Since when is having a baby comparable to being a hooker?




You think I’m just plain Mommy. I’m just a woman with a sleeping toddler in the stroller, a nuisance to walk around. You can see the little cup of cheez-its sitting perilously close to the edge of my sleeping son’s lap. You’re calculating in your head the probability those crackers will hit your pristinely kept carpet, and you’re envisioning yourself bent over, dust buster in hand praying to God the orange comes out. You’re suspicious of me and my son, of what you think we represent. You’re a nicely dressed saleswoman with a saccharine smile working in an upscale boutique with a silly pretentious four-letter name ending in X that only the most loyal francophiles could ever pronounce. (I have an impeccably dressed friend, and she’s really from France, and even she thinks you’re snotty, overpriced and your store has a stupid name). I am the only person in the shop—well B and I are the only people in the shop—and while you feign icy politeness, there’s an overdressed guy manning the cashier pointedy ignoring the fact that I exist. I stroll on by to look at the $250 woven belts and I’m invisible. I peer into the jewelry case two feet from his nose, and nope, he still doesn’t see me. You two and your store are an aberration in Eugene, this land of hippies and hemp and yet you think I don’t belong. Honestly, the only thing that keeps me coming back is the fact that I am in lust with the gorgeous silk jacket that lives in the back corner of your store. I met her there only once before but even then I knew she was the one. I stroked her gently, my fingers caressed the delicate pink and purple butterfly wings that were etched into her elegant lime green skin. She was long, soft and one size smaller than me--and my muse and the inspiration for losing the rest of my baby fat. There was a time when I could own that jacket—I would have laid down my hard earned $350 with only a slight pang of guilt, the guilt gone in the time it took me to carry fabulous new coat from store to car. There was a time when I lived in San Francisco and I could march into that gold gilded Chanel boutique with those mannequin-like, retouched ice Queens and point to the expensive serum in the perfect glass case. Back then, I looked the part--I had the right lipstick, the appropriate Fendi purse-- or, at the very least, I could steel myself long enough to exchange credit card for insanely priced moisturizer. I let those bitches and their intimidation blow right by. But now, it is years later and I’ve become a Eugenian. I dress like a Eugenian, which is to say I dress as though I’m not trying. I gave up the red lipstick. The days of cool glasses with tiny rhinestones are long gone. I couldn’t tell you the brand name of the sneakers I wore this morning. B was so cranky, itching to get outside, that I went without moisturizer. I’m a 32 year old stay-at-home mom with an elementary school teacher for a husband. You do the math. So when I ask you nicely if there’s a chance that my beloved jacket’s price will go on sale, spare me the attitude. I’m sure that as you say the designer is highly sought after for her wedding gowns and elegant dresses. Judging by the cut and tailoring of the piece, the woman is clearly an artiste, (pronounced with French accent). But don’t brush me off with that dismissive “We both know you can’t afford it so why ask?” tone because the jacket’s been in that corner for nearly the entire summer. It’s ever so lonely now and fall is fast approaching and with fall comes more merchandise in need of good homes on your shelves. And frankly, as I walked through your front door, I perused your quaint little sidewalk sale of shabby chic . . .truly hideous t-shirts that at one point you had the gall to price at $140. Now with three and four red slashes on the tag they’re a respectable $30. But you and I both know the price can’t change the fact that the style, color, the j’ne sais quoi of it all says, “dog.” Let’s be honest, you might benefit from a new buyer, someone who recognizes that not even the most moneyed of Eugene would buy this trash. This hypothetical new buyer might also recognize what I see as the obvious: My lime green jacket isn’t likely to be sold anytime soon. Remember Nicole Kidman at the Academy Awards circa 1997, back when she wasn’t yet a megastar, just Tom Cruise’s gorgeous redhead? No? People still talk of the frock she wore that night—it was a sleeveless sheath of Chinese silk brocade in a color so alien—it was lime but not lime, olive but not olive—it was radioactive and weird and frankly no one else on the planet but Nicole could have rocked it. It was her alabaster translucent skin that made it work. She was an angel. Trust me, people who care about such things took notice and to this day, we remember. Well, my jacket is much like Nicole’s magnificent dress--silk brocade, nearly the exact same shade. The acid hue is incredibly difficult to pull off—if it’s not worn by just the right person you risk looking wan and green, like you died three days ago and no one was there to notice. The dress demands to be worn by either the super fair complexioned or the super dark, there is no in between. This narrows your clientele considerably, so you won’t mind if I disregard your condescending assurances that it will be sold at full price.


