Katie had a late start today. Once or twice a month school doesn’t start until after 9am. On those days the girls and I run through Starbucks on the way to drop Katie off at school. The girls and I have the Starbucks routine down to a science. We actually have 2 sets of orders, the order I am capable of reciting at the drive-thru speaker and the order Mike is capable of reading off a list at the drive-thru speaker.

We always manage to maintain a conversation through the drive-thru and in between the drive-up window opening and closing. This morning Katie was discussing the music playing on the radio and I assured her it wasn’t nearly as bad as waking up to “The Bob and Tom Show” with the song “It’s A Great Day…” (see below)

Funny song, but at 6:30am it made me want to beat Mike to death with the television remote. As I explained it to Katie, I prefer to wake up to the Today Show. The tv is set to switch on 2 minutes before the Today Show starts because the initial tones they play as the start to the show wakes me up, then I can ease into my morning. There is just something soothing about Ann Curry and Matt Lauer telling you about all the awful things that happened while you were sleeping.

If you wake up to “The Bob and Tom Show” the rest of the day, whether you like it or not (not, in my book) is just a giant fart joke.

Alternate post title: He Did It To Me Again.

The butterfly bush (or as my husband refers to it… “that butterfly monster”) turned out to be the fastest growing, most furiously blooming plant I have ever encountered. It smells wonderful, attracts butterflies by the hundreds through the spring/summer but has to be trimmed back several times a year. Emphasis on “several times a year.”

We’ve had an unusually warm January with some beautiful sunny days and since we had a new lilac tree to plant we spent last Saturday in the yard.

We cleaned up anything dead-ish, dug up an old rosemary plant that had died, cleaned out weeds that were trying to poke up and trimmed some trees and bushes. Then my husband said, “Oh, I trimmed up the butterfly bush…” I don’t recall anything he said after that because I took one look at my butterfly bush and made this face:

My butterfly bush should look like this (not now, it’s winter, but when it’s not winter it should):

Remember the last time he did this to me?

“YOU’RE TRYING TO KILL HER!!!!!!” I might have said a little too loudly, I think I could hear the neighbor’s curiosity pique from two, possibly more, yards away.

“I am not trying to kill it.” He said in a that stop-being-so-dramatic tone. “Your butterfly bush was trying to eat my redwoods… again.”

Admittedly, the first time those redwoods were still a little on the scrawny side and I could see why Mike was being overly ridiculous, dramatic and a complete sissy la la concerned about my beautiful butterfly bush appearing to attempt to dwarf his beloved redwoods.

This time? Those redwoods are HUGE. They are easily as tall as a two-story house and my precious butterfly bush?

NOT SO MUCH.

I stopped talking to him. I might have muttered something about doing a little pruning of my own on his precious sago palm which looks like this:

Compared to my butterfly bush, which for reference, looks LIKE THIS:

A little while later my husband said, “I put fertilizer on all the plants. I fertilized the butterfly bush too, I just wanted to make sure you know that I am NOT trying to kill your plant.”

I can’t say the same for the plant, Mike. I suggest you start sleeping with one eye open.

I turned 36 last week. Seriously, 36… and I’m just not vain enough to lie about my age. Mostly because I’m not noticing any new wrinkles or crow’s feet and I’m okay that the reason for this is simply because my face is just pudgy enough to fill them out.

Gray hairs… nope. None of those, thankfully. Although, who could tell, considering my stylist talked me into a platinum blonde streak (just one, bold and up front) and a few, ahem, teal peek-a-boo chunks hidden underneath here and there.

I’m happy, it’s cheaper than a sports car, boob lift, younger boyfriend and far more exciting than a rest home. ( Elder Care Portland )

I’m thinner this year than I have been in probably oh… 4 years at least. In fact, all my jeans are my skinny jeans even if skinny is in the eye of the beholder.

What did I do for this momentous occasion?

Earlier this month my husband gifted me with an early present, a Kindle Fire. One of my dearest friends, Chickie, sent me a box full of the most delicious smelling bath bombs on the planet just barely outdoing the shotglass/necklace and dancing chicken card from last year!

On my birthday my husband made me dinner and I was presented with a gift that almost got me a little teary. Non-plant people probably won’t get this… but through the years I’ve always had “dream plants” my husband always smiles and usually goes along with whatever I want to grow at the time. I’ve had beautiful hydrangeas, roses, butterfly bushes and crepe myrtles all gifts for my birthday, Mother’s Day or Easter.

