I was bad today.

No, I didn’t exceed my Weight Watchers points. I went to Last Chance.

As we like to say in these parts, you only get one Last Chance — and it’s in Phoenix.

For reasons I can’t remember, but at one point long ago did actually report, Nordstrom put its clearance center smack in the middle of my city. There actually might be more locations now, but at the time I wrote about Last Chance, ours was the only one.

(You can read the story at http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/1997-02-13/news/possessed/)

Writing about Last Chance was a problem. I did the story more than 10 years ago (I know that because I bought my wedding shoes there — Kenneth Cole, super cute, looked like new, totally uncomfortable, wound up by the end of the night on the cake table with bridesmaid bouquets in them) and I developed quite the addiction, something only motherhood (the combined lack of expendable time and income, along with a gross-out factor — this place is like a garage sale on a good day, how could I put my kids in that stuff?) could cure.

But today I was driving past, and I’d had a rough afternoon, and my friend Michele had just bought, like, six skirts there last week. So I broke my rule, and headed in. (You’ve got to understand that only recently did I finally give away the last of the boxes of stuff I accumulated there in the late 90s.)

I walked out with the essentials — a set of Paul Frank days of the week underpants (the only drawback is they’re Xmas panties, but hey, they were only $6.97); this thing by SportSac — adorable colors, I’ve been wanting something SportSac ever since their resurrgence (which calls to mind Hush Puppies’ late 90s resurrgence and, you guessed it, my half-dozen pairs in assorted pastels) but I’m not sure what this thing is meant for, maybe a very lightweight laptop? And, bummer, didn’t notice til I got home that it has a tear across the back, and that’s after Ray had to wrestle the anti-theft thingie they left on, I wondered what that beeping was when I left the store; a red pendant studded with periwinkle rhinestones and a “Little Miss Giggles” figure stamped on it; something I tried typing in here but realized I’m too embarrassed to mention, which means it’s really bad; and a bunch of shoes.

I feel okay putting the girls in Last Chance shoes, because your feet are dirty to begin with, right? Plus, holy crap, they had some awesome shoes today at Last Chance. I got Annabelle a pair of red Mary Jane Crocs (she squealed a dog-deafening squeal when she saw them) and some Ecco slip-ons in that trendy puke green/red combo. But the real winner was Sophie.

Let me back up. Until very recently, I couldn’t buy Sophie squat when it came to shoes. Now, in the scheme of things (heart surgery, mental retardation, didn’t walk til she was 3) who cares?

Um, me. I cared. I can’t help it. I want my kids to wear cute shoes, and it really sucks when one can and the other can’t, even if the other doesn’t seem to notice. And she didn’t notice, not til recently. From a very early age, Sophie has worn braces on her feet. Not those creepy metal ones kids wore when I was a kid, but plastic, molded braces with velcro straps that keep her feet from pronating and make it almost impossible to a. find shoes that fit and b. cram them onto her feet.

That said, I am so grateful that Dorcas, Sophie’s physical therapist, insisted on the AFO’s. (I can’t remember the acronym, now she wears a modified version called SMO’s. Can’t remember that acronym either.) In fact, when the nice orthopedist insisted Sophie would be better off without the AFO’s (the trend is to let kids go barefoot to learn to walk, even if their feet do appear to be caving in), I had to refuse to leave his office til he acquiesed.

“Dorcas will quit if you don’t give me that prescription,” I said. “And I can’t have Dorcas quit.”

He wrote it. And Sophie’s worn those damn things ever since, although I have to admit not as much as she used to or perhaps should. But for crying out loud, even Converse don’t fit right with those braces, and it’s just not fair for her to spend her childhood clunking around in ugly white tennies. Plus her walking’s so good now.

So Dr. Mom’s been a little lenient. For the most part, as with the rest of her wardrobe (and only because she’s the littlest of our family/friends) Sophie’s worn hand-me-down shoes. Annabelle’s outgrown them so quickly, they’re barely worn.

