Freshman Year

This is my fault.  No one told me to drink a whole bottle of Jagermesiter.  No one said, “Here, eat this handful of xanax.”  I did this to myself.  Why did I do this.  Please stop.

“No.” I manage to say.  “No, I don’t want to”.  He hears me.  He doesn’t care.  He says to turn over; I turn over.  

This dude has a gun.  He has handcuffs and a badge.  Do what he says.  Don’t resist.  Stop resisting. “No.”  I manage to mumble.  “Please stop, you’re hurting me”, I say quietly, as he flips my body over and forcibly fucks me until I feel numb.  The physical pain is still there, but I feel so sick, so dead inside, that I can’t even bring myself to have feelings about what is happening.  “Someone’s coming.  You’re going to get up, and run across the hall to my roommate’s closet.  Get up.  Now.”

I’m terrified.  Do I run for help?  Make a bee -line to the front door, butt naked and so drunk I can’t remember my name, or do I follow his orders?  Gun. Badge. Handcuffs.  I go to the closet.

“This is fun, isn’t it?” He asks.  Naked, grinning at me like some kind of fucking maniac, cross necklace tangled in his chest hair.  “You like this, don’t you?  You’re so sexy.  Happy birthday to me.”  Why is he still touching me?  I don’t understand why we’re both in the closet or what is going on outside the slatted doors.

“Let’s go back to my room,” he says, me still not understanding why we left or what is happening, so fucked up I can barely speak or utter more than ok. “You can get dressed and leave now”, he says.  It’s over.  I can leave.  

I wake my friend, who has been asleep on the couch in the front room, passed out from the type of binge drinking that 18 years old, fresh out of mom and dad’s house are wont to do. “Let’s go.  Please, let’s go”.  She grabs her keys and we head out.  I can’t speak.  I can’t say a word.  I can barely fucking breathe.  

We get back to our dorm at our Women’s College. He calls me.

“So about last night.  I don’t have anything to worry about, right? Like, I shouldn’t expect to be called into my chief’s office should I?”

I sit and chain smoke on the front steps.  Some dorm friends stop to talk and ask how my night was.  I lose it.  

“I met this guy online a few weeks ago, he’s a cop.  What’s safer than going out with a cop?  Last night was his friend’s birthday, and he invited us out.  We went to a liquor store and he bought me a bottle of Jagermeister.  They decided to go to a bar; we couldn’t go because we’re underage.  He told me to drink the bottle and he’d be back for me later.  I went in my dorm and drank the whole fucking thing.  They called and came back to get me.  His friend kept touching me and telling me I’m sexy.  Telling me it’s his birthday and I’m so sexy and he’s so lucky.  We went to the bar.  I don’t remember much.  I think we danced.  He kept touching me.  I wanted to go home.  He took us back to his apartment.  Said I was too drunk and he would help me lay down and sober up.  He put me in his room and started taking my pants off.  I said I didn’t want to do that.  He said it was ok.  I told him no.  He climbed on top of me and I told him no.  I cried and asked him to stop and he told me it was ok, that I liked it.  I remember something about a closet and then leaving.”

I told  them about this call that morning.  He didn’t call to make sure I was safe.  He didn’t call to apologize or try and make things right.  He called to make sure that I wasn’t planning to tattle.

“You were raped.”

“No, it wasn’t violent.  I told him no over and over, but he didn’t try to hurt me.  He just wouldn’t stop.”

“You were raped”

“No, I was drunk, I must have said it was ok.”

“You were raped”

“He told me to suck his dick and I did.  I could have not done that.”

“You were raped”

I was raped.  

How did I not even realize that?  Why did it take 8 of my friends, most of whom I barely even knew, hearing my story and telling me that I was raped for me to believe it.  Because I could have fought harder and didn’t?  Because he kissed me the next morning when I left?

At the insistence of my peers, we went to the emergency room.  8 freshman girls, who’d only known one another for a month, banded together to make sure I wasn’t alone.  They made sure I had a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, encouragement, and support.  

“I was raped” I told the triage manager at the Emergency Room.

“I want to report that I was assaulted, but I don’t want to name the person”

“I’m sorry,” they said, “we have to file a police report”.

I was stripped of all of my belongings.  My new shirt, my pants, my underwear and belt.  I was assigned a male doctor with cold hands, who questioned me about the attack, as if the sordid details were really any of his fucking business.  I laid there, surrounded by new friends, but terrified because I felt like I was being violated all over again.

