Yesterday, Micah and I traveled to the big city so I could shop for a new swimsuit. Let’s just say that after giving birth to a child, my old suits are a little {ahem} inappropriate. It was time for a new swimsuit.
I hadn’t exactly been looking forward to the task, but white water rafting and log flumes are looming in my future, and it was now or never. I chose now.
Because I had to return a pair of sandals to Target, I decided to start there, and after getting Micah settled into her stroller, I promptly selected about 207 items to try on my post-baby body. I made my way to the fitting room, where the attendant looked horrified at the mountain of clothes I had piled onto the stroller’s handles. I assured her that I would only take six items into the room at a time. She handed me my number tag, and I wheeled the stroller into the narrow walkway between the dressing rooms.
Which is where I discovered a few things.
First: the stroller wouldn’t fit through the stall door.
Second: if I somehow managed to wrangle the stroller through the door, I wouldn’t fit in the stall. Which would defeat the purpose of getting the stroller into a fitting room.
Third: the handicapped stall was occupied.
I decided to wait it out. When a little blonde girl about as big as my pinkie finger finally left the handicapped fitting room, I wheeled the stroller in and settled into the task of finding a flattering suit. Imagine my shock when the first tankini I tried on was a winner! I was even more pleased to discover I needed a smaller size.
I flipped through the pile of swimsuits I had hauled into the fitting room to find the smaller size {because I always take at least two sizes of the same item into a dressing room with me}, but I was out of luck. So, I pulled on one of the swimsuit coverups I had selected, left behind my clothes, and strolled out of the dressing room. I quickly retrieved the size I needed, made my way back to the fitting rooms, wheeled the stroller into the hallway, and opened the door of the handicapped stall.
And startled a half-dressed college girl.
Oops.
I quickly closed the door and asked tentatively, “Umm…are my clothes still in there?”
“I guess so,” she replied. “I’ll be out in a minute and switch to another room.”
“I’m so sorry!” I answered. “I didn’t realize you were in there.”
And then the awkward silence followed, during which I wondered, “What is it with these girls taking the handicapped stall??”
When she hurriedly exited the stall with an armload of bikinis, I avoided her eyes and scurried back inside the only room that would hold both me and the stroller. I shed the too-big suit and tried on the smaller size.
It fit! Yay for finding an appropriate swimsuit so quickly! But I had other items to try on, so I took off the suit and laid it on the bench.
Which is when I discovered the poor girl’s undergarments. That’s right. Undergarments. Plural. Bra and Panties.
As if I hadn’t already exchanged enough awkwardness with the girl, now I had to tell her that she left her underwear behind.
Who in the world tries on bikinis without their underwear?? The thought makes me shudder. Seriously. Who does that??
The crazier thing, when I knocked on the girl’s stall and told her she had left her underwear behind, she denied it!
“No, I didn’t,” she said. “I’m wearing my panties.”
Umm…no you’re not, I thought to myself. I know because they’re in a pile in my dressing room.
“Maybe I left my bra in there,” she said.
Yes, you did, I thought. And your panties!
“Well, you’ll probably want your stuff before you leave. Just wanted to let you know that it was in there,” I muttered.
I tried to finish up and get out of there before she did, but I was unsuccessful. When we met in the hallway, again, I stepped aside and let her grab her undergarments. Plural.
Funny thing. The panties that weren’t hers disappeared from the bench.
Now why would she go and take someone else’s underwear?
I’m just saying.
Don’t you wish you were me? Needless to say, when I got home, I promptly threw my new suit into the washing machine. Wouldn’t you?
Until next time, grace and peace.
In case you haven’t noticed, I have a daughter. A little daughter. A daughter who is nine and a half months old and checks in at barely 15 pounds. She’s tiny. Tiny people require carseats. And carseats with tiny people in them are heavy. Really heavy. Even if you only have to haul them around for a few minutes.
I love the job that carseats perform, but they’re such a hassle. It takes so much time to strap Micah in and out of her seat that if I’m only going to be out of the car with her for a few minutes, I roll up my sleeves and take out the whole carrier. Because it’s easier. And faster. But heavier.
So when Senojal Designs started booming and the orders rolled in, I consolidated my trips to the post office as much as I could. I was grateful for the business, but I hated the six-mile roundtrip trek to the post office, hauling Micah in and out of the car in the aforementioned carrier, standing in line, juggling packages, and wasting 30 minutes of my day on such a mundane task.