All that as background to explain my gorging at Last Chance today. I bought Sophie 5 pairs of the most precious shoes I’ve ever seen, including pink Tevas (she’s been dying for Tevas so she can be like her sister and her dad, and as soon as she saw them, she put them on and wouldn’t take them off to try the rest) and hot pink patent leather clogs with bright green flowers that I’m terrified to put her in — she’ll fall right on her face.

But she’ll look so cute doing it.

Tonight we saw WALL-E — a rare, special occasion, for the four of us to make it to the big screen together. Ray had a Coke, I had a Diet Coke, Annabelle had an Icee and Sophie had apple juice.

Halfway through the movie, Annabelle stage-whispered, “I dropped my straw!”

I took mine out of my drink and handed it to her, silently. She went back to slurping.

Sophie looked over. Immediately, she reached over and took her own straw from her drink and put it in my cup. In the light from the movie, I could see her face beaming. I smiled back.

“Mommy, I love you SO MUCH,” she said, rubbing my arm, her hand wet from clandestine thumbsucking.

Me too, Sophie. Me too.

This week we discovered the double-messy bun(s). On the day this photo was taken, Sophie also had her shorts on backward (she knew, she insisted) and I worried that I’d really gone over the edge with the whole “I’ve gotta be me, I’ve gotta be free!” approach to childish expressions. But she actually got a few compliments. And no one seemed to notice the shorts.

I’m still not saying “for sure” on this one, even though I got confirmation from the producer today — but I MIGHT have a piece on the radio show This American Life, on the episode airing this weekend.

For me, that’s right up there with beating Kristy Kyl (yes, U.S. Senator Jon Kyl’s daughter, no, we didn’t have the same political views) at high school debate camp. In other words, I’m psyched! And for once, no caveats.

The piece is about Sophie (surprise!) and info about the show is at www.thislife.org — it airs on public radio, it’s different in every city. In Phoenix, it’s on KJZZ at 2 p.m. on Saturdays.

And with that, the shameless-self-promotion-portion of the blog is now over. For today.

Last night, the girls and I made an impromptu trip to the bookstore to buy my friend Laurie Notaro’s new book, “The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death: Reflections on Revenge, Germaphobia, and Laser Hair Removal” (info at www.laurienotaro.com).

The book had been released just that day, and I had to grab it (and three copies to give to friends) because despite (or maybe because of) her pottymouth and more-than-ascerbic tone, the secret about this NYT bestselling author is that she’s got the softest heart between here and Eugene, Oregon, where she sadly escaped a couple years ago.

I tried to explain the whole “my friend Laurie wrote this book” thing to Annabelle, who seemed a little confused and didn’t remember the time the three of us had lunch at the now-defunct soul food restaurant next to my office. (Laurie’s a big fan of chicken fried steak. Annabelle had the mac and cheese.)

My favorite story about having Sophie and telling friends is that when I told Laurie about Sophie, she took all but one mention (a really vital one, it would have ruined the essay to remove it) of the word “retard” out of her forthcoming book (not the one I bought last night, she’s written so many I’ve lost track). I love that she did it, and even more, I love that she left it in once. I would never want a good piece of writing ruined!

I wish Laurie had been with us last night.

At dinner before the bookstore, Annabelle insisted on sitting next to Sophie, across the table from me, to take care of her sister. It was practically luxurious, even when I had to reach across the table to grab Sophes — who insisted on standing up in the booth to dance.

I also had a moment of private humiliation when I started obsessively eyeing a little boy with Down syndrome, only to realize that he was, instead, part Asian. (At least, according to the membership of his booth, he was.) That I kept to myself (til this overshare — who’s the Idiot Girl???) so it didn’t upset our little dinner party.

But back to the best part: Annabelle caring for Sophie. It’s always bittersweet, as I fastforward 20 years and freak out about AB being burdened with a sister who can’t live on her own (although as Ray said recently, who knows about that) but if I stay in the moment, I beam.

The sister-love continued at the bookstore, gelato shop and even in the bathtub, when things usually melt down. For the first time ever, Sophie agreed happily to have her hair shampooed and rinsed — perhaps because there was a new stylist in the tub:  Annabelle.