But the Holy Grail, for me anyway, has always been a lilac tree. Holy Grail, indeed, I even found an old post mentioning my desire for a lilac tree:

My great grandmother used to say that the best cure for a headache was putting your hands in the dirt. She was absolutely right. What I would give to have the lilac tree that my grandmother transplanted to her backyard from my great grandmother’s yard!

My grandmother had a lilac tree in the backyard and it was easily one of my favorites of her plants. I knew she had grown it as a cutting from her mother and I believe it was from an original tree in Oklahoma. I had never really seen them around here or available at nurseries and so had given up on ever having one of my own.

Until a few weekends ago when a sunny day sent me perusing the garden section at Lowe’s. They had a huge selection of bare root lilacs. I sort of looked like Agnes in that scene from Despicable Me with the unicorn, there was all sorts of gasping and ooo’ing and ahh’ing and “I MUST HAVE THIS!!!!!!”

Mike grumbled, began asking questions like, where was I going to plant it? How big would it get? Was it going to be like that butterfly bush that has to be fought back from eating his redwoods 200 times a year?

My husband deserves a Golden Globe or Oscar or something because I barely spoke to him for the rest of the day for “dashing my dreams” and his follow up to the act at Lowe’s was to pretend he didn’t notice how annoyed I was with him.

Fast forward to my birthday when I was presented with what Maggie described as “an AMAZING CARD!!!!” which was a giant pop-up card with all sorts of cute, cartoon animals on it. I was later told it took her almost 45 minutes to pick out my birthday card (she took her assignment VERY seriously) and she probably molested every card with a puppy, kitty or other cute animal on it in the stands before selecting this card for it’s unique “pop up” feature.

After much time spent ooo’ing and aaah’ing (I do a ridiculous amount of this, no?) my TRULY AMAZING CARD (just in case Maggie reads this) I was presented with a lilac tree. Not just any lilac, but one my husband and daughter spent about as much time as Maggie with the birthday card, selecting just for me.

I’m really proud of it, but I’m going to spare you a full length picture because it’s only about 18″ tall and is essentially some sticks on a very short, skinny trunk. BUT… check out this beauty of a bud!!!!

I might have some LEAVES this year!!!!!!!

It’s taken many years, but I think the girls have finally beaten Mike down almost completely. Three of us in very different life stages makes for a constant, demanding, eye rolling, “if looks could kill”, screaming, “who took my gray eye liner?”, hot mess kind of life.

More than once someone has joked that if Maggie is bad now, no one wants to imagine her with PMS. Kate is probably the most easy going out of the three of us but that is no invitation to cross her. And, let’s just be honest, when the time comes I have a feeling I won’t be the only one in the house searching for menopause relief. (Amberen on twitter. Amberen on Facebook)

It was never more clear than last night. Kate was on her way to a friend’s house and I noticed Mike silently navigating traffic as Kate and I discussed pictures from formal on facebook. We were debating dress lengths and you could actually feel the testosterone draining from the vehicle. I expected to look over at my husband and find a withered husk driving the car any second.

Surrounded by women, Mike always seems to have a grin on his face either from sheer enjoyment or the “never let them see you afraid” strategy. Which, for the record, almost never works because women can smell fear in men and the bead of sweat on his upper lip is always a dead giveaway. In this house he might not always be wrong but he’s certainly never right.

I’ve observed Mike taking great comfort in “A Christmas Story” as the Old Man blusters through the house, making everyone quake in his wake, and proudly displaying a leg lamp in the center of the picture window declaring it, “a MAJOR AWARD!” Mike has no leg lamp. Mike does not bluster through the house, although he has been known to yell at the neighbor’s dogs who are more Bumpus like than Mike can tolerate.

I had a moment of sympathy while we were cleaning the kitchen. I said something about how it must be a difficult life for him, Mike replied, “I don’t even argue anymore…”

The arrival of Mike’s Harley seemed to provide some sort of testosterone boost. He strode about the house with a renewed sense of manliness, we were amused until this new invigoration took on an air of cockiness. We don’t play fair, it was a game of cat and mouse that the girls enjoyed until they got bored. Now the displays of manliness are kept to the garage and an occasional tirade on facebook.

Not that we have him beaten completely. He’s just become sneakier about it, he knows better than to fight the women on open ground. He admits, he’s no match for us. His strategies are subversive and almost ninja-like. The rare moments of defiance are often subtle, like finding a new project in the middle of a current project where his help his needed or fiddling around in the backyard “waiting for the grill to warm up” when we are all starving. Oh! Lest I forget one of his favorites; after quietly waiting for us to be ready to leave the house he leaves us all assembled at the front door to do some last minute chore or to find that one hat that he just has to wear.

