Wednesday, April 16, 2014

An Open Letter to My Local Target

Dear Target,

When I take my eleven year old son to go shopping at your store, we usually see it as a fun outing.  The possibility of popcorn and/or an Icee is too enticing to risk staying at home!

There are certain places in the store I try to avoid when I am with him. The candy aisle, for instance.  No need to be pestered about sugary things I am not going to purchase.  Sometimes the cookie aisle, too, although we sometimes buy them on purpose!

Another aisle I try to skip is the "feminine care" aisle, although he does know what tampons are for.  It isn't so much the tampons that I'm trying to pass by, but the ah, "intimate aids" section that is in the same aisle as the tampons.  I'm not sure if this implies that women are the main purchasers of condoms and such, but possibly there might be a better place for them.

However, I am aware of where they are in the store, and will try to approach the tampons from the other side without passing the boxes that scream "More Pleasure for Her!"

Not because I don't want my son to know there are such things as condoms, but because I don't think Target is necessarily the best place for my son to ask the types of questions that would arise should he see them.  At home, fine.  But I'm just trying to pick up my Kotex and get out of there, not engage in Sex Ed 101 in the checkout line.

So, imagine my surprise when my son, who notices a product on the endcap display, catches up to me in the floor cleaner aisle.  "Hey Mom!" he shouts.  "Do you want to experience sensual warmth?"  I stop dead in my tracks as he waves a bottle of lube in my face.  Seriously, Target, lube on the endcap?  That is all kinds of wrong.  "I want to experience nothing of the sort!" I huff, ordering him to put the damn thing back on the shelf.

Well, I mean, sure, I WOULD like to experience sensual warmth, but that question has NO BUSINESS being asked by an eleven year old to his mother.  NONE.  I would now like Target to send me some brain bleach so I can forever rid myself of that particular experience.

Yours Truly,
Gina

PS.  I wasn't even this upset when you leaked my credit card numbers and my banks had to send me two new ones because of your screw up.  This was worse than that.  Get it together Target, GET IT TOGETHER.

Thursday, April 03, 2014

What Lies Underneath

There is a mom at my daughter's school who has close-cropped, platinum-dyed hair.  She sports plug earrings, multiple tattoos, wears short shorts, striped knee high socks, and Chuck Taylors.  She is slightly younger than me.

I sort of admire her.

And I know she will probably never approach me because she thinks I am somewhat of a stuffed shirt.  Perhaps she thinks I even disapprove of the way she dresses, because we couldn't be dressed more oppositely if we tried.

But she couldn't be more wrong.

For some strange reason, I have never managed to have my outside match my inside.  For clothing, I have always gravitated to preppy clothing that could be considered matronly, even when I was in my teens.

Back when I had a fabulous body, I never really showed it off.  If I had a denim miniskirt on, then I wore an alpine sweater and opaque tights with it.  I would wear a pencil skirt, but it was on the longer side and I had a big sweater with a collared shirt underneath.  Hmmm, I am sensing a trend here.   I was never comfortable exposing lots of skin, and one of the biggest fights with my best friend in my twenties was over the fact that I casually criticized her for wearing leggings with her shirt tucked in. 

I fanatically listened to New Wave, punk, and goth music, but in high school I am sure I looked more like a Lionel Richie fan.  Man, I hated Lionel Ritchie.  Although I will admit to liking "All Night Long."

I desperately wanted to dress a certain way in high school, which my mother was not really thrilled with, even though it involved long shirts with the collar buttoned all the way up and pants with boots.  I never got to own the right kind of boots, my mom was against the idea of buying me shoes that weren't for school or sports.  I remember though, finally being allowed to purchase (thanks Dad)  this black and white paisley big shirt. I had black leggings, and I think I wore them with some white socks and black oxfords to a school dance.  I couldn't have felt more fake or uncomfortable, even though I might have looked the part I was trying to play. 

And perhaps that was the problem right there.  I didn't really know what part I wanted at all, even though I thought I did.  I was an honors student and varsity sports player, and the clique of fifteen or so girls I belonged to was also made up of mostly honor student/athletes and we all dressed very wholesomely. But the only time we ever really discussed clothing was around formal dance time.  Maybe that was a by product of having to wear a uniform every day.

What part do I look now?  Oh, a minivan driving soccer mom, to be sure.  A lazy one, at that, who throws on capri pants and a shirt, along with shoes that MUST be no-heel slip-ons because right now I just do not have the time or desire to lace my shoes up.  I am too busy trying to wrangle my daughter's feet into shoes, much less having to worry about my own.