Ok, I promised to explain my birthday neurosis.

I don’t remember much about my own birthday parties, growing up. But I do recall my 7th — celebrated at Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour. Where else? When some other party ordered The Zoo and the guys raced around the restaurant with it — bells banging, sirens blaring — it scared the crap out of me, like it always did. But it was a good birthday; I got one of those toy sewing machines that used glue. I also recall, that year, going to dinner at Howard Johnson’s on a separate night, where I received a yellow Snoopy watch (long gone). And of course there was also the party with the extended family, which always included a Googy’s surprise cake.

How’s that for a dose of 70s-era Phoenix nostalgia? (No, Wallace and Ladmo weren’t there, though family legend has it that my aunt once went on a date with Wallace. And no, I don’t recall having a birthday party at Legend City. Too dangerous.)

Anyhow, you get the picture. Birthdays in our family weren’t super-fancy or expensive, but they were treated like a Catholic wake — long and involved, stretched over several days, with lots of food.

And it wasn’t enough to celebrate once a year. My favorite gift ever was actually one I received on my HALF birthday, first celebrated in junior high. I got lemon-scented Tickle deodorant.

What can I tell you? My mother never met a holiday she didn’t want to celebrate. (Still true today.) One of her favorite sayings was, “Santa Claus does not discriminate against Jews.”

It was a good childhood, but as an adult, I find it hard to match the perfection of ice cream, hard candy and the player piano at Farrell’s. Twice a year, on my birthday and again on my sister Jenny’s, Jenny and I get on the phone to lament our birthdays as adults — that our husbands will never match the one-woman birthday parade that is our mother. (And let me say, Ray does a damn good job trying.)

Trouble is, the rest of the world didn’t always match Mom’s expectations for our birthdays — one of those things I only fully understand now that I’m a mother myself.

For me, each kid birthday party is a clean slate, a chance to try again to get it perfect. And with Sophie, it’s even more complicated. More on this later, I promise/threaten.

The blog’s not called Girl in a Party Hat for nothing.

One of my favorite writers (full disclosure, a former student, but I swear, she already knew it all before she took our class) has a blog with a great name: aarpmom.blogspot.com

Check it out. Mary Ellen is hilarious, but in a wonderfully mellow way I can only aspire to. Here’s a sample, from her own daughter’s 7th birthday party:

The last straw was when the girls divided into 2 camps. Half wanted to play with Leah’s Littlest Pet Shop and the other half wanted to dance. My husband and I thought the only way out was to suggest cake and ice cream. Desperate to unify them through sugar, we forgot to light the candles or sing Happy Birthday. With half the cake missing, we quickly added the seven candles and asked the girls to gather around to sing. Maria refused to come back inside and Dylan felt she needed to stay next to Maria. Leah ran into our bedroom crying which left Melanie, my husband and I singing Happy Birthday to an invisible birthday girl. Defeated, I blew out the candles! (My wish was not granted because the party continued.)

Not long after Ray and I moved in together, I turned to him one morning as we were waking up and said, “Every day with you is like Christmas.”

True, sometimes life feels a little more like the mad run up to the big day or the letdown you feel right after, or one of those ugly fights neighbors get into over competing holiday light displays, but I can honestly say that I still roll over, a lot of mornings, with that sparkly feeling that the day holds something pretty great.

So I have no idea why I’m so obsessed with birthdays, particularly birthday parties. If every day’s Christmas, must there also be a birthday party? (And I’m not counting Jesus and his birthday here. Nor can it be my own. But anyone else’s — particularly my kids’ — I’m all over that. In what I’m quite sure is an unhealthy or at least unattractive way.)

This past Sunday morning, I went in to get Sophie up. We had our usual hugs and kisses and discussion about whether her pull-up was wet (it was) and I said, “Hey, are you going to wish Annabelle a happy birthday party — um, I mean a happy birthday?, today”

I was embarrassed by the slip, confirmation that I’m more obsessed with the trappings than the purity of the occasion. Of course Sophie didn’t notice.