More often than not his silent protests are usually performed in the most absurd way possible. Like insisting on leaving the house in cargo shorts, a t-shirt, sandals and a Harley-Davidson beanie… in January.

There was also that moment after Christmas while we took down outdoor decorations and barked orders for Mike to “check this bulb” and “take this apart” when he clearly couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I looked up just long enough to see our car going down the street dragging the Christmas tree behind it. We stopped and stared as he rounded the corner, our 9 foot tall tree bobbing and weaving behind the car silently, Mike behind the wheel, window rolled down and arm hanging out nonchalantly as if degrading the last vestige of our holiday season was just another errand he had been sent on.

In this house, passive aggressive isn’t just a character flaw, it’s become a survival tactic.

Maggie is 8 years old now. I cannot believe it. In fact, I am in denial so deeply that it has taken me over a week to write this post when her birthday is actually on New Year’s Day.

She fell asleep early and didn’t make midnight on New Year’s Eve. The next morning we made breakfast, loaded up in the car and drove up to Glenville, CA to go hiking, eat pizza and watch Maggie enjoy a ginormous piece of home made banana cream pie. I will tell you that no banana cream pie I have ever had comes close to the pie up at Hassano’s in Glenville.

Maggie is a unique combination of Mike and I. Mike likes to say that she has his sense of humor and my temper which = laugh at my jokes or I’ll kill you. It’s mostly true, although my temper really isn’t that bad and rarely do you have to threaten anyone to laugh at one of Mike’s jokes.

Maggie is mostly just her own unique self. While her parents wage a facebook debate on whether or not right or left socks exist (Mike believes in them religiously, Kate and I find it ridiculous and our friends seem to be split down the middle), Maggie hates to wear socks at all and can often be found jamming her feet into her Ugg boots barefoot.

Like her sister, she hates asparagus but loves broccoli. Unlike her sister, she isn’t fond of sushi but will threaten to cut anyone trying to take a bite of her shrimp fried rice. She insists on “salad” (usually fresh spinach) on every sandwich, but isn’t a fan of salads on their own unless we’re out at a restaurant. She’s not a big fan of peanut butter and jelly. She considers it a tragedy not to have a bowl of chicken noodle soup (even in the dead heat of summer) with her sandwiches. And, almost without fail, she insists on a doggy bag every time we go out to eat because “it’s so good I want to have it for breakfast or maybe later tonight for a snack!”

Maggie is the animal activist of the house. When her scorpion died a few months ago she sobbed for most of the day. Weeks and even months later she will tear up remembering Luke. Almost every night of summer vacation was spent chasing her turtle, Joe, around and fishing him out of our pond. Cut to this winter when a field mouse managed to find its way into the house and I discovered a different side of Maggie.

Maggie was very interested in the mouse traps. I was concerned that perhaps she didn’t realize what a mouse trap would really do to the intruder. Maggie overheard me voicing my concern to Mike (who was getting ready to show Maggie how a trap is set and how it works) she flew around the corner and said, “MOM! I’ve watched EVERY FREAKIN’ EPISODE of Billy the Exterminator! I KNOW how a mouse trap works!”

Later that night… “MOM!!! We caught him! He’s dead… he was so cute, I almost feel bad. They are dirty creatures…”

Not too long ago Maggie gave me a nickname, Mother Kadam (KUH-dam) Pooskie, no clue where or how she came up with it, but it cracks me up. She told Katie once, “If you call mom, Mother Kadam Pooskie, she almost always says yes.” Maggie isn’t really manipulative as much as she just calls a spade a spade and works the system to her advantage whenever possible.

Today my little 8 year old is still on Christmas break and managed to come down with a nasty cold to finish off her winter vacation. She has spent her day tucked in quilts on the couch, dozing, sipping hot cider and watching cartoons. Every once in a while I’ll hear, “Mother Kadam Pooskie…” followed by a request of the usual sick child variety. As usual, she’s working the system to her advantage, it’s an enviable life, that’s for sure.

My husband has discovered Facebook (yes, I know he’s a little late to the party) and in doing so has managed to re-connect with many of our old friends and many of his old friends and lots of family. This led him to a “Western Movie Day” after Christmas with a group of friends.

