WWAD? (What Would Allah Do?)

It's slim pickins in the pueblo when it comes to maternity garb.  Well, quite honestly, it's slim pickins when it comes to any kind of garb at all.  As far as I can tell we have three official dress shops, one of them doubling as hunting supply store during season.  Hey, it's crisis over here (pronounced kree-seize) so I guess you gotta make your buck/euro wherever you can.

Imagine the excitement when the Moroccan's wife branched out on her own and opened up a women's shop on the main avenida just a stone's throw from his souped up version of the Dollar Store.  Though I wasn't expecting to find anything too sexy from this Muslim shopkeeper, I'll admit to hopes of a flowing (and waistless) dress that might ease me into the inferno that is summer in southern Spain.   Maybe it would have a pretty floral design that would mimick a henna tatoo.  Exactly what I need floating around my rapidly expanding midsection.  Sadly, my maternity collection, though I think Liz Lange would take issue with me calling it that, from the past six years is chock full of little more than polyester pant suits, long sleeved tops and two button cardigans; telltale signs of the summer mating of the schoolteacher in hopes of springtime babies.  

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Caption?  Are you kidding me?!?
Let's make it a game, shall we?  
Post your best caption in the comments
section because I'm at a loss.

So with visions of airy cotton dresses, I hoofed it down to the new dress shop, so new in fact it doesn't even have a name, my 20 euro note burning a hole in my pocket.  And this is who greeted me.

Isn't she, uhm, subtle?
What in the hell?
And braless to boot. 

I had never seen such, such...what do I even call them?  Okay, so let's try again.  For a shop run by the only Muslim family in the pueblo, I couldn't believe my eyes.  Were those boobs or missiles?  Holy balls those things were huge!  Maybe Moroccan women are bustier than Spanish women.  Maybe Mohamed got some kind of a discount on this mannequin seeing as her boobs are twice as large as her head.  Is there such a thing as bargain basement for mannequin shopping?  Jeez o Pete.  Those tits are ridiculous.  And how did his wife feel about such bazookas in her storefront window?  It's not exactly Jihad material but it's gotta be cuttin' it close on a few of those doctrines listed in the Qur'an.

I shook my head to clear the image and entered.  Please have something that will fit me a month, 2 months, 5 months from now.  And may it not have rhinestones or leopard print.  Please. 

I scoured that store for far longer than it was worth.  I flipped past the zebra print leggings, ignored the "I Love insert African nation of your choice" tees,  and skipped the Spanish housecoat section altogether, though it was tempting.  And finally, found this.  Not bad and I still had some change left over to accessorize.  I would walk out for under 9 euros, thank you pueblo pricing but it remains to be seen how long the fit will last.  At three months I'm well, grande.  I guess if push comes to shove I can always go for the button down shown on the gal in the window.  In fact, at a closer glance, it just may be the perfect blouse for a  lactating mom, don't you think?

A MINX JINXED

When it comes to fashion, I am, in no uncertain terms, my own worst enemy.


Practicality trumps design every time.  Take a walk through my closet and you'll see what I mean.  If like food, clothing had an expiration date, the Department of Health would have shut my closet down eons ago.  A walk through my closet is like a walk through the history books of bad taste.  Try as I might, I have just never been able to put two and two together.  I'm like an idiot savant, always going back for more beige straight legs and v-neck knit tops.


So last weekend I decided to take a stand.  Garbage bag in one hand and visions of Milanese catwalks to guide me, I hit the master bedroom closet with a vengeance.  Goodbye elastic waist bands.  Sayonara prêt-à-porter t-shirts in eight different colors.  I would donate my fashion faux pas to the homeless of Des Moines.  Surely the guy waving the cardboard sign on the corner of 86th and Hickman would love my gray parachute pants with the baby poop stains down the right front leg.  My prized and highly coveted red Spanish rebeca from '94 study abroad was still in one piece save for the missing button and worn right elbow.  Why not pass it along to the lady on 8th and Grand who wears that tattered windbreaker from '85?  Isn't a ten year update considered an upgrade no matter what the decade?


Closet emptied, utilities paid, and credit card balance back to zero, I was now ready to take on the monutmental challenge of updating my look.  There would be only one rule by which to abide:  I would not purchase a thing, not even underwear, from any store that made shopping carts available to the general public. 


Buh-bye Target. 
auf Wiedersehen Walmart. 
Costco?  Adios, amigo.  May we never meet again.


I was going to shop like a REAL woman; in a store that sold clothing, not tires or lawn furniture.   Now, in light of the fact that I have not won any recent lottery, this was a project in-the-works so to speak.  I would set aside a small portion from each paycheck and 'invest' it in a new wardrobe piece until I had restocked the closet with items made post Y2k.  Garbage bags overflowing, I would be lucky to get this accomplished within the next 3 years but hell, I was more than willing to give it a shot.  And so it went.  I grabbed the keys to my ride - the sexy, white minivan parked out front because the garage was now a post Christmas toy lot - and then high tailed it out to the mall.