I started looking for solutions.
Many etsy sellers choose to use the integrated shipping option offered by PayPal, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. Have you ever gotten a package with a PayPal label taped to the front of it? They’re ugly, no? I want my packages to be pretty, just like the stationery I sell, so PayPal shipping was out for me.
Other etsy sellers recommended using stamps.com for shipping, but since I’m cheap frugal, I refused to pay the monthly service fee. I don’t need all the bells and whistles that come with a service like stamps.com. I just wanted to print postage like the post office. I wasn’t interested in big labels or tracking packages. Just postage, please.
I ordered a kitchen shipping scale from Amazon and continued to research my options.
When I first stumbled upon Endicia, I dismissed it as I had stamps.com, but when I revisited the site, I found what I had been looking for all along: printable postage with no monthly fee. I couldn’t have been more excited. I downloaded the software, ordered some postage labels, and waited anxiously to try it out.
Y’all, it couldn’t have been easier. So far, I’ve shipped four packages using Endicia’s free service, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. No more trips to the post office while lugging around a heavy baby carrier. Only a walk to the mailbox while Micah naps.
As with all things that seem too good to be true, there is a catch. For one thing, you can only print first class postage for packages that weigh 13 ounces or less. If your package weighs more than that, you’ll have to either take it to the post office, or use a Priority Mail flat rate box {Endicia does print flat rate Priority Mail postage}. The vast majority of my packages weigh less than 13 ounces, so this really isn’t an issue for me. I don’t mind going to the post office occasionally, I’m just not interested in going two or three times a week.
Before you sign up for Endicia’s printable postage, you should know that you can only print the postage on labels supplied by Endicia. I paid roughly $20 for 124 labels, which is a negligible cost for me. It’s worth it to avoid the post office.
If you’re running a small business from home and looking for an inexpensive shipping solution, this is the way to go. Seriously. I wouldn’t lie to you. See for yourself, and let me know what you think!
Until next time, grace and peace.
I’m sad to say that when I read an article or catch a newsflash about a politician cheating on his wife, I’m not all that surprised. Yesterday, when South Carolina governor Mark Sanford admitted that he spent the weekend in Argentina with another woman, calls for his resignation sprang up immediately. Whether or not Sanford survives this scandal is yet to be seen, but when it comes to politicians, how they behave behind closed doors is directly related to their fitness for the job.
When things like this happen, disappointment and disillusionment reign. It’s difficult to read reports of deception and see the wife standing by her husband’s side (although in this case, the Sanfords have been separated for two weeks). I’m all for practicing grace and issuing forgiveness, but when it comes to politics, integrity is a major issue. If the governor (or president or senator or mayor) cannot be faithful to her spouse, then her word loses value and becomes almost meaningless, which even Governor Sanford recognizes.
Earlier tonight I watched a young couple announce their divorce in front of millions of viewers. Regardless of the circumstances or who is to blame, my heart breaks for them. When I try to imagine how horrific life must be for them right now, I cannot. Not only do they have to navigate through the painful process of divorce, they must do so in front of the entire nation. Every decision and every action is publicly scrutinized and criticized, and blogs are jumping with those quick to point fingers at the couple’s mistakes and gleefully bask in the destruction of a family.
Alright, I confess. I watch TV shows about other people’s lives. It began as entertainment, but now I watch to see what people are really like. Lately, our DVR has been working hard to record new episodes of MTV’s True Life documentary series, and as I watched some of them last week, I recognized a trend. Each episode featured two or three young adults who have something in common, and the common thread was insecurity. True Life: I’m Losing my Hair. True Life: I’m Uncomfortable with my New Body. Last night, I couldn’t sleep, and a True Life marathon was on so I watched True Life: I’m Addicted to Porn.
My dad would say that there’s nothing but trash on MTV, and he’s probably very disappointed in me for watching it, but as I watch with my jaw dropped, I realize how sheltered and naive I really am. It’s easy for someone like me to forget that there’s an entire world of lost and hurting people outside my circle of Christian friends, and I admire the people who are honest and open enough about their struggles to allow cameras to showcase them for all of America. It heightens my awareness of the real problems people face and the lengths people will go to to find happiness and fulfillment apart from God.