But I don't have a child who plays soccer, and I'm not sure I ever will.  I am certainly a mom, but one who blasts Linkin Park, Foster the People, and Phantogram out of my eight premium sound system minivan speakers, much to the delight of my son.

I bet that other mom would be surprised that I recognize the Social Distortion sticker on the back of her car.  Maybe one day I will blow her mind and mention it.

Because I'm a risk-taker like that.

Friday, March 21, 2014

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times...

Alas, there is nothing on this blog that will remind you of Dickens other than my cribbing and truncating his famous first line.

Every quarter or so, our tract sponsors a community garage sale that is well-advertised and brings many people to the area.  I have never in my life held a garage sale, and by gum, I was determined to host one.  I had tons of baby and toddler items that needed new homes and I couldn't think of an easier way than to just unload them all at once! Genius ideas, these garage sales.

Except, I had heard some grumblings from my neighbors about some of the people who come and try to nickel and dime you to death, as well as maybe not be the most wholesome people around.

In my naivete, I assured myself that MY garage sale would be different.  I happen to have a 6'1'' hunk of former linebacker in my corner, so I thought people would at least think twice before pulling any shenanigans.

Boy, was I wrong.

In the first ten minutes, someone stole one of the toys I had out.  Just flat out stole!  She asked me how much this really big truck that was formerly remote-controlled, but since I lost the controller, was now just a big truck.  Oh, how about a dollar, I said.  She hoisted it up and strode to her vehicle (which was nicer than either of ours) and straight up didn't pay for it.  I told Hubba-hubba, "Did she pay you?" as she got in to her sports utility vehicle.
 "Nope," he said.
"Well," my voice verging on hysteria, "then she didn't pay for it!"

And that was just the beginning of the parade of shady, weird people who tried to bargain me down from three dollars to two dollars for brand new dresses with TAGS STILL ON THEM.  You cannot even walk into a Goodwill store and pay two dollars for a pretty dress with tags on them.  They seemed to be of the mindset that if they couldn't command their own lower price, no matter how good my price was, they were having none of it.  Fine with me.  This went on all day long.  If they couldn't have something for a buck, they didn't want it, even if it was worth fifty and I was only asking ten.

Then, a group of people drove up and wanted to buy a five dollar item.  They pulled out a hundred dollar bill and asked Hubba-hubba, who was in charge of the money, if he had change for it.  As he is in law enforcement and has seen a counterfeit bill or two in his time, he said no, he didn't.  He said it was a pretty good fake, but fake nonetheless.  Imagine, if that had been me, I would have fallen for that hook, line, and sinker.  Then we would be out almost all of our profit and they get almost a hundred dollars tax free! 

I think I just found my new part-time job.  If I only did that four times in one weekend, I would be making almost four hundred dollars a week!  That is some pretty good money! 

Of course I will do nothing of the sort, but I just don't understand that sort of criminal mindset.  Why people don't give a shit about victimizing people.  Hey, maybe your life is hard, but what makes you think my life isn't hard, too?  Just because I might (or not!) live in a nicer house than you, or you think I may have more than you, that means you can steal from me?  I'm no one-percenter, I need everything I can get!

People suck.

We called it quits after about three hours and felt like we needed to take showers, both literally and figuratively.   Hubba-hubba said he was upset that those type of people were in his neighborhood.  I agreed, and vowed never to have another garage sale as long as I live.  I would rather donate each and every item than have to deal with that kind of crap again.

The next day was my birthday and my sister-in-law had offered to babysit.  Whoo-hoo! We did something completely uncharacteristic of us and went to this bar to have some delicious drinks.  OH MY GOD, my chosen drink was so good. I had the Piranha Pool, which is one of those very deceptive drinks that are so sweet that you cannot taste the alcohol.  I had two, which left me a very happy, relaxed person.  I can't even remember the last time we went to a bar to have a drink, probably fifteen years ago or so.  We don't drink a lot to begin with, and if we do, we usually pour something here at home. 

But that had to be one of the most fun days we have had in a very long time, which was much needed, especially after the previous day being such a complete downer. 

Apparently I need to drink more often.



Thursday, February 13, 2014

Postlets

-You would never think of a soap as being creepy, but Trader Joe's has managed this seemingly impossible feat.  You see, I love soap, the fancier the better, and the more "stuff" it has in it (e.g. exfoliating agents and such) the more I like it. 