“This will be cold,” he said, as he inserted an unlubricated speculum into my vagina and jacked me open.

“You might feel a pinch,” he said, as he plucked pubic hairs one by one and placed them in a small bag.

“Try to shop shaking,” he said, as he examined my body for bruises and lacerations.

Next came the police.  I told my story.  Over and over.  I cried.  I called my mom.  We had not spoken in three months.  

Twelve hours later, I got to leave.  I had to email my professors to let them know I would not be in class that day, that I’d just got out of the hospital.  One had an exam scheduled.  He let me know that I could put it off one day, but must come in the following day or fail his class.  I must provide hospital documentation proving I was hospitalized.  I cried.  I didn’t leave my dorm.  I COULDN’T leave my dorm.

The next day, armed with hospital discharge papers, embarrassed that I had to tell my professor that I was raped in order to be excused from missing a scheduled exam, I showed up to his office.  He handed me my exam and I handed him my papers.  I could not look him in the eye.  He didn’t fucking care.  He saw my pain, my tears, my sadness and unkempt appearance, and said, “Here’s your exam.  You have two hours.”  I sat in his office and filled the open ended questions with answers like, “Fuck you.”  “I hate you”  “You are an awful human being”.  I don’t know if I was deflecting my hurt, my rage, my sadness towards my rapist on my professor, but it’s all I could write.  I couldn’t see through my tears to form coherent sentences.

“Here.  Fuck you.” I said and handed him my exam.  

I never went back to his class.

I never went back to any of my classes.

I spent the next four weeks hiding.  I would not go to the cafeteria.  I would not leave campus.  Fear gripped me and anxiety followed.  What do you do when you’re raped by a cop?  How do you show your face in town when every cop in the city sees you as a disgusting, lying slut?  

I can no longer count how many times I was called to the police station to give my statement, which was honestly more of an interrogation and attempt to catch me in a lie.  I gave my recorded statement at least half a dozen times, never wavering in my details.

“But you change positions how many times?  If he was raping you, why would you switch positions 4-5 times during intercourse?”

He had a gun.  He had a badge.  He had handcuffs.  I already knew he’d fuck me against my will.  What would he do if I attempted more than the handful of No’s I’d already given?

“I just don’t understand this.  Is this a cry for attention?  You need to see a counselor, a preacher, someone.  You have some serious psychological problems.”

“You know what happens to liars, right?  You’re ruining this man’s life.  Are you sure this is what happened?”

The questions.  The accusations.  I’d been violated and raped and hurt.  But I’m a liar?  I seek help because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but I have mental problems?  Someone who has sworn to protect and serve, but instead uses his power over others has hurt me, and I need Jesus?

This is why I couldn’t leave my dorm.  It hurt.  My heart hurt.  Valium helped, but it didn’t completely mask the pain of being violated and told I was making it all up.  That I was seeking attention.  That they knew I liked to sleep around and he must have done something to upset me so I accused him of rape.  I was a whore, I’d slept with how many people?  

I was made to feel like I was asking for it, in my sleeveless sweater and blue jeans.  

Months passed, grand jury rolled around.  You are hereby notified to be at the Lowndes County courthouse at 8 am on this day.  

I went.  My mom came with me. We sat from 8-3:30, when someone came out and let us know they did not get to our case that day, that we would need to come back the next day.

We came back the next day.  We sat.  Someone came out and told us that the jury had heard my case, my taped testimony had sufficed, and we were free to go.  I was never allowed to tell my story.  

On November 13, 2002, my 19th birthday, I got a call regarding my case.  It was no bill.

There was not enough evidence to make an indictment.

My shirt, bra, underwear, jeans and shoes.  Signs of notable forced entry bad enough to give me an infection for which I needed antibiotics.  Witnesses who walked in on the act . Liquor store tapes showing the man buying the bottle of Jager that I drank.  My word.  

Not enough evidence. No trial.  Nothing to see here, move it along.

Camping with Kids Part 1

I was inspired by the July/August 2015 issue of Everyday with Rachael Ray to take my family camping...with four days notice...having never taken my family camping.  I'm kind of a baby when it comes to swimming in places where I can't see my feet, so rivers, lakes, and ponds aren't my thing.  the ocean, however, I'll take it.

