Guess the price of my sexy boots. Win a prize.

See these boots? They were made for saving. We're in a recession. I have no job. You probably either don't have a job, are worried about losing your job, or have someone in your family who's out of a job. Trust me, I get it. I'm Sarah-Save-A-Lot these days, but I still have to look good. I need to look decent so that when I'm at Wal-Mart buying Rollback bargoons, and someone sees me and says, "Dang! That Sarah Crosbie is looking fine. I need to give her a job!" So check out my boots. They're knee-high. They're sassy. OK, maybe they're pleather and not leather, but they're still sexy. So how much do you think I paid for 'em? (Here's a little help: It's not outrageous to spend more than $200 on boots. But what did I spend?) Guess right and I'll send you a little help for Valentine's Day – a $20 gift card to the Body Shop so you can get him/her something nice, courtesy of SarahCrosbie.com. All you have to do is post a comment here with your price guess. Closest wins. Contest open until midnight Feb. 9, 2009. I'll post the winning guess by 9 a.m. Feb. 10. (You have to leave a name in your comment – not anonymous – so I can match the winner to the guess. Once I declare the winner, I'll give you 24 hours to email me.)

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Merry Christmas – time to "makeup"

With children and teenagers running around with cellphones, Blackberrys and iPhones, it's a wonder they haven't learned to take over the world yet. Because, as we all know, children are smarter and more ingenious than adults - and it's proved year after year after year when it comes to the hiding/finding of Christmas presents.
Adults - me included - are twits when it comes to hiding things. All of our presents for the children have been stuffed in our closet for the past six weeks - partially out of busyness and partially out of laziness. My two-year-old son or teenaged stepchildren could have walked in, taken a survey of their treasures and known all before Christmas Day. But you have to hope that by the late teen years, some of the snooping stops. And my toddler? Well, he likes the Christmas wrapping cardboard tubes best anyway.
Sometimes though, present snooping will get you. It got me one year, back in the '90s.
My parents tried many hiding places. One year, in the late 1980s, they hid my She-Ra: Princess of Power doll (she was the sister of He-Man from Masters of the Universe, very 80s) under their bed. For a month, I'd get her out of the Zellers bag and play with her, pretending to stroke her golden hair through the protective plastic. That same year, they bought me one of those white charity teddy bears The Bay always used to sell - they had little red scarves. I played with him, too in the days leading up to Christmas because my parents hid him under their bed with She-Ra.
Love you mom and dad, but duh.
After that incident - because I confessed on Christmas I'd been playing with them forever - my parents started taking our presents to relatives' houses but that became a pain when you wanted to wrap them, or check them out to see what kind of batteries they took, so the gifts returned to our house. One year, when it was time to start snooping, I had a vision. I just instantly knew where everything was, so I went to the keys in our front hall and grabbed the one for the Volkswagon Jetta, an old car that was rusted to the ground in our garage that dad was always supposed to be doing something with, according to my mother. I popped the trunk open and there they were - the motherload. (If this was a TV show, a church choir dressed in burgundy robes would have popped out of the back seat and started to sing Hallelujah!)
And there, in the trunk, was a gift I hadn't asked for but one that was really creative and cool and useful, unlike so many other presents that parents buy teenagers.
My parents had bought me a professional-style makeup mirror, one with lights so that you could change the colour and brightness of the lights to office, or evening or daytime so that your makeup would be suited to your environment. I loved it. I was excited. I had great parents.
On Christmas morning, I opened gift after gift after gift, waiting for my makeup mirror. I got junky jewelry and bad turtlenecks and a nice hair brush set from my brother. I didn't mind these gifts because I knew the mirror was coming. But as the morning went on, there was no mirror. And then, Christmas seemed to be over. But I thought my parents were just tricking me.
"Christmas is done. Did you have a good one?" my mother asked.
I sat there looking smug, knowing they were going to pull out one last gift for my brother and me.
And then, so predictable, my dad reached behind his chair and pulled out another gift - it was the makeup mirror. I knew the shape of the box.
"Here you go," my dad said ...
... and he handed the box to my mother.

