So I’m in the car, passenger seat, upstate bound, wind blowing in my hair, daydreaming (who am I kidding, I wasn’t daydreaming…I was INSTAGRAM surfing, while giving my husband “tips” on his driving), when the fabulous mom-trepeuner Estee Posh (not her last name, but that’s how she comes up in my phone) contacts me. Here’s a transcript of the conversation:
the fabulous Estee – “Hey, you want to blog for Posh?”
the backseat driver Nitza – “Sure.”
the fabulous Estee – “Great.”
the backseat driver Nitza – “You want to give me more details?”
the fabulous Estee – “Not really, can’t you wing it?”
the backseat driver Nitza – “(Your driving in two lanes, dear ) Yep. I can wing it.”
the (“not so appreciative of the tips”) husband – “NITZA, (in a louder than necessary voice) YOU WANNA DRIVE!?!” …………………………and so my career as a blogger begins.
So I’m heading to Posh to see what all the hoopla is about. 70% off sounds pretty enticing. The goal today is to see if T and I can agree on clothes. The general consensus in the world at large, is that I kinda know what I’m doing when it comes to clothes and I’m constantly asked by my friends and family (and clients) to help style them, yet my own child unabashedly renders every outfit I pick for her, “HORROCIOUS” (pronounced huh – row – shess). That’s a made up word that T has been using to describe all her dislikes, ever since she started speaking as a toddler. We think it’s a hybrid of either ‘horrid’ and ‘ferocious’ or ‘horrible’ and ‘atrocious’. It’s used like so: “I’m sooo not wearing that itchy weird dress that you love so much, its horrocious!” In which case, I resort to the method that any self-respecting mama uses to get her kids to abide by her wishes…. good old-fashioned BRIBERY. As in, “If you wear that horrocious dress, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
So we head into Posh. Holy (guaca)moly! The store is exploding with energy….and people….and energy. There are eight million, four hundred thousand and two people in there. Twenty six strollers. Fourteen sales-people. Ok, I may be exaggerating a teeny bit. But the energy is palpable. T immediately makes a beeline for the rack of clothes that interests her and starts perusing.
Of course, she’s attracted to the beautiful glitzy stuff. (And obviously I’m ok with that.) We agree to try on some of her picks. I gently nudge her (who said shove?) in the direction of the clothes that I like. This store has such an incredible selection of clothes, that in no time my arms are filled with a mega mountain of magnificence. (Hey Estee Posh, how about investing in some baskets or wagons, or mini robots, to hold the selection of clothes whilst one shops?) T miraculously agrees to try on almost all of my picks and only characterizes two of them as “horrocious”. Is that girl maturing?? I top the gauzy Lamantine number with a Neige rust colored cardi, with aqua elbow patches, to counteract the sweetness of the dress. She loves it. (yay)
Next up, Bellerose striped shirt, that will be essential in her fall wardrobe. I’m thinking, jeans skirt, ribbed tights, and brown booties.(What compels us chicks to do that hair thing when standing in front of a mirror?)
I gotta move fast before T loses interest.
She already has on the t-shirt she came in with , so it’s easy to talk her into trying on a matching Scotch R’belle skirt. Miss T approves. (yay).
All our finds in tow, we proceed to the register, sans the mini robots, and pay. Strutting proudly with our coveted Posh bag out the door, we bid adieu to the lovely, yet harried staff, just mom and babe, content with our purchases, all is right in the world, until we encounter……(horror movie music)
….THE PARKING TICKET!
We look at each other and cry in unison ……… “HORROCIOUS!!!”