Have you ever tried to book a campsite, four days ahead of when you want to camp, two days ahead of the biggest holiday of the summer?  Well if you haven't, it severely limits your options.  After much searching and failure, I finally found Edisto beach, SC.  The campsites aren't on the water, but about a half mile away (yay FitBit steps!).

So I've spent the last few days scrambling to get everything together to take five people who have never been camping together ready for a two night three day stay.

Naturally, I forgot to check the weather forecast before booking our "can't be cancelled for refund $50/night campsite".  Oops.  Looks like we're expecting thunderstorms on our second day.

What's a mom to do???

FUN BOX!

I've loaded it up with everything we may need for rainy day tent fun.  Wanna see inside??

Books area necessity for any travelling.  I tried to pick out some good picture books that require no reading for the three year old.  We're big fans of the "I Spy" series, as well as anything Richard Scarry.  Pecos Bill, Paul Bunyan, and Johnny Appleseed all seemed to be good choices for wilderness reading, too.

Blokus Junior is one of our family's all time favorite games. Simple to learn, way fun to play.  Only two can play at a time so we typically battle it out to see who plays next.  The only card game my kid knows is War, but everything I've read says to bring a deck of cards, so we're bringing two.  One of Charlotte's favorite activities is writing, so I'm including these write on/wipe off LeapFrog cards.

Eli is a LEGO fiend, so a pack of LEGO is a natural go-to for a fun box.  This bag spreads out for play and cinches closed for storage, so it's perfect for taking on the go.

Another of Charlotte's favorite things is dress up and magnetic sets; this one combines both.  Like most of our belongings, this was picked up at a Thrift Store and stored away, waiting for play.  We probably have five other magnet sets currently out at our house, but this one has been put up for a while so it should make for a fun "new" toy experience.

Since we're staying on the East Coast by the ocean, we need beach necessities.  I packed these in their own bag so all we have to do when it's time for sand is grab and go.  This kit includes: two blow up donut rafts, tools for digging in sand, and a parafoil kite.

If all else fails, we have colored pencils, a sharpener, a couple of pens, a notebook, some drawing paper, and a roll of paper.  

I'm keeping my fingers crossed for no rain, but seeing as how there's a 50% chance of thunderstorms, I'm not holding my breath.  If and when it does happen, we'll at least be prepared!

Pooping by yourself is a luxury not to be taken for granted

I've always heard that the more you do something, the easier it gets.  Parenting seems to be the exception to that rule.  The more kids you have, the more room for mistakes occur.  Nine years into this journey and I'm still figuring things out.  What worked for the first, made the second scream and the third nonplussed.

The one thing that has seemed to finally click after having my third child is the need to take time for myself.  Recently, we were packing up our old home to move and I was going through boxes of things that I hadn't seen or thought of in years.  I found a notebook that was given to me at my baby shower for my first child.  Inside was this note:

At the time I received this, it went in one ear and out the other.  I was 21 years old and having my first child.  I KNEW EV.ERY.THING.

What I've learned to be true over the last 9 years:

• Yes, I've gotten lots of advice from lots of people.  I've gotten advice when I asked for it.  I've gotten advice when I've not asked for it.  I've cried because I followed advice and things still weren't working.  I've cried because I followed advice and our lives changed.  I've smiled and nodded, I've argued vehemently.  21 year old me resented everyone telling me what to do.  31 year old me tries to understand that people are well-meaning and do have the best of intentions. even when what they say it completely wrong or pisses me off.
• Trust your own instincts.  She was absolutely right.  Most of my gut reactions have been exactly what I needed to do, and what I've done.  Doctors and specialists and family and friends all have their own information and agendas, but mama usually knows best.  When my concerns about my son's tonsils were dismissed by a doctor, I knew that didn't mean nothing was wrong.  It just meant time to find a doctor who would listen to me (and they did. And then they wondered why it took me so long to seek them out!). When family told me that breastfeeding past a year was not important and more for me than my child, I ignored them and continued what I was doing.  I've never heard a mama say she regrets letting her child decide when to wean, nor have I met a kid in college who was still hanging off mama's teat (metaphorically, maybe.  Literally, never).
• It's harder to make time for yourself when you only have one child than it is when you have three.  We've always practiced attachment parenting.  That mentally and emotionally taxing form of parenting that puts my child's needs parallel to mine.  And there is nothing wrong with that.  However, just because you do for your child and wear them and breastfeed them and keep them close, it doesn't mean you should stop doing for yourself.  For me it means I actually need to do more for me.  I've been a control freak my whole life, and unfortunately that has extended to my relationships with partners and my children.  I refused help with my first two kids, even from dad.  They couldn't do things the way that I could, so why let them even bother?  Well, because they want that opportunity as well and because sometimes mom needs a break!  After the birth of my third child, I realized that needing time for me doesn't mean I'm selfish: It only means I'm human.  Some days I lock myself in the bedroom as soon as my husband gets home from work.  I work out or I read or I take a luxuriously long shower all by myself.  And I don't feel a single bit of remorse or guilt in doing so.  Not only is being a stay at home mom harder than any other job that I've ever had, the pay is shit. I've learned to buy myself that outfit I want, go to dinner with friends while the husband is at home with the kids, and most importantly, not feel guilty for pooping by myself while my baby screams at me from a safe, restrained place.  
• Offers for free babysitting are few and far between.  NEVER TURN THEM DOWN!! It's so much easier to get friends and family to hang out with your only child than it is to hang out with all three.  If you find someone who offers to do it out of the kindness of their heart and for the love of your children, let them!  I was so afraid to ask for help when my first two were little.  I have no local family and often felt overwhelmed, stressed, and without a chance to have a break.  Now when someone offers to watch the kids so I can have a bit of alone time or time with my husband, I'm usually handing them over before they have a chance to change their mind.  

It took almost 10 years after this note was written to me to fully understand and see this as good advice.  Oddly enough the person who wrote it never once offered to watch our child (...her grandchild), but that's another story.  

tl;dr

It's okay to have kids and have your own life.  It's okay to not spend every waking and breathing moment with them.  In fact, you may find that you like yourself as a person and parent more when you let yourself have a break.

Seize the Moment

What a weird few days!

Sunday morning, I was loading up the girls for a quick run to the grocery store.  Eli had spent the night with a friend 30 miles away for an epic 9-11 year old boy video game all night slumber party.

As usual, it was a welcome respite for me that he had others to talk to about video games and code and whatever else it is that 9 year old boys never shut up about.  As I buckled in the baby, my phone rang.  Since I had just texted my BFF and she told me that she'd probably call me from someone else's number, I expected it to be her.  Instead it was the mother hosting the slumber party.

My first thought was, "Fuck.  What did he do?"  I mean, he's a fantastic kid, but 9 year old boys aren't necessarily the best decision makers.  The mom said, "Eli just walked up to me, very anxious.  While he was standing there I saw the entire right side of his face drop, as if there was no muscle tone.  He started drooling and was unable to speak.  This lasted about a minute, while he paced around, and then he said, "Ok, I can talk now".

I scratched my plans to browse the aisles of Winn Dixie and headed their way.  When I got there, his face was back to normal but he was obviously shaken up and scared.  Knowing that some of the signs he exhibited were stroke symptoms, it wasn't even a question whether to go to the hospital or not.  I called Aaron and I called Eli's dad and we planned to just meet at the hospital.

After a very long two days of tests and procedures to rule out a TIA, an EEG finally revealed that he'd had a benign Rolandic Seizure.  And that he's most likely had them in his sleep before.

Our stay at Wolfson Children's Hospital was phenomenal.  Everyone was warm and awesome and they partner with businesses in the community who come in and volunteer time and services.  He got toys, stuffed animals and some kick ass Italian Ice.

So now we just sit back and wait for it to happen again.  At least this time, we'll all know what's happening.  Hell, it may not even happen again.  People keep asking me how I've stayed so calm through all of this.

Prozac.

And it's not cancer.  It's not something we have to worry about getting rid of.  It's not something that will follow him into adulthood.  It's a minor inconvenience, scary for sure, but damn it could be so much worse.

It's hard to realize the struggle when you're in the trenches

I seriously love Facebook's "On This Day" feature.  I get to see cute pictures of my kids from years past and see the funny (to me) things I said.  Today I was reminded of a piece I wrote about maternal mental health for the now defunct website Stigmama.com.  Having had postpartum depression after the births of my first two children, I'm all too familiar with the feelings of despair and loneliness and terror that PPD brings.  I was fortunate enough to not go through that my third time around, I feel in part because of the plan I devised before I ever got pregnant.  When we started thinking about having a third child, I promised myself that I would: ask for help if I need it, tell people exactly what I need, take medication at the first sign of not feeling right, seek counseling, and talk to my husband about how I felt.  Unfortunately, he was left completely out of the loop when I went through it before, because I was so afraid to confide in anyone, even him, my best friend.