However, the lavender exfoliating soap from Trader Joe's gives me the heebie jeebies because as you are lathering up, clumps of what I assume to be lavender leaves fall out all over you and your bathtub.  They are not pretty, these clumps.  They are blackish and look vaguely like bugs, especially in low lighting.  So there you are happily getting clean, and then you look down at your thigh to see it covered with black insect-like things and it just isn't a good feeling. 

But, Hubba-hubba likes it, so there you go.  At least it won't be going to waste.

- I loathe the terms "preggo" and "preggers."  They are stupid.  They are almost infantilizing in a way, and I find them demeaning.  Not that being pregnant is some sort of earth-shatteringly special thing, but it's a hard job, ya know?

- My son is now at the age where talking on the phone is a thing, and while I'm fine with it, I just wish he would stay in his room!  In 5th grade, there are no secrets I want to hear.  Talk within my earshot at 15 and it will be a completely different story.  And no, he does not have a cell phone.

- Which brings me back to the days of the corded telephones, where you would stretch that damn cord to within an inch of it's life as you huddled on the other side of the kitchen counter just to give yourself the illusion of privacy. It was not unheard of for the cord to pop out of the jack now and then.

- My son is also running some sort of shady business on Minecraft. Not that it is a "real" business, but if he would only put that kind of effort into his schoolwork he would already be taking college courses.

- I still can't find a job, although I've only applied for three positions.  It's just that I'm not used to rejection. (sniff)  I'm convinced that at this point in time, you can only get hired if you know someone to recommend you personally.  

-My two favorite pair of warm weather pants bit the dust. One of them got bleach splashed on them, and the other finally got holes in the thighs.  They were the same type of pant, just in different colors, and I bought them at exactly the same time. They were a cotton/linen blend and they were SO PERFECT for warmer weather without needing to wear shorts. Especially for events that required a bit of decorum, but it was still sort of hot.   I don't think I will find their likes ever again, as they lasted me about ten years.  The company that made them doesn't make that type of pant any more. Booooooo...



Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Hello, It's Totally Me You're Looking For...

And man, I have to say I HATED that song by Lionel Ritchie.  I would screech (being in high school and all) dramatically and change the radio station whenever that song came on.  Because that was the kind of tough shit world we lived in back then when there was no instant access 24/7 to only your favorite music.  Seriously, that should be my generation's "uphill in the snow both ways."

Yesterday my health provider (which is one of the largest in the country, (rhymes with Baiser Kermenente) sends me a big brochure asking me to participate in a genetics study which would require the banking of my genetic makeup via saliva and blood samples.  If not specifically stated by me in a legal manner, they could continue to use my genetic material in perpetuity.  I get nothing other than the touchy-feely helping your fellow man thing.  I'm tempted because I am a strong believer in research, yet, on another level, my lizard brain is warning me against someone else having something of mine that is so powerful.

Speaking of health care, the other day I stumbled across this recent research done by University of California, San Francisco.  It is groundbreaking in that for the first time, there is definitive proof that children with my daughter's disorder are neurologically "different."  I emailed both principal investigators thanking them for focusing on this area of research, and one of them invited us to participate in a future study! However, a little thing such as 800 miles separates us, which is much too far.  I would have loved to do it, though.  You know, that whole research thing I believe in, and all.  Huh, maybe I could write the trip off on our taxes, or something.

We were late to the party in watching Food, Inc, and it inspired us to visit our local farmer's market the next day to purchase some fresh grass-fed beef.  We also bought some fancy-schmancy buns to go along with them at the same market, and some other stuff to go with it.  We joke that those were our $50 dollar hamburgers, because that is almost what we spent on the entire meal for three of us.  The lady kept telling us that grass-fed beef was more filling and that it tasted different, but I got zero results on both of those counts. 

Our daughter's Occupational Therapist for her feeding issues (she has two different OT's) observed her gagging on some pudding, and suggested that we ask for a referral for an upper GI specialist, as she is of the opinion that the gagging went beyond the normal sensory issues.  So, the health saga never seems to end for this poor child.  I fear for the examination they are going to give her, as she has an extremely hair-trigger gag reflex.

Also, in my 42 years of living here in Southern California, I can never remember needing to turn on the damn air conditioning in January.  The problem is the winds are so severe, you can't keep your windows open even at night to cool off.  Too much dust and crap in the air blowing into your house! Not that it is particularly cool at night, but at least it isn't 86 freaking degrees, which is what the temperature was today.  Jesus, I want to throttle anyone who is in denial about climate change, seriously.