And the truth is that Annabelle’s birthday isn’t for another three weeks, but her party was, indeed, last Sunday. I had Sophie’s party a month early this spring to avoid the heat and the end-of-the-school-year rush, and that worked so well I figured why not do the same for Annabelle. I knew it’d still be boiling hot (it was) but at least most of her friends would still be in town, I guessed, before the July dash to cooler climates. (They were.)

I think the party turned out ok. Annabelle announced it was the best day of her life, so really, what more can I ask? And except for a behind-the-counter crunch that resulted in no drinks or pizza for quite some time (I maintain that in order to work at a bowling alley, you must be stoned, and thus, can’t be asked to do much, although I did pitch a huge but quiet fit that resulted in a large cost savings when it came time to pay the bill) it all went pretty smoothly.

At one point, though, when the 10th kid had begged me for something to drink and the 6th was demanding food, a friend looked at my face and said, “Huh. Bet you could use a drink,” and motioned to the bowling alley’s bar, which did happen to be conveniently situated right behind us.

“Oh no,” I said. “Don’t you remember what happened at Sophie’s party?”

It seemed like a really good idea to serve alcohol at Sophie’s birthday party, which we held at home. Nothing hard, just a tin tubful of Sofia — tiny pink cans of sparkling wine, made by Francis Ford Coppola in honor of his daughter. They are too cute, even come with a bendy straw. I LOVE Sofia and heck, Sophie’s practically got the same name, so it seemed smart to buy all the Sofia they had at BevMo. That was only five boxes of four cans each, and I got it in my head that they’d go fast, so I sucked down three and spent most of my kid’s fifth birthday party snockered. (Snookered? You know what I mean.)

It really wasn’t a problem, except that I forgot to serve the culinary highlight, tiny containers of Ben & Jerry’s in assorted flavors, and also lost track of Sophie long enough for her to open all of her presents, creating an interesting situation when it came time to write thank you notes.

All of which is to say that birthday parties stress the hell out of me, but I love them, crave them, start planning for them months in advance, and never feel satisfied once they’re over. I love birthday party junk, particularly if it’s vintage. I own four pink nut cups and two old books about how to play your kid’s party. (Not counting Amy Sedaris’ “I Like You,” the best.)

I’m mindful of that whole over the top thing, the boundaries of which I’m sure I leapt across when Annabelle was 4 and my friend Kacey and I threw a 50s party for our girls, complete with sock hop attire and pounds (literally) of nostalgia-inducing candy. (And more details I’m too embarrassed to share. Really, it wasn’t THAT bad, I’ve been to worse, but we did lose our minds a teeny tiny bit.)

Check out the story one of my friends and colleagues, Robrt Pela, wrote last year about truly over the top kid parties: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2007-03-29/news/my-super-sweet-six/

Back to Annabelle’s, I think it was subdued. How fancy can you get at a bowling alley? OK, so they had matching hot pink bowling shirts. And I did take the girls to ABC Baking, a local baking supply store (hence the name, duh) the day before, and let them pick out plastic rings and cupcake toppers (for 15 cents each, you can’t go wrong, it’s my new favorite summer activity, a trip to ABC) and I did make little goody containers out of water bottles shaped like bowling pins (thanks to my sister for that idea) and ok, I did order a stamp on Ebay with a little pin and bowl so I could make tags for the water bottles, but I kept myself from making a special trip to MIchael’s to buy white tags and made due with the manilla ones I had at home, which I thought showed incredible self-restraint.

The water bottles and the plastic rings and the Fry’s cupcakes (I iced them myself, for that messy, homemade look) with the plastic bowling pins stuck in them looked ok, but yeah, I did need a drink. I knew that half the parents were thinking, “What a freak, why’d she do all that?” and the other half were thinking, “Hmph, that looks like shit.” And I, of course, was thinking both things.

Maybe I should look into anti-anxiety meds. But really, I think a couple cans of Sofia would have done the trick. Or not. As it was, I forgot to take any pictures til the party was over and Annabelle looked — well, looked like she had a damn good time at her birthday party.

