SHOPPING ON THE FLY

I think I have an addiction. It's not chocolate, alcohol or crack for that matter. It's much more dangerous. It involves Visa, Mastercard and my Ann Taylor Loft card. Yes, I am a drive by shopper. Actually, it's more like a walk-by but nevertheless, if I pass a store with a great outfit in the window, or if I'm wearing a pair of boots that are in desperate need of repair, I don't run to the nearest blacksmith...I bolt to the closest shoe store. Just the other day I was wearing a smashing chocolate brown skirt and sweater set that I had picked up at Loft but I had a major fashion dilemma. The outfit looked great - but the shoes - atrocious. I hopped on the train that morning and knew that before I set foot in my office that my credit card would find it's way into the hands of a very happy store clerk. I strategically mapped out my plan by giving myself six shoe store shopping choices on the way to my building. Lucky for me, by the third walk-by, I had hit the jackpot. Chocolate brown suede boots that were wide enough to go around my larger than life calves. I proudly whipped out my credit card...saw the magical approved symbol flash, told the girl to hide away my hideous old shoes and I proudly walked out of the store with my new purchase guiding the way. But it didn't stop with the boots. My addiction also hit me at lunch too. Especially since Loft was flashing that enticing 75% sale sign in the window. I already bought three outfits yesterday but noticed in one of their windows a really cute sweater and belt combo that I thought would look absolutely fabu on me. And mom just gave me a $100 gift card for my birthday. Looks like the magnetic pull from Loft would draw me in again at noon. Luckily by 5:30 pm, I had to hit the train so I couldn't race in for one last look...unless of course I left a few minutes early so I could scoop up that pair of earrings I noticed earlier today that perfectly matched my newly purchased sweater/belt combo. It's not like I'm a gambler or anything. I just love to purchase things on the fly and since Ann Taylor Loft is on nearly every Manhattan street corner, they happen to get first crack at my wallet. Some say that my addiction could be much worse. I could have a Jimmy Choo fixation or a Gucci fetish but I'm way more sensible when it comes to my walk-bys. If the price tag screams "two weeks salary" then they're not getting my sale. In the interest of time, proximity and price, I keep my walk-bys simple and expeditious. And lucky for Ann Taylor Loft, they have me at "Hello, may I help you?"

CROTCH CONUNDRUM

I've got a doozy of a confession to make. One that will probably cause my four-year-old to stop talking to me when he gets older when he can finally read and discovers that I actually wrote about this embarrassing moment in his adorable life. The confession du jour is about my little boy and his recent propensity to grab his crotch. It started innocently enough about two weeks ago. We were out and about running errands and I noticed he kept grabbing himself down below and I asked him what the problem was.

"It's itchy down there," he replied.

"Okay, let's put some powder on and see what's going on," I instructed.

I checked him out and nothing seemed out of place, or red, or chafed for that matter, so I chalked it up to tight underpants and went out to buy him several new pairs of Sponge Bob tidy whities.

But the crotch-grabbing situation persisted and began to worsen by the day. We'd be out at Dunkin Donuts and he'd be grabbing for it. At the Gap and his hand was there again. In the house, crotch alert. And at pre-school...yup - guilty as charged.

Today everything came to a head (pun intended) when I dropped him off at school and his two teachers - who happen to have a terrific sense of humor, cornered me to share what they had been observing this past week in class.

"Mrs. Feldman, did you notice that Dylan keeps grabbing himself?"

I laughed nervously and then explained that I was basting him in medicated powder and vaseline but his hand kept wandering down under.

"Maybe he has a urinary infection," one of his teachers replied.

"No - he's not complaining when he goes to the bathroom," said the other. "I think he just likes to hold onto his crotch."

Mortified, I told the teachers that if the situation persisted that I'd take him to the doctor to check him out and make sure he doesn't have a rash or infection.

"Oh, don't worry about it," replied his teacher. "We've got a little girl in here who's grabbing herself too. The two of them will make a perfect pair."

The Dishwasher

I'll never understand why after having company over that even though I've set the table, made dinner, and began cleaning up after everyone, that dishwasher duty also falls under my chain of command. I mean, come on. The dishwasher? Why can't my husband just put the darn dishes in there correctly? I think he purposely puts the stuff in wrong - big plates on the top rack, glasses on the bottom (aargh) and then shoves in plates that are caked with gook that I know won't come out once we run it through the cycle, but he insists...it's a dishwasher, it'll all come out clean. Sure - in your crazy world where dishes wind up back in the cabinets by some stroke of magic and bowls that one minute were lying in the den full of cereal and curdled milk are now washed and loaded in the machine. I swear, I have become the dishwasher fairy for my family and frankly, I'm ready to hang up my rubber gloves. I know, it could be worse - I could be without a dishwasher and then me and that Palmolive lady would be best buds. But no, I'm just the clean-up captain who hates to see dirty dishes lying around so rather than have a stand-off over who is going to take care of the mess, I just roll up my sleeves, turn on the faucet, wash the stuff off and put it where it belongs. Okay, no more dishing about the dishwasher. On to more important things...like whose turn is it to fix that disgusting clog in the bathroom sink?