Crosbiemania wishes everyone a very merry Christmas and reminds everyone that snoopers never prosper.

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The controlling man in my life

I need to apologize to every mother who, in my self-obsessed 20s, I condemned as being a bad parent because I thought you were letting your baby be a wild child. I know now that you don't control your toddler; he controls you.

While my 23-month-old is the apple of my eye, he's become a crab apple in the past few weeks as he learns to assert his independence.

He has two favourite sayings. If he drops something and I offer to get it, he'll reject my help: "No, I get it!"

And my baby boy who used to love being in his stroller or in a shopping cart, doesn't like to sit anymore.

"I walk!" he'll demand.

One of my favourite things to do with my son is (was) grocery shopping. He'd sit in the cart and choose green peppers for me to bag and we'd open a bag of cookies in the store and each have one.

This week, when we went shopping, I evidently brought the wrong child. Strange, how the spawn of the devil looks just like my angelic boy.

We stepped into the store and there, just a few steps in, was my worst nightmare: A bin full of pink, blue, green and purple balls.

"Balls!" my son shouted. "Balls! Balls! Balls!"

(Whoever set this display up, doesn't have children or has a vendetta against mothers.)

Before I could grab my son, he picked up two balls and then kicked them toward the broccoli. Then, he escaped under the turnstile, leaving me behind with the shopping cart.

On my way to grab him, I threw two bunches of broccoli (just 99 cents each!) into my cart and took off in my high-heeled shoes. We zipped through the pharmacy for diapers and then headed to the meat section for chicken, still playing soccer with two balls.

Then, he picked up the balls and whipped them at a frozen hamburger display and then ran away.

With five packages of cold, soggy chicken skewers under my arm, I set off to catch him, my purse still in the cart, now an aisle away.

And then he fell. Face first. The screams echoed in the store.

I picked him up and carried him back to the shopping cart, his legs like egg beaters, whirling around, kicking me in the thighs and stomach. I grabbed one ball from the frozen burgers display and chased the other, which was rolling towards the dairy section.

"I walk! I walk!" he screamed.

As soon as I put him down again, he took off. Giggling. I caught up to my son in the cereal aisle, where he threw himself on the floor and started kicking the shelf, causing boxes of bran to topple.

"Excuse me!" a woman said, exasperated as she tried to get past us. I scooped up my son again and

stuck him in the main part of the cart with the food. As I flew around the aisles, my son calmed down.

I was checking my grocery list, enjoying the peace, when a woman strutted over to my cart.

"Ma'am," she spitted. "Your son -" she paused. "Is sitting on your broccoli!" He must have sensed the hostility

because he snapped out of his happy place.

"I walk!" he screamed.

We dashed to the checkout, where my son whipped the balls at a 20-something male cashier - over and over again.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized - over and over again.

"This is the best part of my day," he said, as he rang through my flattened broccoli.

"It's fun." Fun?

And here is the rest of it.

