Worst. Advice. EVAR.

Kindergarten: The year I was corrupted by paste.

As parents we throw out advice constantly, usually with absolute sincerity and certainty that we are totally clear in our meaning. It goes with the underlying feeling that we are always right. And why is that? Because, as kids, we were so consistently wrong.

When asked the question, "What is the worst advice you've ever gotten?," what I really hear is "What is the worst advice you've ever taken?" And when I process that second question, I have to break it down by age, because I've taken horrid advice pretty much every year of my life.

At age 3, my brother's well-intentioned "You should let me cut your bangs for you" sounded awesome. In retrospect, I should have had him specify exactly how short he intended to go, and how large an area constituted bangs.

At age 5, my classmates' assertion that I should try the paste "because it's minty," seemed like brilliant advice but the years-long paste addiction ended only when I changed schools in second grade and the new school used Elmers. (For the record: very bland.)

In fourth grade, my then-best friend urged me to "go with" the most popular boy in class. I didn't know what this meant, except when I said yes, he sat next to me at lunch and shared my potato chips. Three days later, the very same friend who explained to me the awesomeness and dire importance of having a boyfriend and talked me into an infatuation AND basically *forced* me to say yes to the big "go with" question, ended up kissing my boyfriend. On the lips. At recess. While playing basketball. Her actions resulted in his breaking up with me via message sent by sixth-grade-female emissaries. Crushing blow.The whole episode resulted in a years-long battle of pining and longing over the dreams that could have been.

A year later, in class, I was handed a small, white booklet (no pictures) filled with pornographic stories. It had just begun circulating the classroom and I was heartily encouraged to read it "like everyone else." It was stimulating and horrifying. And I was caught by the teacher reading it. MORTIFYING. I have bouts of PTSD over this episode to this day.

And finally, I shall leave you with "The Double Whammy": Seventh grade, my 13th birthday. My older sister gave me a make-up kit that was perhaps the most awesome item on the planet. It had sliding-side panels that revealed several different colors of eye shadow, blush and various lip glosses. I asked her how to put it on and which colors I should wear, and my sister said, "Just try them all on and see what you like best." WHAM.

I then went out to my special-birthday dinner with my parents, wearing every single eye shadow in the kit. All at the same time. After the early dinner, my folks dropped me off at a rec center (DESPITE my ignoring their gentle suggestions that perhaps I should lighten-up the makeup) for my first junior high school dance, where I was excited to be in the same stuffy, dimly-lit locale as my long-term boyfriend of one week. "We may actually speak to each other," I thought, giddily.

Upon entering the dance, I was informed by my two best girlfriends that I was about to be dumped. They had it on good word from two girls who heard it from his friend. Their sage advice calmed my panic: "You should break up with him first." WHAM WHAM.

So I did. I, in my all-ten-billion-shades of eye shadow, politely informed my smirking and highly embarrassed "boyfriend" that I wanted to be "just friends." I later learned that he wasn't going to dump me-- it was a ruse my friends and I fell for, started by some other truly horrible life-destroying mean girls. But upon seeing me in my clown make-up... well, suffice it to say he was cool with being "friends."

I try to remember these horrors when I literally watch as my words float in one and out the other of my kids' ears, whispering right past their brains. At these moments, as they ignore me, I imagine them in future times, unwrapping their own little horror stories for their children.

It makes me smile.

Ladies’ Day

It really was an amazing weekend, especially if you extend it into Thursday, with my son's procurement of his driver's license and all the freedom that affords ME. Friday was a hot date night; and Saturday was all about retail therapy.

I did neglect to mention a few things, however.

Saturday, while admiring the purses at the Rack, a fellow shopper mentioned how much cheaper all those handbags were at the outlet store in Gilroy. Outlet stores? Gilroy? Hm. Filed that one away for later as I popped across the parking lot to Joilee and found a few items to accessorize my newly acquired outfits. More treasures for treasures.

That evening, as I gazed upon my purchases, two things struck me.

First, I went nuts. Owing to the deep discounts, I bought each of my girls new blouses. (Oddly, the boys have zero interest in fashion. Go figure.) But overall the shopping trip had been pretty much entirely about me and that felt weird. It's not often that I buy myself clothes. A shirt here or new shoes there, a trip to Plato's Closet for some second-hand jeans, but I'm not a shopper. I never have been. So this whole extended shopping day was pretty out of character. The fact that it was all based on stores other than Target? Major departure for me.

