I am the Real Housewife of Douglasville.  I know because I have a wine glass engraved with the title.  I've written for the Douglasville Patch a little over a year.  Here is the latest blog.

One would think that I had learned my lesson years ago.   My first transgression was a cold, winter morning in Powder Springs.  I’m going back to when the traffic light in front of Johnny’s was a 3 way stop.  My brother, Mark, called from a repair shop near where Martin’s is now.  He’d taken in his car and thought he could wait for it.  Turned out it would be awhile before they could get to it so he wanted me to come get him and bring him home.  We were both teens at the time still living with our parents on New Macland.  I got up, got in the car and headed out.  Literally.  Maybe I grabbed a cup of coffee in the kitchen, but that was it because I was still wearing an ankle length flannel gown.  I was driving a 1975 Mustang and I got to that 3 way stop sign and my little car started to sputter.  I was out of gas.  At a major intersection.  In a flannel granny gown.

I remember just sitting frozen in my car.  Someone startled me out of catatonia knocking on my window.  This gentleman, and I’m ashamed to say I never got his name, pushed my car into the gas station on the corner and put gas in my car.  Where ever you are,  kind sir, there are no words to thank you for sparing me the shame of getting out in the full daylight of a Saturday morning in my granny gown. 

For years after that, I would make sure that no matter where I went, I was at least dressed, preferably made up too. 

And then came the night about a year ago, tired and ready for bed, I went to pick up my daughter from dance class.  It was only 8:30, but I was pooped and I went ahead and got myself ready to just drop when I got home with her.  It was already dark, I had plenty of gas, so I sat inconspicuously in my car in the carpool line, head buried in a book.  Then the cops came.  First they pulled on the shoulder across the street in front of some apartments and scaled the bank, flashlights in hand, obviously looking for someone.  Wow, I thought, my own little C.O.P.S. episode playing out right here.  They got back in their cars and then pulled into the DANCE SCHOOL parking lot.  Oh, no.  I watched them walk all around the dance school, into the grove of trees behind it, and then, go inside. 

They were in there for some time.  I started to panic.  I imagined every desperate criminal situation in my mind and they all involved a mad gunman.  I pictured dancers huddled being held hostage.  And one of those dancers was my daughter.  I jumped out of the car.  Never underestimate the courage of a mom.  Inside, I found out there had been some vehicles vandalized and they believed the vandals were still out hiding somewhere in the woods.  There was no mad gunman and all the girls were happily dancing.  But there I sat, fluorescent lights ablaze.

I was wearing my standard sleep wear at that time, a pair of jersey knit pants that were fraying at the waistband among many other places.  My tshirt had a spackling of bleached out spots that had actually dissolved the fabric and left tiny holes here and there.  My shoes were the piece de resistance.  Once white terry cloth slides, they were now a calico of stains, some coffee spills, some unidentifiable.  Oh, and I had on no makeup and there were 2 other moms sitting in the lobby.  As my panic subsided, I realized how I looked.  Believe me I couldn’t get out that door fast enough.

So, one would think I’d learned my lesson about leaving the house, what you’d call, less than presentable.  But no, I had to tempt fate.

Just last evening, I headed to the dance school.  I’d been to the gym and had a rocking workout followed by some time in the sauna.  In a word, I stunk.  So I showered and put on some cute gingham check sleep shorts and a tshirt and yes, I was still wearing the once white terry cloth slippers.  And they are even worse than the ill-fated night with the police.

All was well, we were on the way home when I noticed a smell.  It was something burning for sure and it smelled like my car.  I pulled into the gas station on the corner and called my husband.  But I knew what I had to do.  I HAD TO GET OUT OF THE CAR.    There I am, once again, in public, in my pjs.  Thankfully, it was a false alarm and whatever was going on had stopped by the time my hubby got there.  It even may have been the car in front of me.  My car was fine.  My psyche was NOT.  Who may have seen me, bright pink gingham shorts about 3 sizes too big and tshirt, also much too large?  Who may have seen THE SHOES? 

An adage says, the third time is the charm.  Hopefully it is.  Three times I have been painfully aware and embarrassed by my Walmart couture.  I have wondered how many of my clients or prospective clients have seen me looking rather like an insane asylum escapee.  I wondered how I shamed my teenage daughter.  Never again.

This morning, before taking her to school, I dressed, tried to make some sense of my bedhead hairdo and made sure I had on decent shoes.  And I’ve made a vow.  I won’t even go the MAILBOX sans appropriate clothing.  Lesson learned.  Thank you fashion gods for helping me see the light.