Someone brought a bottle of Makers Mark, because you can’t watch a western movie without some form of whiskey. The girls headed upstairs to my room to watch Nero Wolfe:

This was one of Katie’s favorite shows when she was little, so much so that she named our rooster Nero. And, if you watched that clip, Katie and I have decided to use Archie’s approach on rude visitors from now on… so, you’ve been warned!

I made a huge pot of lamb stew, Mike made his version of Basque beans and I made a big batch of Basque salsa. We added some sourdough bread and it seemed pretty Western Movie-esque to us. The girls hauled their bowls upstairs to settle in for some Timothy Hutton goodness while the guys cranked up the tv downstairs for Pale Rider, Silverado and Quigley Down Under.

I love Tom Selleck, but I’ve seen Quigley so many times I didn’t mind skipping it this go round. By the time the guys hit Silverado they decided they needed to spice up movie night. Thus began the “Silverado” drinking game. Every time the word, “Silverado” was said on-screen they drank. Unfortunately, the word “Silverado” wasn’t said often enough for our movie fans so they added “or bar scenes” to the rules.

Turns out, that didn’t happen quite as often as they would have liked either. By the end of the movie they were back having second helpings of stew and working out a strategy for Quigley Down Under.

They decided every time Crazy Cora (Laura San Giacomo) called Matthew Quigley (Tom Selleck) “Roy” that they would drink. You might remember the scene where a group of people were run off a cliff? Mike was overheard later saying 1/2 way through the movie he wished she had been ran off a cliff too!

Needless to say, a very good time was had by all.

I’m all about nurturing the self-esteem of my children. No really, I am. You know, when it’s necessary and all that jazz.

Normally, I would give pause and really become concerned about what telling a story involving a burn that looks like a hickey might do to the child with the burn-that-looks-like-a-hickey. Except, the moral of the story (yes, even burns-that-look-like-hickeys have morals) is that said wearer of said offensive burn clearly has solid self-esteem. Here’s how I know that now:

Katie was curling her hair with her ginormous, super hot curling iron that does not curl her hair all that well but does, in fact, burn her skin brilliantly. We found out later at the hair salon that everyone has done this, it’s awesomely funny and yes, Katie needs a curling iron that gets far hotter than the one she has. We need the hair to curl and the burns to blister instantly to avoid burns-that-look-like-hickeys and also, your mother writing blog posts like this. Moving on.

A side note to this story is that I am taking my life in my own hands writing it. This was more of a subconscious fear until Katie walked through the room in her crazy plaid pajama pants and I broke out in a cold sweat hoping she might not ask what I am typing so furiously over here in my little corner.

Our story begins in the bathroom one morning as Katie was getting ready for school. Katie was curling her hair with the crappy, but super hot curling iron and she burned her neck. Not enough to blister, because everyone knows hickeys do not blister, but enough to leave a rosy, red blotch on her neck.

Surprisingly, kids in high school do not care if you have a red blotch on your neck, under your ear. Not because everyone is sporting them but because hickeys are just so darn cliche` and “The Breakfast Club” called and would like their teen angst and fake ID back.

Guess who does care? Your father picking you up from school. Not because he thinks you have a real hickey but because you complain you have a giant burn that looks like a hickey.

Mike asked, “Do you want to run some errands with me?”

“Sure.” Kate replied.

“Then you’ll have to cover up your hickey.”

Kate, not skipping a beat, “Bitch, take me home.”

So you see, my child is not lacking in self-esteem. Even with a hickey-burn which has now faded to a lovely golden crisp that no longer resembles a hickey.

Everyone in this family has caught at least one fish. Some of us brought our fish home to be kept alive for as long as possible, some of us kept the head of our 12lb trout in the freezer for years *cough* Ethan *cough*, some of us just have a picture of a 21lb catfish caught on 5lb line (and yes, it took me hours to reel that baby in) and then released it back into the depths of a lake in the mountains because the kids named it “Bubbles” and I’m a catch and release kind of gal.

But up until a couple of weeks ago, the only member of the family who had not caught a fish was my darling Kate. Mike held out hope as any desperate father would.

“Your seven year old sister caught a fish first, Katie-Bug.” He would say.

“It’s okay, dad, really.” Katie would reply patiently.

People who fish are well schooled in patience (ha! pun intended) and Mike is no exception, still that didn’t stop him from stooping to “stinky bait” levels hoping to help Kate land her first catch. Any opportunity to get Kate near a body of water containing fish with a pole in her hand was not missed.

Ladies, I think the only thing I can compare this to is some strange, male version of empty nest syndrome! There was his daughter, old enough to drive and still hadn’t landed her first fish. I actually felt his pain.