So, what's new with you? Tell me!

Monday, December 30, 2013

The Christmas That Wasn't

Well, I'm not trying to be all dramatic, but that title sure sounded that way, didn't it?

This is a tale of a family who, for all intents and purposes, just does not give a shit.

Let me 'splain.

A week or so before Christmas, I spoke to my Dad regarding Christmas Eve, which we have here because hello, the only children in the family need not be gallivanting around at night time before a major holiday.  So, my family comes here.

In the past, we have had dinner, the kids open their gifts from Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt and Uncle.  Then, overtired and overstimulated children are forced to go to bed. 

This hasn't worked out well, especially for my daughter.

You know, the one who attends Special Ed and has a type of therapy session EVERY SINGLE DAY of the week?  Yeah, that one.  The one with a sleep disorder that makes Mommy adhere to a VERY strict sleep schedule so that everyone, including her, is not miserable?  Yup, her.

So, in speaking with my father, I try to relay that the focus of Christmas should really be her.  She is the youngest in the family, and Christmas should be about KIDS.  I mean, my children are the only grandchildren my parents have, so wouldn't you think they would WANT to spend time with them?

I tell my Dad that I really think we should have more of a Christmas lunch, so that everyone can be relaxed and nothing is rushed, and my daughter does not get too overstimulated and become somewhat of a nightmare.  Which is not Christmas-y at all, if you ask me.  And that way, the maximum time can be spent hanging out with her and actually playing with her and her new toys.  Because that is why they buy them, right? So that they can see her happy and laughing and all that.

That, apparently, is for normal families.

Well, my Dad supposedly got everything squared away with my mother and my sister, neither of whom I willingly call on my own.  And I was glad they were cool with it, and if they had said that they weren't then they just would not have come over.

Turns out the days preceding Christmas Eve were busy, busy and I realize that I have no idea when my guests are actually arriving.  So at about 10am on the morning of Christmas Eve, I call my Dad to ask when we can expect them, which should technically be fairly imminently. 

"Oh, uh, yes, your mother and I won't be there until about 2:30." OK, a little bit later than I wanted, but I can deal with that.  But then, the kicker. "Oh, and your sister and your brother in law won't be there until about 4 o'clock because he is working."

Wait, what?

That's fine that he is working, I know he has no control over that.  But I want to know two things: why did everyone go along with the plan when they knew he was working, and why did they not even call me to tell me this?  Until the morning of, I had no idea.

So of course everyone gets here way late, my mother insists that we must wait for my sister and brother in law before we eat anything.  My sister, who could have come earlier by herself, but didn't want to bother because taking two cars was too much of a hassle.  We wind up having a completely rushed dinner and gift opening and yet my daughter still gets to bed an hour later than normal. An hour late is bad.  She was overhyped and not in a good way.

Which is exactly the situation I was trying to avoid, because it is my husband and me who has to deal with the fallout, not them.

So of course she wakes up at 5:20am the next morning, after weeks of sleeping beautifully until 6:30, minimum.  And it wasn't because she wanted to open presents, she had no idea they were going to be under the tree upon her awakening.  And she was just a mess for the rest of that day, Christmas, which is kinda sorta an important day. Only YESTERDAY did she finally get back to her normal sleeping pattern.

But seriously, I am this close to just shutting these people out entirely.  I love my Dad, and he is a good guy, but it grieves me that my sister and my mother just sort of mow over him because he has chosen to take the path of less resistance when it comes to their machinations.  I get that, but when am I allowed to take their actions and tell them to shove it?  That if they don't care about me, fine, but at least pretend to care about my daughter.  And if you can't even pretend, then maybe you should just stay away from us.

Speak to me, internet friends.

Monday, December 09, 2013

Stormy Weather

By that, I mean wind storm.  In our particular location, we are having gusts up to 50mph, and those are doozies, my friends.  Thank goodness we took the lawn decorations down because of the rain on Saturday, else they would all be blowing down the street!

I am, as always, running late with the Christmas cards, although this year in deference to some new Jewish friends, they are simply holiday cards.  Which I actually like better because I am kind of getting sick of Christmas.  Even though I have a young child and I should be totally gung-ho about it for her, I just can't bring myself to make that much of a fuss. 