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Red, White and Blue

Stacy London would have a field day with me.
Ninety eight per cent of my wardrobe is black. The other two per cent is made up of a couple of blues and greys.
I have one red sexy Chinese dress accented with black vinyl and safety pins but that's another story.
I don't really like colour and I've been so used to being overweight that I always wore black because, as every woman knows, black is slimming.
The one "colour" that I dislike, a lot, is white.
I had to wear a white blouse for five years in high school when I played in the concert band and that about sums up my history with white.
So, it always seemed logical that I wouldn't wear white at my wedding.
(I also have a baby so that whole purity angle is out of the window.)
A blue backless dress. That's what I've always said I'm going to wear to my wedding. I wanted it to look like the gown that Hilary Swank wore to the Oscars a few years ago.
A couple of weekends ago, I was at home visiting the parents when my dad suggested that I go try on a couple of wedding dresses.
What would be the harm? I'd try on some hideous white monsters, show my parents how pukearama they were and we'd leave it at that.
We went to a very large wedding store where we were instantly greeted by the happiest woman alive.
I hated the place already.
She made me take my shoes off so I hated it even more.
Then she started to lead me around to show off all the bags of wedding dresses.
These things all looked the same in their garment bags. Huge swaths of white. Yawn.
Where was my blue backless dress?
She chose a champagney coloured empire-waist, strapless dress for me.
Were those sparkles?
Oh lord.
I went to the changeroom, with the saleswoman. Apparently she had to help me with the "modesty panel" in the back. I'm not really a modest kind of gal. Did I need something called a modesty panel? It sounds like part of a game show.
"Is this the dress you were thinking of?" she asked.
"Do you have a dress style, a colour, a designer in mind?"
"Are you wearing a veil or a tiara?"
"How high will your shoes be?"
"Have you thought about a train?"
I stared her down.
"No? Haven't decided that stuff yet? Well, no problem, let's just start here. You're one of those brides!"
I wanted out of this princess hell.
Give me some funky, some crazy, even some tacky and help me escape from becoming Tinkerbell.
She did up the dress, put a crown on my head, and led me up to a platform where I could stand to admire my dress.
She poofed out the skirt, smoothed it down, adjusted my crown, and said "there now!"
I opened my eyes and looked at my outfit.
Good god.
I looked -

drop dead freakin' gorgeous!
The dress was beautiful. The bodice fit my like someone had made this dress for me. It sparkled in all the right places; a million little diamonds smiling for me.
Here comes the bride and my, oh, my isn't she lovely. Isn't she beautiful...
But, um, who wants to wear some frou-frou fluffy white doilie? Yeah, like so not me. I'm definitely wearing blue.
Or maybe, just maybe, I'll wear white. And if that happens, I'll also be a little red in the face.

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Three Tiny Christmas Shopping Blog Tales - All From The Same Day

Christmas Tale No. 1

I'm buying 37 Christmas cards at once. One for my mom. One for my dad. One for my mom and dad together. One for my brother. One for my son. One from my son for his grandparents. The list goes on.
As I'm picking out cards and rating their cry factor - cards at my house that score at least a 7.5 out of 10 will elicit tears from my mother. An eight also gets a high five from me to my brother or father and vice versa. A nine deserves a tackle. How'd you out do my card?! And a 10? Well, I'm not sure Hallmark has made one of those yet.
As I'm choosing cards (and let me just say I've picked some doozies this year) an older woman comes up to me and watches me as I rock Little Man with my foot while he's in his car seat. "How old?" she asks. "Just over three months," I say. She stands there. Staring, staring, staring, staring at my baby ... Finally, she whispers "I'm sorry. It's just that I want to be a grandmother so much." She crawls away, whimpering. I make a mental note to call my mother and tell her she's a good grandma.


Christmas Tale No. 2

I'm in an electronics store buying an Xbox game for my bro.*
I pick out of game. I've got a $59.99 treat in one hand and Little Man in the other. I head to the cashier.
The cashier, an older man, probably in his 50s or 60s, smiles and says: "You know you have to be 17 to buy that game? Can I see some ID, please, ma'am?"
Ah, he must have been blind but it made my day.
He also made me a teenage mommy.


Christmas Tale No. 3
Back to the card store: As I'm rummaging through the cards trying to see if there's one that says "Merry Christmas to my personal trainer" - and why not because there are ones for the paper delivery boy - I spy on a couple in their 30s who are having one heck of a time buying cards. The man is bragging about how, when it comes to cards, he can pick a good one. The woman is wandering around, questioning his decisions. Finally, they separate for a few minutes and the man discovers a section of the store where all the cards play songs. He picks one up and opens it to hear the song. He smiles and closes it. Opens it again to hear the song. He smiles and closes it. This goes on a number of times. Finally, his wife reappears and tells him she doesn't think they should waste money on cards that play music. "Well, this one was going to be your card anyway," he says. She tells him she hates the fact that every year they buy their Christmas cards for each other together.
Together?!
Wow, holy romantic.

