "Sorority" and "Prostitute"), "Sororstitute" doesn't refer to a slutty sorority girl. Instead, it referred-- at least, on my college campus-- to a girl who bought her friendships.
Because, yes, let's all admit it... joining a sorority is, in many ways, like buying friends.
Now, before all you sorority girls out there jump on me as anti-Greek, let me tell you this: I was in a sorority. Heck, I was social chair and rush chair and a member of the Leadership Council. I knew all the oaths, I wore my pin with pride, I showed up at each and every mixer, meeting, and formal (at varying degrees of intoxication). I had the pre-requisite pearl earrings, Tiffany Bean necklace, and Herve Chapelier tote. I worked out at least 6 days a week for at least 90 minutes at a time, and I only drank water and ate half a bagel (no cream cheese, please) for lunch.
Point fingers, cat-call, brand me with a big, scarlet "S"-- I was a sororstitute.
It's been 10 years since I pledged (yes, I'm intentionally not telling you which sorority I pledged into, in order to protect my sisters in sororodom). 10 years since I first bought into the culture of privilege, parties, and perfection. A full decade since I learned-- the hard way-- that just about anything (or anyone) can be bought.
I still remember my bid day-- the day we pledges found out if our top choice sorority had felt the same way about us as we felt about them. I was one of the lucky ones; I got my top choice (although, in the years since, I've seriously debated whether I chose my sorority for the right reasons; in hindsight, I'd say I did not), but there were other girls who were absolutely devastated to learn they'd been dropped from the pledge list of their favorite three-letter Greek abbreviation. These were the girls with streaks of tears carving a path of sorrow through the pristine foundation of their heavily made-up faces; their perfectly-applied mascara now betraying them with clown-tears.
As I stood in a single-file line outside the sorority of my choice, waiting to meet my new sisters, I met a girl who would become my best friend. My confidante. Later, the maid of honor at my wedding. I met another girl, who would convince me to get my belly button pierced one January night in an act of defiant (basketball-inspired) celebration. I met a group of women who would shower me at my bridal party, and get me perilously drunk in the streets of New York City on the night of my debauchery-ridden bachelorette party.
Female friendships aren't easy. Damn, that's a euphemism, isn't it? Girls can be bitter, backstabbing, conniving, manipulating, dramatic, stubborn, jealous, juvenile... shall I go on?... and that's putting it mildly. And buying a friendship-- whether it's with a $500 initiation fee for a sorority, or with a lie so insiduous that you actually start to believe it as truth-- isn't always the right move. But, sadly, sometimes it can feel like the only move.
By the time I left my college campus behind for a more adult world, I'd formed more adult friendships as well. Most of them were with women who didn't share my Greek affiliation. Some of them were even-- GASP!-- independents (a word in college that was as much a reputation-ruiner as "Sororstitute"). They all taught me important lessons about friendships, and why we pick someone to be our friend... or in some cases, why they pick us...
Lessons that, to this day, are truly price-less.
The American Civil War (or, as my neighbors here in the South call it-- to my horror-- "The War Of Northern Aggression") ended 145 years ago.
Somebody forgot to tell this girl-->
(This isn't actually the offending person who has sparked my ire. But the fact of the matter is, I didn't have my camera on me when the story I'm about to tell you actually happened. So the poor girl in that picture (courtesy of Google Images, then edited so you can't see her face-- see, I'm protecting myself from slander here) will have to stand in.)
Anyway, there DH & I are, sitting around the pool on the deck of our cruise ship last week when she walked by... proudly baring it all in a confederate flag bikini. I had nothing against the cut of the suit; it was all about the fabric. I'm sorry, but I'm a Yankee (a fact I try to hide now that I live on the fringes of Dixie), and I don't understand the South's affinity for the rebel version of the Stars & Stripes. The war is over. You lost. Move on!
As soon as I saw the offending girl, I nudged DH (out of his standard middle-of-the-cruising-day nap) and said (ok, I admit, probably a touch too loudly), "What is she wearing?"
You guessed it.
Confederate Mama heard me.
She glared at me. She stared me down. She made me feel like it was 1863, and I was standing in the middle of a farmer's field in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, wearing a blue uniform. Apparently, the civil war wasn't over.