How was your Thanksgiving?  Mine was great, except Hubba-hubba had to work from 4pm to 2am.  Thanks, fucking stores who decided to open at 8pm on Thanksgiving! But it was pretty low stress as we went out to lunch at a restaurant instead of visiting the crazy/hostility on both sides of our families.  And hell, some of that hostility is on my side, so it was kind of nice to relax and have someone else take my order, a person who has ZERO agenda other than to serve me my food and get a good tip.

We are looking to start therapeutic horse riding for the girl, which I have heard wonderful things about for children with SPD.  Many thanks to my grandparents who are willing to foot the (very expensive) bill which is of course not covered by insurance.

I have started the beginnings of a Christmas Eve rebellion with my family, and we will see how it goes.  My mother and my sister will probably bitch about it behind my back (surprise!) but I truly don't care if they show up here or not.  They are welcome to spend time with the kids, but I have put the kibosh on opening the adult presents here.  They can find some other time to do them, as the majority are from my sister to my mother, and vice versa, anyway.

I'm still looking for a job, and the Mouse down the street was kind enough to send me yet another email stating how I wasn't fitting into any of their openings right now.  How nice of them to remind me. 

My husband keeps buying me sweet/fattening things to eat and I swear I am going to kill him.  If it isn't in the house, I won't eat it.  But once it gets here, I pretty much have zero willpower.  Especially at night when the kids are in bed and Hubba-hubba is at work.  If nobody sees me eat it, I didn't eat it, right?





Monday, November 18, 2013

At Last...

Most people are shocked to hear that we co-slept (well, one of us at a time, anyway) with our then 3 year old for pretty much her entire life, except for the first nine months.

Which is weird, because usually it's kind of the other way around.

It partly had to do with her sleep disorder/sensory processing disorder and her developmental delays.  When she was an infant, we would put her in one of those infant swing things, where she would doze for hours and hours in blissful sleep.  We were thrilled!  If only everything could be so easy!  She hated sleeping any other way.  What we didn't realize at the time that this was the first sign of her SPD, the fact that swinging in that swing calmed her so thoroughly and instantaneously.  We just thought we lucked out in the infant sleeping department.

For the record, Mr. P hated the infant swing we had gotten as a gift.  It went unused in a corner for months.

Then, little lady grew too big for the damn swing.  We kept putting her in it, even though she was getting too heavy for it and was burning out the motor!  So we tried putting her in a crib, and that was a non-starter.  We tried a co-sleeper bassinet thingy.  Also a no-go.

So, we did what we did with Mr. P and co-slept.  It had worked wonderfully with him, although we had some slightly different circumstances in that one of us was always sleeping with him in his "own" bed in his own room.

With Miss P, we had gotten rid of a mattress to make room for a crib (stupid) and thus found ourselves in a crisis situation.  Especially when she began waking up in the middle of the night, usually around 1AM, and would cry sometimes until 4AM.  It could last anywhere from one to four hours. And when I say cry, I really mean screaming.  I mean hitting her head on the headboard, on the pillow, on the person next to her.  Flailing, panicky, almost hysterical screaming that kept everyone but Mr. P up and on edge the entire time.  This, I was to find out much later, also another symptom of her SPD. 

She would do the screaming thing probably 5 nights out of 7, sometimes more, never less.  Somehow Hubba-hubba and I struggled through the lack of sleep and trying to reconcile this creature and her behavior.  Because her behavior was truly alarming.  We feared for her safety, as sometimes she would get out of bed and blunder around, all the while screaming.  She also would take up to two hours to fall asleep.  So I would just lay there with her until she tired herself out from hitting her head or yelling or whatever she felt like doing instead of sleeping.

Of course we told our pediatrician, who I truly think felt we were exaggerating.  I wish we were, if anything, we were understating the problem.  He informed us it was probably teething.  Man, he was wrong.  It took her years to grow out of the screaming at night stage.  Some symptoms of SPD improve as the both the child and their central nervous system mature.  This one took quite a while to reach a point where she would not wake up at night.

Anyhoo, cut to just this weekend when we were finally able to rearrange the house so that Miss P could have her own room.  Unfortunately, this meant that Mr. P had to be kicked out of the bigger room and sent to the smaller room, which we were loathe to do and was another reason we waited so long.  But sleeping with her was becoming intolerable, and I don't think she liked it much either.  Too much snoring.

I thank our lucky stars that she had zero issues sleeping in her own room and (knock on wood) this will be the third night in a row that she happily nestled into her "princess bed."  She is even sick and still fine with the transition, so I hope this is permanent. 