The ride over was two steps up from pleasant and bordering on euphoric.  A silent ride with no squabbling kids in the car, no Thomas the Train DVD blaring in the background...yeah, you know the ride - not well, but you know it.  Me, Myself and I set free by the closet purge and on our way to chasing down the invisible errand.  I was about to discover a whole new side of myself and in the spirit of the makeover, I swung in to Caribou for {gasp} a house coffee.  Cheers to Me!  January 2011 would be my comeback year - THE YEAR I TURNED MINX.


Well, not quite.


Parked at the mall, I threw my head back, shaking my invisible Farah Fawcett mane after that last swig of  medium roast.  Grabbing my purse--well, okay 'diaper bag' - the one bulging with wallet, 3 sets of keys, day planner, empty baby bottle, 'just in case' diapers in 2 different sizes, ziplock baggie of wet wipes and about 55 broken crayons nestled at the bottom I set out for the mall.  I'll admit, there was attitude in my walk across the parking lot.  Not quite full saunter but a definite click in the step.  Look out, Giselle I'm workin' this runway.   I was well on my way to channeling my 37 year old hottie.  While Pam Anderson still had her boobs and Botox, I had a fresh paycheck and the homeless man in post partum duds from 5 years ago as incentive.  He was NOT going to outshine me.  Pam?  Yeah, probably.  But not the guy sporting my throwaway threads. 


I'm buyin' some hipster skinny legs.  Ones with an ultra short zipper.  Oh yeah....
Gettin' a new shirt too.  With buttons down the front.  Didja' hear me?  I said BUTTONS.  Oh yeahh...
I may even get some new boots.  With a pointy, bonespur makin' heel.  Oh yeahhhhh... 

That's how I strutted into Jordan Creek Mall: completely and totally full of myself.
J.CrewBananaRepublicAnnTaylorExpressTheGapAbercrombie&Fitch...
They were all there.  Open and ready for my business.  And there I was Pam Anderson suddenly turned Hellen Keller.  A fish out of water, I was definitely out of my element.  Where were the signs marked Automotive, Pharmacy or Electronics to light my path?  Suddenly so alone I had been swallowed whole by the mall's atrium; intimidation and uncertainty washing over me like waves of nausea before diarrhea strikes.  Where in the hell was Annie Sullivan to help me navigate this misadventure?  Oy vey.


To be honest, I don't even know which store I stumbled into first - probably J. Crew given its proximity to the mall entrance.  Old habits die hard and I made a beeline for the rounders on the back wall, grabbed three pairs of skinnies off the sales rack and darted into an empty changing room.  Off with the old and on with the new but wait a minute, Whoa Tiger!  Why is the button sitting so far below my c-section scar?  Is that normal?   That scar is at least a mile to the south of my belly button, maybe even more.  Uhm Houston, we have a problem.  I gave a good tug but after about 15 seconds they slid past my little boy hips right back under the scar, the zipper ending a little too close for comfort if you know what I mean.  I then made the mistake of trying to put my shoe back on thinking somehow that shoes would right this obvious wrong.  Tilting awkwardly to my right to slip a finger in behind my heal, I shot straight up again as the waistline of the pants licked my butt crack on its way down the last half mile. 

What the hell?! 

So ass crack is the style nowadays?  Great.

Just how did Mr. J. Crew figure that I was going to be able to heft Henry on one hip, Lola on the other and wrangle Charlie by a hand with my ass hanging out in the breeze?  Would Child Protection Services be called out on me?  Last time I checked the PTA had no dresscode but postpartum rumpshaker was probably more than pushing it.


Pair number two was no better.  And three even worse.  Pissed, I kicked my leg furiously back and forth as if trying to fling steaming dog shit off the bottom of a new shoe.  Then I went to hunt down a sales clerk.

"Uhm, hi there.  Look, do you have anything with a slightly higher rise?  I think that's what you call it.  I'm just looking for something that doesn't hit me so...uhm...so...you know, so....low.  Ya' know what I mean?"


The kid just stared at me.


I tried again, "I guess I need something that's not so lowrider."


Blank stare.


Was I speaking Russian?  Did I have a unicorn horn sprouting from my brow?  Yo Gabba Gabba!  Wanna acknowledge me?


"Well, if you're looking for Women's Jeans you might wanna try the department stores."


Excuse me?
I know you're not sending me out for camel toe and 'Mom jeans'. 
Are you?


"Yeah, Dillards will probably have something more your style."


Okay.  So Pam Anderson, I'm obviously not.  But I'm also no Carol Brady either.  I had spent the better part of the last six months shaving the bulk of my muffin top off and I was not gonna leave that mall without a decent pair of pants and a label that proved that I paid too much, dammit! 

Was it my fault that my hips had no curve whatsoever to hold up the pants crafted by a Taiwanese orphan chained to his sewing machine and beaten for using too much fabric? 
I don't think so.

Was it my fault that the past 6 months worth of sit ups had done nothing for the fallen soufflé that was now my midsection?
I don't think so.

J.Crew, bite me.  I'll take the fuckin' pants.
And so it was.  $42.38. 
The price, evidently, of my pride.