I’m a fan of consignment stores. I truly think they are great. Without them, what would we do with all the assloads of baby and kid junk that we’ve acquired that they so quickly outgrow or get tired of? Yes, I know I can give it to the Salvation Army and many times I do, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to hand over a $60 Gymboree dress, worn only once, to the Salvation freaking Army. The same goes for all the other overpriced, new-with-tags crap in my daughter’s closet. Even better, however, are the great things you can GET there. There are some serious bargains happening in consignment shops and so I usually check there first for things where it doesn’t really matter if it isn’t brand new.

After Christmas I went to my neighborhood consignment store to try and find a pair of tap shoes in my daughter’s size as hers seemed to be too small after the holiday break from dance. As we sat on the floor trying different pairs, I came across some that looked to be close to her size. They were very similar to the ridiculously expensive Capezio’s that we had consigned a few months prior. As I was untying them, I caught a whiff of something. Ughh. What IS that? Then it hit me. “Ewwwww!” I squealed as the shoes went flying from my hands. The woman from the store came running. I sat there on the floor with my hands out in front of me as if they were covered in something awful and vile. “These shoes have cat pee on them!” I screeched. I was justifiably horrified, particularly because I could feel the stickiness of old cat urine mixed with ammonia crystals on my hands and now that I recognized the smell, it was about to make me barf. Before I knew it, the owner had brought me a box of baby wipes and hand sanitizer and was apologizing profusely. She continued to prattle on about how she had no idea how this could have happened etc. I nodded my head politely. Yes, of course, I understand. No problem. But on the inside I’m all “Ewwwww…get me out of here!” I bought a clean, unpeed-upon pair of tap shoes (and I ONLY bought them there because she had class that day and I was in a hurry) and we hauled ass.

A few days later, I came home and there was a message from the consignment store owner. I couldn’t imagine why she would be calling. I was very curious so I called her right back.
Our conversation went something like this:
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Me: Hi, this is Izzy Smith. You left me a message earlier today to call you.

Owner: Uh, yes, hi. I just wanted to tell you that I was checking my records to see who consigned the shoes with the uh, cat pee on them and uh… THEY’RE YOURS!

Me: *GASP*

Me: *Apologizing repeatedly and telling her I have no clue how they could have gotten peed on blah blah*
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At some point I must have told the woman, in attempt to keep it light and not die of total embarrassment right there on the phone, that I was going to blog about this horrid story, as if it were some cute little anecdote. Talk about your humbling experiences…

So yesterday, after avoiding the shop for about a month because I seriously never wanted to see her again, I decided to bite the bullet and go in because I wanted to see if they had a certain item and what’s the first thing she says to me?

“So did you write about the cat pee shoes in your blog?”

“Oh. Haha. Did I say that? Yeah. I mean no. Uh uh. But I will. Mmhmmm” Right after I die of humiliation.

Epilogue
I racked my brains for weeks trying to figure out how this happened because those shoes were only ever in two places: in the car or on my kid’s feet. How the holy hell did they get pissed on? The only theory I have is this one: One night I went outside and I saw two big yellow eyes looking back at me form the dash of the BAM (bad-ass minivan). There was a cat in my car. My neighbor’s cat, actually. WTF? How’d he get in there? Then I remembered that earlier that day my friend had gotten her daughter’s booster out of my car. He must have jumped in without her seeing him and then gotten locked in there for like 8 hours. I guess can see how a pair of tiny patent leather tap shoes might be a viable substitute for a litterbox…you know, in a pinch, or if someone locks you in a car all day.

***And finally, I have a new renter, Life as Lou, located in the sidebar. She’s a mom of two and a military wife. Lou’s writing is funny and full of descriptive, clever observations. You simply must drop by and read her latest post about attending a Passion Party!***

Everyone please give a warm welcome to my Blog Exchange Partner, Christina from A Mommy Story. This is her post! You can read mine at her place :-)
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A Failure at Being a Woman?

Izzy is graciously trading me her blog today for the Blog Exchange set up by Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored. One of the topics we were given was “What it means to be a woman today.” That one had me thinking for awhile, and my mind drifted to wondering what the true definition of a woman is today, especially compared to what it has been.

If you look at the old, stereotype of being a woman, then I’m a flat out failure. Honestly. I’m much closer to being a man, other than having ovaries and a vagina rather than testicles and a penis.

Here’s how I fail at being a woman:

- I rarely, if ever, wear dresses. Generally, I’ll wear dresses for weddings, funerals, and maybe a few other special occasions. If it’s not one of those events, then don’t even bring the pantyhose near me, or I’ll choke you with them.

- I prefer the “au natural” look when it comes to makeup. I own makeup, and use it when necessary (see special occasions, above), but most of the time I wear none. I have friends who honestly cannot leave the house without “putting on their face,” and that saddens me. Yeah, I know I might look better leaving the house with makeup on, but at least I don’t feel so bad about myself that I need it as a crutch for my self esteem. OK, truthfully I don’t like how I look, and I’m really just too lazy to mess with makeup daily.

- High heels do not exist in my house. I don’t own a single pair. I see no reason to put myself through that kind of pain to look a little taller.

- I’ve never been meek or coy in my life. I’m generally outspoken, direct, and very proud of my accomplishments. I don’t let the boys win to keep their masculine pride. Maybe that’s why I had such trouble getting dates in high school?

- I don’t cook, am lousy at cleaning, and only so-so with decorating. Yeah, I’m Martha Stewart and Donna Reed’s worst nightmare. I could have never survived in the 50’s.

This list could go on and on, but I think my point has been made. If compared to the old ideal of a woman, my license for femininity should be revoked.

But thank goodness we women don’t have to live up to that ideal any longer. Women have the freedom to define themselves any way they want. There really are no strict ideals to conform to anymore - a woman can wear pants, be a CEO, choose to not have children, and burn every meal she attempts to cook and still be thought of as a good woman.

To me, the only true definition of a woman is a person with XX chromosomes, a vagina, ovaries, a uterus, and breasts. We are equals with men, although we do have one special advantage: we have the ability to carry and give birth to a new life. That is our one special trait, and one I have experienced and want to experience again. We are the life-givers.

Other than those biological distinctions, women are now open for a new definition. Or maybe we all should consider our individual definitions. What’s your definition of being a woman? To the women out there, how do you see yourself as a woman in 2006?

Christina

About the Author: My name is Christina and I’m known as mommy to one 17 month old girl (although you’ll never hear her call me that), and wife to my husband of three years. I work part-time as a student advisor at a local university, and otherwise can be found holding my daughter’s sippy cup for her. I also have a blog of my own, A Mommy Story, and encourage everyone to come check it out!