But really, the horror stories about children never leaving the family bed and all that has never been my experience.  We waited  until we felt each of our children were ready to handle the transition, and both times, it has been pretty seamless.

Which is my roundabout way of saying do what works for you!  Co-sleep or don't!  Change is possible!

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Why Obamacare Sucks

I'll let you in on a little secret, I DO NOT LIKE the Affordable Care Act.  I only called it Obamacare in the title because I wanted people to get confused for a second.  "Wait, what, Gina the liberal Democrat has a problem with health care coverage for many?"

And yes, Virginia, I do have a problem with health coverage for many.

Because dammit, it isn't health coverage for ALL.  I want a freaking single-payer system and I want it now. 

I want all the idiotic Republicans who keep talking shit about the Affordable Care act to SHUT UP and face the fact that it is essentially a Republican blueprint for healthcare. 

I remember a few summers ago when the Democrats were going to try to push a single-payer bill through Congress before the recess and I knew, I just knew, that they were going to blow it.  That because the Democratic party does not vote in lockstep with each other, they would wind up killing their own bill. 

And sure enough, they did, and now we have this other ludicrous thing that was some sort of screwed up compromise to get some kind of health care reform passed at all.

My daughter is "additional needs," (to coin a phrase from the fabuloso Magneto Bold Too) and even though we have healthcare coverage through my husband's employer that is better than about 90% of everybody's else's healthcare, we still wind up paying over three hundred dollars a month in copays for all of her therapies. 

To us, three hundred dollars is a freaking lot of money. 

But I cannot imagine what kind of situation we would be in if our coverage was not as excellent as it is.  What kind of dilemma might face parents with lower incomes.  I could easily see it being an issue of eating vs. therapy for their child in some months.  Hell, we are one bad thing from the same thing happening to us.

We are right in that sweet spot of making too much money to qualify for any government help (which is being chipped away slowly but surely) but not quite enough that we can let three hundred bucks go out the door every month without a second thought.

Of course we will pay the money for as long as my daughter needs help, but I can't help but be a little bitter when I know there could have been a much better solution for everyone.

Thursday, November 07, 2013

He Married Up, For Sure

Despite being a wonderful father in all other respects, my husband has a blind spot when it comes to dressing my daughter and getting her ready to go somewhere.  He claims that it is difficult.  He claims that he has no idea how to put her hair in a simple ponytail.  And, if recent events are any indication, he seems to think that pants are up for debate.

As for picking an outfit, I have two main drawers for her clothing.  One has shirts, and the other, shockingly, has bottoms.  Many of them are coordinating outfits, but in a pinch, is it really that hard to look at two items of clothing and see if they match in coloring?  The way he talks about it, it is indeed rocket science to pick out matching and weather-appropriate clothing.

He also refuses to attempt to comb her hair (which is fine and long) and make any attempt at putting it into even the simplest of styles.  My God man, it is 2013, there are entire websites created to teach people how to do hair!  You could watch hours and hours of video in order to prep yourself.  I won't lie, it takes some practice to get it right, but you HAVE TO START practicing in order to get anywhere.

Our son attends an acting class on Saturdays, and recently I was the one who took him.  It is somewhat far away, and there isn't really any point to coming home after dropping him off, you would just be basically turning around and leaving again to pick him up.

So, I am sitting in the parking lot, reading a book (HEAVEN) and I get a text that Hubba-hubba is currently at the library with our daughter.  Immediately, my mind jumps to what she was wearing when I left the house, which was a sort of babydoll tank top.  It is a shirt, not a dress, and technically does not completely cover her bum.  Especially if she moves.  Which she does. A lot.

I don't remember the exact wording of my text, but it went something like "OH GOD, PLEASE TELL ME YOU PUT SHORTS ON HER BEFORE YOU LEFT THE HOUSE."

The reply was something like, "Uh, no."

Fierce cursing began emanating from my mouth, and it was a good thing I was ten miles or so away from home.

I told him that it was completely inappropriate for her to be wearing that shirt as what he thought was a dress, and how in the world could he think of taking her out of the house when the world could so very clearly see her behind?

In short, I was patronizingly told that I was "stressing about the little things" and needed to chill out.

It turns out that I did not, as instructed, chill out, and promptly yelled at him when I got home.   

I was venting my frustration to a dear friend of mine, and she very much jokingly said, "You know you've married down when pants are considered optional."

I think that sums it up nicely, does it not? I DARE someone to defend him.