So I want to share this piece again, in hope that it reaches just one woman who needs to read it right now.

I didn’t know that I’d lost it.  I had reached a point where crazy was the new normal and I felt like there was no turning back.  While I knew that something wasn’t “right”, I thought I had just lost my mind and I was never going to be happy or rational ever again. I became complacent with the idea that I had gone off the deep end and would stay that way for the rest of my life.  I forgot how to have fun.  I forgot how to enjoy my children.  Most days I forgot to get dressed.  Any time conflict arose I forgot how to act in a rational manner.  I cried.  Oh, how I cried and screamed almost every single day.


For the most part, I was afraid to leave my house.  If I left my house someone would merge into the side of my car at 70 mph.  My children would be kidnapped.  I would drive my car over a bridge. Someone would approach me from behind and shoot me, right in front of my children.  


I remember the night that we ordered in from a sushi restaurant.  My pieces of fried tofu were cut too large and thus too mushy for me to eat.  I slammed my fist into the burning bean curd and left the table, sobbing.  There was the night at dinner when my son was chewing too loud.  All I could hear was the spit being swooshed around in his mouth as he chewed the eggplant “bacon” BLTs I had spent a long time preparing.  I could feel the rage building up in me.  Because my poor, 7 year old child was chewing his food and eating his dinner.  I screamed, “I AM LEAVING AND I AM NEVER COMING BACK.  YOU’LL BE LUCKY IF YOU EVER SEE ME AGAIN.”  My son sobbed.  I’ve never seen anyone cry the way he cried, genuine fear that his mother was leaving and never coming back.  My heart broke.  


I confided in a friend.  She’d been there.  She saw me struggling.  She called to check up on me often and shared her story.  She told me there was nothing wrong with taking medicine and getting help.  She told me that she took medicine and got help.  I promised to call a doctor.  I was scared.  What if I tried and I was still crazy?  What if the medicine made me gain weight or caused more anxiety?  Would my daughter be okay if I continued to breastfeed?  Why was I such a failure that I needed medication to feel like a normal person?


The day of my doctor visit came.  What would he know?  He’d never experienced the hormonal changes I was experiencing and he never would.  Maybe he would make things worse. Maybe I just shouldn’t go. Maybe I can just deal with feeling this way for the rest of my life.  Like I’m going to die every day.  Like something awful is going to happen to my children.  Like it’s okay to scream and cry when my child touches me. Like it’s normal to be terrified of having sex with my husband. Like I was legitimately crazy and trying to navigate my way through the world when everything was so foggy and I could not even think.


I saw the doctor.  I took the medicine.  I didn’t feel good a week later.  I didn’t feel good two weeks later, but I felt better.  A month later I started feeling again.  Not just the pain.  Not just the overwhelming act of living and breathing.  I felt better.  I laughed.  I made myself go places and made myself see people and made myself get dressed (most days). I started talking about how bad I’d felt.  I was so afraid to talk about it when I felt so bad.  I was so afraid someone would recognize that I’d gone crazy and take my children.  I was so afraid that my husband would consider me a burden and not want to live with me.  But now I could talk.  


It’s always easier when you’re not in that moment.  It’s easier when someone is there to share their story with you.  It gets easier.  Every day, it gets easier.  Not just the talking, but the living.  You reach a point where you can finally recognize that you had a problem.  That it’s not normal to want to die every day.  It’s not normal to fear leaving the house and interacting with other people. It’s certainly not normal to rage out when your tofu’s cut too large.  Talk to a friend.  See a doctor.  Get some counseling. Read books.  Get some rest.  Tell your story.  Reach out when you see someone in need.  Tell her when things aren’t normal.  Tell her that with help, it gets easier.  

Mushrooms might be my favorite things ever

Sometimes you spend all day on Pinterest looking for the perfect recipe for dinner, and some days you don't give a shit and just hope you can pull something together with what you have.  To be honest, I've had a lot more IDGAF days lately than not, mostly because I'm in the middle of this epic weight loss journey and have a smoothie for one meal a day and then try to be just adventurous enough to trick my tastebuds into thinking I'm eating like I did when I was pregnant, and sometimes it's just too much work because whatever it is I'm feeling is something that the kids (ugh, "if it ain't cheese, we don't want it") or the husband (ugh, vegetarian) won't eat.  But tonight I lucked up and came up with a low fat, vegetarian (vegan if you use a vegan "egg" noodle), quick dinner that every one ate.  Except for Charlotte, I didn't even attempt to serve it to her because she doesn't like mushrooms...she says, but eats them in various capacities.  She ate egg noodles with nutritional yeast, garlic powder and coconut oil.

