Confessions of a Shopaholic

Last week, I admitted to my Tylenol PM dependence. (And, by the way, I checked myself out of rehab.  Can a Tylenol PM every night really hurt me?  Nah.  But not taking one sure can.)  Today, I will come clean with another addiction.  I am a shopaholic. 

Online shopping, particularly discount shopping, changed my life.  I used to plan my work day around the 11am RueLaLa and 12pm Gilt sales.  I'll never forget the reaction from my boss when I called to let her know I would be late to a meeting because Louboutin was on Gilt. (A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.  Work can wait.  Right?)   "Unacceptable JulieSue!  What are you thinking?!"  (BTW, guess who called and begged me to work for her again? Uh huh.)

Now that I spend my days at home, walking outside, and attending baby classes, I find I no longer want need to shop online for personal designer duds.  Plus, making the 11am and Noon deadlines is often difficult.  My new boss (you know, the 18-pounder who pooped up to his armpits yesterday) is even less sympathetic than my Loub-lacking manager.  When he's hungry or tired, explaining to him that "Mommy needs a new pair of shoes" just doesn't convince him to wait.   

So, to satisfy my shopping fix, Ari and I take a daily shop-walk.  Sometimes, we stock up at Trader Joes (and hope we don't run into a Trader Shmoe ), often we peruse the baby gear aisles at Magic Beans, occasionally we buy a pound of coffee at Starbucks, and a few times a week, we browse and buy at the Crap Gap.  I feel a little rush when I blow a few bucks in the neighborhood, and more importantly, I feel like a failure when I come home empty-handed.  

I admit I have a problem.  According to this 12 Step Program, "shopping addiction operates the same way as heroin addiction."  Before I star on an episode of Cops (high on a shopping spree, bloody, naked, sweating, and in possession of a bag that "isn't mine"), I better get my shopping in check.

...Oh crap, there's a big sale at Bloomingdale's AND I have a coupon.

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Talk to me!

About three months ago, I was promoted.  I left an office I loved, a title I desired, and a paycheck that supported my Ruelala addiction to take care of my baby 24/7.  I was thrilled to hold the new position of stay at home mom.  My maternal instinct kicked in (shockingly), and I have felt an incredibly strong bond with my baby.  I feed him, I change his poopie diapers,  I take him for walks, I attend classes, and as I detail in this blog, I get drooled on and spit up on and pooped on all day long.  And I am very happy. 

But now, I am jealous.

Ari babbles constantly.  He's been vocal for a long time and loves to make funny noises and practice different pitches.  Until the last week, nothing has sounded like English, but I have been coaching him by saying repeatedly "mommmmmmy" "aaaaarrrrrriiiiiii" when he "talks".  Much to my chagrin, he now says one word over. And over. And over.

Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da.  All day long. And from 5:45am-6:30am. Da-da.

Come on little guy!  It just ain't fair!  "Da-da" changed 1 poopie diaper in the last month!  "Da-da" didn't gain 35 pounds for you (though he did gain his share of sympathy weight.)  "Da-da" didn't push your cantaloupe-sized head out of a hole the size of a grape.  "Da-da" doesn't even hear you in the middle of the night!

Puh-leeease.  I need a "ma-ma."

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