So we are BACK! It was WONDERFUL. I don't know how many of you have cruised before, but I'm honestly not sure I've ever had a vacation compare so favorably to this one! First, the port: We went out of Charleston-- partly because of price, partly because of the variety of cruising options, and mainly because of convenience. Not only do I have cousins in the city who were able to drop us off (and save us $102 in parking fees, woo hoo!), but it was only a 4 hour drive (ok, we might have sped a liiiiiiittle bit!!!) from home! You can't beat that!
We left the dock last Sunday afternoon around 4pm, and we were at sea until early Tuesday morning, when we arrived at Nassau in the Bahamas. I really enjoyed the days at sea; it was the perfect excuse to do NOTHING at all, and I don't know about you, but I actually need an excuse to truly, utterly, completely relax on a vacation. We spent a lot of time on the back deck (aka, the "Adult Only" zone) just watching the water flow by and listening to the roar of the ocean. Absolutely, amazingly peaceful. Nassau-- our first port-- was anything BUT peaceful. It was a relatively "thriving" island metropolis, and VERY dirty. Fortunately, we spent most of our day on a catamaran (sp?) snorkeling about 45-60 minutes away from Nassau. I was very nervous about snorkeling, but it actually was a very calming experience (except for the ear infection it gave me in my right ear; apparently, I spent too much time with my head underwater!).
Our next port was Freeport, on Grand Bahama Island. It was FABULOUS. We didn't have any planned excursions that day (Wednesday), and we just planned to meander our way about the island. We were invited by a group of 22-year-olds who needed another 
couple to complete their cheap taxi ride to go to a "resort" on the north side of the island. I was unusually spontaneous and leapt at the chance, and off we went. When we first got to this "resort", I thought surely our driver had taken a wrong turn. This "resort" was two houses, a bar, and a beachwear rental shack. But it was the most gorgeous 3-mile stretch of sand I've ever set my eyes on, and entirely private. At the peak of the day, there were no more than 30 of us on this massive beach. The water was crystal clear blue, tons of coral on the bottom, and it was just a day from heaven. And the little bar at this "resort" turned out to sell some of the best conch fritters I've ever had-- well, ok, they ONLY conch fritters I've ever had, but they were great.
Our last stop was in Key West (where, by the way, the ONLY thing the locals were talking about was the oil spill; I spent a good portion of that evening crying on the boat, watching CNN, and thinking about what those stupid BP execs and their lack of planning were going to cost that community-- it STILL is ripping me up inside, 
the travesty and tragedy of it all). We had another excursion planned-- this one for an HGTV Historic Home and Garden tour. It was nice to see some of the oldest houses on the island and get a walking tour of the city at the same time, but it was HOT. I mean, utterly, miserably hot. The temperatures were bad enough, but the humidity... I just wasn't prepared for it. I felt like a wilted flower in the sun. But we continued on, and went to a great little local restaurant for lunch (We tried fervently to avoid the "touristy" restaurants on all our day trips, and were for the most part successful). After that, we rented bikes and spent the rest of the day touring the island on two wheels. We saw some beaches (beautiful, but tiny compared to the sprawling expanses of Freeport), drank coconut milk straight from the coconut, had authentic Key Lime pie (after touring the kitchen where it was first created!), and did some shopping (all of it for G-- we didn't come home with a single souvenir for us!).
Friday was another full day at sea, and once again, we did nothing but sit pool side and watch the waves go by. DH really enjoyed watching the people go by-- I think "people watching" was one of his favorite on-boat activities! We also went to two different shows on the ship (I think I missed my calling!!!!). And we ate... a LOT! So much food, so much variety, I'm terrified to step on the scale at the gym (although we did workout 3 days on the ship, plus the day of biking all over Key West, so hopefully that evens it out at least a little bit!).
As much fun as we had, it was wonderful to get home to G. We'd spoken to her on the phone a few times over the course of the week, but nothing compared to seeing her smile as we pulled into the driveway. She saw us turn in, and she just had the biggest smile on her little face-- she literally lit up the moment she saw us! I got out of the car, and she ran up to me and I picked her up and she just hugged me as tight as could be for minutes on end. It was HEAVEN, I tell you! I'm relieved to know she had a great week at home with my mom, but it was nice to be missed and welcomed home with so much love.