Second, I wasn't done. While slightly more than the tip of the iceberg, there were still a few items I wanted to get to round out my day of brazenly gluttonous hoarding. And the desire to get MORE STUFF honestly exacerbated how out of character I felt. Further, I wanted to share the joy.

By nightfall Saturday, I'd already arranged to take my four daughters with me to the Gilroy Outlets.  Oh yes. I was going to find myself a purse. Maybe two.

Growing up, my mother took us daughters on shopping trips like this; she called them, "Ladies' Days." We lived just north of San Francisco, and once a year, just before the start of school, we four would make the trip into The City for some Crab Louie, amazing sourdough bread and a day of shopping at Union Square. We'd then journey across the bay into Marin and toodle around there before finally heading back home.

My mother and sisters have always taken their shopping seriously, while I was largely the odd duck of the group. They shopped for clothes, I wandered aimlessly behind them keeping up the steady mantra: "Are we done yet?" I knew what I liked and if I saw it, great. Else, the whole shopping thing just wasn't my gig. The rooting, searching, disrobing, re-robing, the frustration-- the whole experience overwhelmed me. My sisters, on the other hand, loved the thrill of the hunt and the landing of their retail prey.

The very fact that I not only had the continuing desire to shop, but planned a trip some 2 hours away to do it? VERY out of character for me.

It was a blast.

The day included much scouting, walking, talking, laughing, top-of-our-lungs car singing, finding, purchasing, rejoicing, lunching and, of course, Starbucking. We all found various treasures; we returned joyously sated.

Our song of the day? It played no less than 7 times on the various stations, and again in one of the stores while we shopped. Fitting.

Retail therapy

My new boots. Hot, right? Believe me, they're SO MUCH SEXIER at 60% off.

I didn’t plan for the temporary insanity. In fact, I think it can be blamed entirely on my husband.

It started on Friday night. We went out on a date– a very nice date– and I wore my sweater. My only sweater, the one I got for Christmas that hasn’t already turned into a million tiny balls of fluff. You know, the one I wore 3 times last week? THAT sweater, yeah.

So Friday night we walk around World Market, and we do our browsing thing. We look and I think of my now-departed 93-year-old blind grandmother as I touch everything and ooh and ahh. And we go home empty handed and I feel just fine, thanks to the wine we had with our fancy date-night dinner.

At 7:00 a.m., my mind’s eye sits bolt upright in bed (while the rest of me lays there contentedly) and remembers that I have to take 11-year-old Gabby for a blood test. I proceed to lay in bed, simultaneously worrying and dozing until it’s too late to take a shower. I throw on my sweats and my pylon-orange colored SF Giants fleece, and take Gab to the doctor, all make-up free and ponytail-like. The wait is long and filled with many failed Angry Birds and missed pigs, when we realize we haven’t picked up Gabby’s new eyeglasses yet. No problem. We decide to grab them after the current appointment, and as we’re running late, I’d drop Gabby off to visit with her bio-mom right after.

Shh. I’m getting to the point.

So I call my husband, Steve, inform him of my whereabouts and we decide to grab some joe at La Boulangerie. Who do I run into? My sister and her friend, both well-outfitted and looking beautiful (as usual). I join them. Shortly thereafter Steve arrives and we– the two fashionistas with their adorable sweaters and expertly coiffured hair; my freshly showered and after-shaved husband; and I, the human pylon– enjoy some coffee together.

We have a lovely time and when they leave, Steve suggests we go to Nordstrom Rack; he’s looking for some new pants. Excellent, I think; I could use an alternate to my lone sweater, and so we head across town to the retailer.

And THIS is why he deserves the blame: it was his idea.

Apparently I’d forgotten that I looked like the Crypt Keeper in fat pants and a neon jacket.

The trip:  Steve finds nothing. I find discounts of up to 85%. As we arrived in 2 cars, he bids me adieu and I proceed to spend the next four hours (no joke– FOUR. HOURS.) tromping around and totally oblivious of my unfashionable state until, naturally, I was seen by a coworker and forced into pleasant conversation marked by my horrid coffee breath. This stinging embarrassment inspired me to literally hide behind a column from another coworker just a short time later.

It didn’t matter. That’s what happens when the temporary insanity hits: I was on a shopping high. Clearance racks as far as the eye can see. Are you kidding me? I’d have worn an actual pylon and still done a four-hour shop.