So dinner.  Let's keep this short and sweet:

Double Mushrooms with Kale, Chickpeas and Egg Noodles

1 lb. bag egg noodles (or less, I had some feelings to eat)
5 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp olive oil
8 oz shiitake mushrooms, sliced
8 oz portobellos, sliced (use baby's or biggies)
1 15 oz. can chickpeas (don't drain!)
2 cups chopped kale
1/2 cup water
1 tbsp liquid bouillon/vegetable base (is it liquid? What do you call it?  Better than bouillon is my fave)
1/2 tbsp Rosemary
Salt and pepper to taste

Boil egg noodles and set aside.

Sautée minced garlic in olive oil for 2-3 minutes.  Add in both mushrooms and cook down 8-10 minutes.  Add kale, chickpeas and liquid, rosemary, water and vegetable base and stir until combined.  

Put lid on and cook for about 20 minutes. Salt and pepper to taste and add egg noodles to the veggie/broth mixture.

I topped mine with nutritional yeast flakes and crispy fried onions from the Indian grocer (like French's, but a million billion times better).

You can definitely mix and match stuff to your taste buds.  Don't have two kind of mushrooms?  Use one.  Have broccoli but no kale?  Cool, use it.  Maybe try it over rice or quinoa and omit the egg noodles.  Think of it as a hearty, vegetarian stew.  

Who knew boxes could be so fun?!

Being a stay at home/work at home mom can become super monotonous.  Go to the park once per day, head to the grocery store for whatever singular missing ingredient I may need for dinner, that may or may not be cooked depending on how close to a complete mental breakdown  I am when my husband walks in the door at 5:58.  Actually, the three year old, baby and I meet him in the driveway, me wearing the baby on my front or back, often pacing the length of the driveway to get some FitBit steps in, while C either uses hot pink chalk everywhere but the approved areas or stomps in the grass and grumbles about the lack of puddles.  These little moments are great, and one day I’ll look back on the near daily, near nervous breakdowns and laugh, but sometimes you’ve got to shake things up.

Now that I’m 31 and have three kids, I have become completely immersed in the world of mom.  From my mom ponytail, to my mom gunt, and my mom joy of funny memes showing sassy women saying things we all wish we could say out loud.  But recently I discovered the joy of Beauty and other subscription boxes.  Holy. Shit.  I feel like this void I didn’t even know was there has been binge fed (which, oddly enough has happened while I’m actually working on not binge eating and leading a more active lifestyle).

I subscribed to my first box, Birch Box , because I’m cheap and couldn’t see investing more than $10 for a box of things I may or may not like.  I got 100 points for signing up (enough for $10 worth of product in their store), and waited.  The box came quicker than I expected, but it was still an agonizing wait.  I got to try products I’d have never tried otherwise, loved it, and will continue it for some time.  After I discovered that subscription boxes are awesome, I may have gotten hooked.  Next up was Bulu Box, a weight loss and fitness lifestyle subscription box that only cost $10 per month! Use my link and enter code FANTASTIC to get your second month FREE!! This one included a few herbal supplements, energy drink, and some other goodies, but I’d like to see more exercise accessories and protein snacks.

Prior to receiving my first Birch Box, all of my make-up was 5+ years old and the only cleansing product in my arsenal a bottle of Cetaphil.  Unwrapping that first box got me so excited that I started researching more and found GlossyBox.  At $21 a month, it’s double the price of Birchbox, but promises some deluxe and high end samples. My first box was great, but the only disappointment came from a bottle of nailpolish.  Make-up and skincare I can get down with, hair and nails just aren’t my thing.  I’m expecting my second GlossyBox  any day and look forward to seeing the mix included in the June box.  I’ve subscribed to a few more, but have yet to receive my first boxes.  Those are: ipsy and bluum, plus 1upbox (which we have received one of so far) a gamer/nerd lifestyle sub.

Have you tried any subscription boxes?  What do you think?

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