Finally one weekend we took the girls out for some pier fishing. Mike eagerly baited up Katie’s pole first and pushed her into what fisherman’s intuition told him was the sweet spot, he gave her strict instructions to cast close to the pier and to jig her pole off and on. I have to give Kate credit for inheriting her father’s patience because I tend to snatch my pole (a Cabela’s graphite rod that I adore) rig it up like my grandpa taught me and snap at Mike to leave me alone. I usually play with it for a bit before propping it up and taking up my knitting; multi-tasking at its finest.

It wasn’t too long before Kate’s pole began bending and Mike could hardly keep himself from leaping around the pier and screaming at unsuspecting tourists. Kate hauled in a beautiful surf perch, I managed to get a couple of pictures right before all hell broke loose.

Yes, in classic Doran fashion – we can’t do anything without it being a big, damn deal and almost near tragedy.

In a moment of what I can only describe as “WTF?!?!?!?” the perch began giving birth right there on the pier. Not one, not two, but 4 baby perch flopped out onto the wood pier and began flip flopping and glinting in the sunshine. My next thought was, “What woman in her right mind stops for a SNACK in the middle of labor?!??!”

Maggie snapped into full-blown rescue mode and began picking up the babies and then stopped to stare at me, completely unclear as to what she should do after that. I didn’t give it any thought beyond throwing them all back and then leaning way over the side of the pier to see if I could see them swim off – huge sigh of relief when I couldn’t find any “floaters”!

By that time Mike’s proud pop freak out had been reigned into a mix of horror and dismay followed again by pride… he went from “Oh, NO!” to “HOLY COW! MY DAUGHTER CAUGHT 5 FISH AT ONCE!!!!!”

There are no smileys or pictures to adequately depict my eye roll here, I swear.

Then it dawned on him that if he didn’t get the hook out of the mom and get her back in the water with her babies that he was about to have a “Finding Nemo” version of ass kicking headed his direction from both of his daughters. I have to give him credit for being able to handle a wide range of emotions that fast, I mean, after all, it’s not like he’s a woman or a mom or anything. He did good!

What followed was a nightmare surgery on the pier where we were pretty sure we might not be able to get the hook out and then finally – out came the hook (with none of the signature guts I expected from years of fishing with my grandfather) and back into the water went the fish, totally unfazed, of course.

Mike sort of let out a groan not unlike Walter Matthau from “Grumpy Old Men” when Ann Margaret releases his giant fish back into the hole in the ice. “DID YOU GET A PICTURE?!?!?!” He asked, clearly horrified at the thought that there was no picture and no evidence of this historical moment. “EMAIL IT TO ME! I’m making it my desktop wallpaper!!!!”

His version of this story as told to his buddies on the forum can be found here.

Having made up for all the years of not catching in one afternoon (and catching more fish in one day than her dad had in years) Kate hung up her pole and took out her knitting. Her dad was smart enough to leave that well enough alone.

I have attempted almost everything imaginable to break my husband of this blasted obsession with fishing, including breaking my ankle WHILE fishing. His interest goes away for several months to a year at best and reappears out of nowhere with the enthusiasm of someone just offered a full-time job drinking beer and fishing for trout at a secluded mountain lake.

I used to enjoy fishing when it was part of an annual family vacation with my grandparents. I enjoyed it when it was part of an annual camping trip with the kids. When it becomes an every other weekend ritual of blood worms, sand worms and what the kids are now referring to as “stAnky bait” (said with annoying southern accent that only a kid from California can muster up) it starts to lose it’s sense of fun.

A couple of weekends ago I allowed my husband to wrangle me into a Catfish Derby out at Buena Vista Lake about 30 minutes from our house. It’s a man made pit of a lake that I grew up water skiing on. Since the Derby started at the ass crack of dawn my husband thought it would be great to camp out at the lake as well.

The weather report had claimed “cloudy, overcast with a chance of showers” and temps in the high 60′s. Being the good sports that we are, the girls and I trooped out to the shoreline, cast out and plopped into chairs. Katie and I brought books and our knitting bags, Maggie had her backpack with video games and books. Mike was gleefully going through his fishing bags pulling out his “highly recommended” jars of vomit colored bait paste and the special hooks with sponges meant to soak up the questionably colored miracle bait.