At least I have a neat list of everything everyone gave to Annabelle. And I remembered to serve the cupcakes.

TOMORROW: THE ROOT OF THE BIRTHDAY PARTY OBSESSION.

I THINK.

I’m reminded this morning that there are some things in life you just shouldn’t try to do quickly. One is shave your legs. The second is blog.

At least, blog about anything of substance.

As I fell asleep last night, my last thought — as the People magazine fell from my hand — was, “I bet that f-ing Shakira really IS a genius. I bet that’s like her THING.”

Yeah, I even have the comment this morning to back that up, along with the beginning of a discussion about IQ I’m totally unequipped to partake in, since I haven’t done my research.

This all backs up the reason for my grumpiness in recent weeks — my bosses have discovered this cool new thing, it’s called “THE INTERNET” and you can do this thing called BLOGGING on it — you can do it all day long (and all night) and it’s so cool, dude! It’s the latest thing!

It’s also very dangerous for a group of journalists used to ruminating over stories and research for weeks, if not months, at a time, then spitting out 8,000 word stories.

I”m not saying it’s a bad idea, but the growing pains are driving me nuts. If I’m going to have a job in anything resembling journalism in the next few years, I know I’ve got to embrace it. (Hence, one reason for this blog.)

But the Shakira thing reminds me it’s just not as easy everyone tries to make it seem.

Now I gotta go figure out what to do about my bright-red legs.

I’m not sure who Shakira is. That’s how dumb I am.

And the worst part is that I should know who Shakira is, since I have a People magazine waiting by my bed. (I even subscribe, for crying out loud.) I think she’s a singer. Anyhow, apparently she’s a rocket science and I’m spending too much time on Facebook (my newest vice, along with tart-and-trendy frozen yogurt) since I’ve now seen ads touting the IQs of two celebs.

The first was Angelina, and I don’t recall her IQ (another bad sign, for sure) but I remember the ad because I’ve been thinking a lot about IQ these days. I’m too lazy to look up the New Yorker article about IQs I keep hearing was fabulous (I have like the last six months of the New Yorker unread in a pile because I’m too busy reading People) but I want to since we’re in the process of dealing with Sophie’s IQ.

Maybe my IQ is not 140 (I don’t know what it is. My mother won’t say. She won’t tell my sister or me — or my dad, unless he once knew and forgot, because she doesn’t want either of us to know the other’s smarter. Or more IQ-y. I tried to get it out of him not long ago, he’d only say that he knows my mother’s is higher than his.) but I do know there’s no freaking way you can accurately determine the true intelligence of a 5 year old, particularly a 5 year old with Down syndrome.

When I saw the ad I didn’t think about signing Sophie up. She’s already signed up for testing. I did think about clicking on it for myself, then decided that some things are better left unknow, or at least unsaid, and anyhow, who wants to find out they’re not as smart as Shakira?

It seemed like a good idea to buy the soundtrack to “Across the Universe”. Annabelle’s really into the Beatles right now.

Conversation in the car:

“Mommy, is that a Beatles song?”

“Yes.”

(Few minutes later.)

“Mommy, is that a Beatles song?”

“Yes.”

(Few minutes later.)

“Mommy, is that –”

“Yes!”

“Mommy, don’t you think the Beatles sing that song better?”

“Well, they are good. But sometimes don’t you think it’s fun to listen to someone else sing a Beatles song?”

“Oh, yeah, like how I like listening to you sing Hey Jude.”

To be honest, that hadn’t occurred to me — no, really, it hadn’t — but I beamed.

Sophie already yells, “STOP IT!” when I sing, but AB still indulges me. Which I don’t deserve, since I always screamed at my own mother to shut up when she tried to sing along to the car radio. Annabelle projectile vomited as an infant, just as I did, so there was some degree of karmic revenge in that department.

But for now, at least, I’m right up there with Paul and John.

I’m certain that just means Annabelle’s as tone deaf as her mother. That’s cool. I’ll take it.