One would think that I had learned my lesson years ago.   My first transgression was a cold, winter morning in Powder Springs.  I’m going back to when the traffic light in front of Johnny’s was a 3 way stop.  My brother, Mark, called from a repair shop near where Martin’s is now.  He’d taken in his car and thought he could wait for it.  Turned out it would be awhile before they could get to it so he wanted me to come get him and bring him home.  We were both teens at the time still living with our parents on New Macland.  I got up, got in the car and headed out.  Literally.  Maybe I grabbed a cup of coffee in the kitchen, but that was it because I was still wearing an ankle length flannel gown.  I was driving a 1975 Mustang and I got to that 3 way stop sign and my little car started to sputter.  I was out of gas.  At a major intersection.  In a flannel granny gown.

I remember just sitting frozen in my car.  Someone startled me out of catatonia knocking on my window.  This gentleman, and I’m ashamed to say I never got his name, pushed my car into the gas station on the corner and put gas in my car.  Where ever you are,  kind sir, there are no words to thank you for sparing me the shame of getting out in the full daylight of a Saturday morning in my granny gown. 

For years after that, I would make sure that no matter where I went, I was at least dressed, preferably made up too. 

And then came the night about a year ago, tired and ready for bed, I went to pick up my daughter from dance class.  It was only 8:30, but I was pooped and I went ahead and got myself ready to just drop when I got home with her.  It was already dark, I had plenty of gas, so I sat inconspicuously in my car in the carpool line, head buried in a book.  Then the cops came.  First they pulled on the shoulder across the street in front of some apartments and scaled the bank, flashlights in hand, obviously looking for someone.  Wow, I thought, my own little C.O.P.S. episode playing out right here.  They got back in their cars and then pulled into the DANCE SCHOOL parking lot.  Oh, no.  I watched them walk all around the dance school, into the grove of trees behind it, and then, go inside. 

They were in there for some time.  I started to panic.  I imagined every desperate criminal situation in my mind and they all involved a mad gunman.  I pictured dancers huddled being held hostage.  And one of those dancers was my daughter.  I jumped out of the car.  Never underestimate the courage of a mom.  Inside, I found out there had been some vehicles vandalized and they believed the vandals were still out hiding somewhere in the woods.  There was no mad gunman and all the girls were happily dancing.  But there I sat, fluorescent lights ablaze.

I was wearing my standard sleep wear at that time, a pair of jersey knit pants that were fraying at the waistband among many other places.  My tshirt had a spackling of bleached out spots that had actually dissolved the fabric and left tiny holes here and there.  My shoes were the piece de resistance.  Once white terry cloth slides, they were now a calico of stains, some coffee spills, some unidentifiable.  Oh, and I had on no makeup and there were 2 other moms sitting in the lobby.  As my panic subsided, I realized how I looked.  Believe me I couldn’t get out that door fast enough.

So, one would think I’d learned my lesson about leaving the house, what you’d call, less than presentable.  But no, I had to tempt fate.

Just last evening, I headed to the dance school.  I’d been to the gym and had a rocking workout followed by some time in the sauna.  In a word, I stunk.  So I showered and put on some cute gingham check sleep shorts and a tshirt and yes, I was still wearing the once white terry cloth slippers.  And they are even worse than the ill-fated night with the police.

All was well, we were on the way home when I noticed a smell.  It was something burning for sure and it smelled like my car.  I pulled into the gas station on the corner and called my husband.  But I knew what I had to do.  I HAD TO GET OUT OF THE CAR.    There I am, once again, in public, in my pjs.  Thankfully, it was a false alarm and whatever was going on had stopped by the time my hubby got there.  It even may have been the car in front of me.  My car was fine.  My psyche was NOT.  Who may have seen me, bright pink gingham shorts about 3 sizes too big and tshirt, also much too large?  Who may have seen THE SHOES? 

An adage says, the third time is the charm.  Hopefully it is.  Three times I have been painfully aware and embarrassed by my Walmart couture.  I have wondered how many of my clients or prospective clients have seen me looking rather like an insane asylum escapee.  I wondered how I shamed my teenage daughter.  Never again.

This morning, before taking her to school, I dressed, tried to make some sense of my bedhead hairdo and made sure I had on decent shoes.  And I’ve made a vow.  I won’t even go the MAILBOX sans appropriate clothing.  Lesson learned.  Thank you fashion gods for helping me see the light.