*Note: Xbox game may or may not be for my brother. Can not say for sure on the grounds it may incriminate me and ruin Christmas Day.

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Stuffing The Bra

Kids under the age of 18, listen up.

I've found the boy for you.

He's cute, he's sweet and he didn't blink when I hijacked a change room at SportChek from the BF the other day and ran in with a massive bag full of discounted Halloween Smarties and breast pads.

We'd gone shopping to get a jump on Christmas shopping.

Halfway to the mall, I started to think, "Darn, I feel thinner. My breasts feel smaller. Yup, all that working out is working out for me."

Then, I realized that for the first time since Aug. 30, I was without my pads.

I'd forgotten to tuck the oh-so sexy breastpads into my bra.

"Do you think I could take my socks off and stuff them in there?" I asked the BF.

His look said, "NO. NO. NO."

(It's not as if I haven't done it before around the house when I've been too lazy to go all the way back up the six steps to our bathroom but this was out in public. It seemed too risque. Still, don't tell anyone.)

I was in a panic about the pads until we got inside the shopping centre and I saw the setup for the Santa photographs. Soon, I was thinking only about putting my Little Man on Santa's lap and having all the elves coo about how my son is a cutie patootie.

Soon, we were in shopping heaven until I felt that familiar sensation. It's a dull throbbing that signals the flood gates are about to open in a few minutes.

I left the BF in the sock aisle (sorry, kiddies but everyone gets a pair of socks for Christmas) while I ran to get new breastpads.

Then, I got arrogant. I checked my shirt. Nope, no saucer-size stains.

"More shopping!" I declared.

It was off to SportChek. It was buy one item, get one for 50 per cent off.

Just as the BF picked up a few things to try on, I felt it.

Niagara Crosbie Falls.

My shirt - just on the left side - was soaked.

"Ask the guy if you can try something on!" I said to the BF.

"Now!"

The nice sales guy opened the door for the BF and I rushed in with my bag of orange and black Smarties and one massive purple box of breastpads.

I don't know what he thought I was doing in there. I didn't have anything to try on so I can only assume he thought:

A) I was going in there to stuff my face full of chocolate;
B) I was trying to shoplift something;
C) I was looking for a private place to, well, toot. (Hey buddy, you smelt it, you dealt it);
D) I was a new mommy who, for the very first time, soaked through her shirt in public.

I thought when I came out, and the BF went in the changeroom to actually try on some clothes, the sales guy would tell us to come find him if we needed any help. Instead, the guy took an interest in my baby. (What teenage guy is interested in some chick's child?)

"Cute kid."
"Thanks," I said, crossing my arms so the spillage wasn't visible, making me look very hostile for a woman out Christmas shopping and holding a very cute boy.
"Boy or girl?"
"Boy," I said.

"Maybe he'll be a hockey player?"
"Nope," I said, "his dad and older brother play hockey. Too many practices and games. And it's expensive."

"It won't be expensive if he uses his brother's equipment," he replied.

OK, normally I'm all for the chitty chat but the guy had to see my boob stain and you don't really want to talk when you're dripping milk down your shirt. So I decided to shut him up.

"Actually, I'm really hoping my son will grow up to be a flautist."

"Ha ha! I win," I thought.

The sales guy looked at me and smiled. I thought it was time for him to walk away.

"That'd be great," he said, "I love music. I'm a big jazz fan."

I smiled to myself. Yes, this was perhaps one of the most awkward moments I've ever had, but I also realized that I'd either found the most suave teenage sales guy in all of Kingston or a potentially hot boyfriend for a sweet kid.

He asked me about my baby. Engaged me in a conversation about children's hockey. Likes jazz music?

How to find him? He's the kid with the eyebrow ring.

(And kid? Thanks for not making me feel all weird and stuff. I'll buy my next pair of running shoes from you.)

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