Mike looked at me with a gleam in his eye that I’m pretty sure is strictly reserved for 13 year old boys who have just discovered their dad’s stash of Playboy magazines. He said, “The guy at Bob’s Bait Bucket said that this (motioning to the jar) is the guacamole and these (motioning to the sponge hook contraptions) are the chips!” He opened a jar of bait and people 20 feet down wind from us gasped. Mike stood over the jar with his eyes watering, “Hoooo! This stuff stinks!”

Understatement of the year. I swear.

By 9am the sun was in full force beating down on the tree-less shore line with a blinding ferocity usually reserved for late July. I had forgotten sunscreen and couldn’t help but be reminded of the camping trip to the middle of mosquito infested nowhere when I had forgotten the mosquito repellent.

For hours we sat in the sun looking up and down the shoreline at our fellow fishermen, disappointment had settled over the lake not unlike the stench of “stanky bait” and possibly even more putrid. People who fish are a dedicated lot and will withstand all sorts of disgusting conditions as long as they are getting nibbles on their lines. They don’t even have to be catching anything as long as they feel an occasional tug and someone across the lake is reeling something in every once in a while. The sad truth is that at the end of the day fishing is really a game of hope.

But, the game was going badly and hope was dwindling that Saturday. It was so bad that a ranger cruising through with a bullhorn reminding everyone of the 4pm “weigh in” time paused to ask someone to pull up their net that had a few carp in it and said, “See! For those folks out there saying that the fish aren’t biting – show ‘em your net there. Now, get back to fishing this ain’t a CARP derby!”

The rest of the guys on the shoreline didn’t find that nearly as funny as Kate and I did so we kept our chuckles to ourselves. By noon I was more lobster and less Amy. The fish weren’t biting either and Maggie was on the verge of staging a full blown mutiny that would have ended with Mike left in standing on the shore with a jar of stanky bait jammed somewhere pretty uncomfortable.

We headed back to the campsite where Maggie and I fell asleep for most of the afternoon. We woke up in time to find Mike trying to make it up to us by grilling some killer steaks. Then Kate and I discovered those creepy looking earwig bugs crawling all over our campsite. It’s not much fun to have a good case of heebie jeebie, crawling skin when you’re sunburned to a crisp.

We had a group of jet skiing teenage / twenty-somethings next to us that we dubbed “the bros” and proceeded to narrate their adventures as they climbed the trees in their campsite, swung on ski ropes, and played some strange version of “extreme duck, duck, goose” with a lit stick. It was honestly better than any reality television I’ve ever seen.

Around 4am the rain finally showed up. We had forgotten to put the rain canopy over the tent. Maggie slept soundly while Kate, Mike and I shivered in the wind putting the canopy on. Around 5:30 we woke up to winds so strong that part of our tent was caving in. We decided to call it a day and packed up camp in the wind and rain, thirty minutes later we were home and fighting for the showers.

Here I am a week or so later. The sun burn has faded to a nice tan but I’m still peeling which has me walking around looking like a dandruff machine – YUCK. I have yet to catch a fish this year and am starting to think the 2011 fishing season is going to end up a lot like that whale watching tour Mike suckered me into a few years ago.

Oh for the days when buying panties meant tagging along with your mom and deciding between Care Bears and Strawberry Shortcake. Boys never really grow out of that. They stop in at Target or Costco and pick out a package of briefs or boxers in their size and move on along with their business.

Women never have it so easy. But, then again… there really isn’t much that is easy about being a woman, is there? Suffice it to say, much to my husband’s dismay (Well, not anymore, he’s well broken in now) I can’t just leap on any sign that says panties on sale and refresh my lingerie collection.

Although, the “lingerie” department at Target leads to me to believe that many women have no problem buying underwear in bulk. I’ve learned the hard way that it just doesn’t pay off to buy panties like men buy underwear, t-shirts and socks. Call me picky! I’m okay with that.

I’ve always really liked the Jockey brand but the only place to get a decent price on them is at the outlet and the closest outlet is about an hour away so it’s not something I go out of my way to do very often. I keep an eye out online for good deals on Jockey but they rarely come around. And, when they do it’s always some absolutely insane color combo (leopard print in fluorescent green? Really? No, thank you.) or it’s only a sale on pink panties which I would probably only indulge in if part of the proceeds went to the Susan G. Komen foundation or something. Not that I have a problem with pink. I just don’t wear a lot of it.

That being said I’m not the “spend $50 on a pair of panties because they promise supreme butt lifting” type either. Bras – that’s a whole other ballgame and suffice it to say – you get what you pay for 90% of the time!

Where are you shopping for your unmentionables that I just made all too mentionable? Any tips? Any sales?