My ill-fated shopping excursion reminds me of those two wonderful scenes in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts is a prostitute shopping at an elite boutique in Beverly Hills. In the first, Julia's in standard hooker gear with her blonde bob wig and too short skirt. Richard Gere has handed her a wad of cash with which to prettify herself, so she’s ready and willing to pay, but the nasty salesgirl is looking her up and down with the utmost disdain. Mortified, Julia flees the store. In scene two, Julia returns to the boutique and the sales women hardly recognize her. Now she’s a polished, high society woman, her slutty wig traded in for perfectly sculpted ringlets and her mini-skirt now a $3000 suit. The evil salesgirl greets her as though she were royalty but Julia’s having none of it.
“Hello, can I help you?”
“I was in here yesterday, you wouldn’t wait on me.”
“Oh.”
“You people work on commission, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Big mistake. Big. Huge. I have to go shopping now.”

I may be just Mommy now, but I’ll be waiting for my Pretty Woman moment.

Favorite things (several embarrassing) that don’t involve mothering ANYONE (except maybe myself :)



1. Browsing the magazine rack at a chilly, air-conditioned bookstore when it’s 93 degrees outside and eating lemon poundcake as I skim a popular fashion mag with Drew Barrymore on the cover, back to front.
2. MAC Mystic lipstick and any glossimer lip shade by Chanel
3. My new Frye boots that I have yet to wear—they are so not Eugene.
4. Blackberries and raspberries and strawberries on my cereal.
5. The New York Times (My favorite discovery: A few days ago the “most emailed article” was about how to properly cultivate the thick eye brow look that is all the rage this fall—proof of a slow news day and that there are freaks out there just like me).
6. Rock Star Supernova (Oh yes, it’s total crap but mocking the ridiculous Brooke Burke is oh so much fun. Plus, you get to watch newly single Dave Navarro hit on anything that moves. Delish).
7. Cookie dough eaten right out of the tub.
8. The theme song to “Clifford’s Puppy Days”: I might be li-ttle, I might be stuck in the mi—ddle. But there’s one thing we know-oh, love makes little things grow-u-ow. Yes, love makes little things grow!” Fade out happy steel drums . . .
9. My new perfume. It’s rare and a bit naughty and I’d never heard of until the owner's lovely daughter-in-law unearthed its clovey yumminess in a beautiful perfume shop in Portland.
10. Sleeping in and remembering my dreams for a split second before they fade into ether.

This list was inspired by the women of playgroup. See, I’m not an intellectual. I’m a girly shopaholic with deplorable taste in TV.

Lieberman is a tool


This is what I woke up thinking this morning. Normally it's "Damn that was a weird dream" or "Why are B's smelly feet tapping on my nose and chin," but for some reason, today I flashed on that sore loser, that egomaniacal pompous ass, the no longer esteemed Senator from Connecticut. For those of you who might not have caught it, a gazillionaire businessman named Ned Lamont challenged Lieberman in Connecticut's Democratic primary and guess what, Lieberman lost. Now Lieberman's claiming he'll switch parties and run as an independent in the general election . . . "For the sake of our state, our country and my party, I cannot and will not let that result stand." Um, dude, you lost. Frankly, Leiberman's lunacy confirms what many of us feared way back in 2000--that he wasn't a real Democrat at all. And Gore, he's got to be smiling right about now. Those two never seemed the best of friends. When I look back, they were like Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt in photos taken a month or two before the divorce: There's some hand holding for the cameras, but Jennifer's body language is all "You evil bastard, I can't believe you're screwing someone else." Gore would be Jennifer of course, and Leiberman is the now superfluous Brad Pitt. I guess that would make the Independent party Angelina Jolie. I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this metaphor but the point is this: If Lieberman does what he says he's going to do and actually switches parties, I hope Lamont spanks him so hard Lieberman's head dislodges from the deep confines of Bush's ass and, with mental faculties suddenly reclaimed, Lieberman decides to skeedadle right into retirement. I could go on with much invective, but I'll leave that to Dean and the other Dems. Shame on you, Lieberman. Tool.

And now for another tool: The perky blonde who swiped my gym card at 24 Hour Fitness in Springfield. We'll call her "Carly." I was having such a great day too, when Carly messed it all up leaving me seething on the treadmill and growling during my sit-ups. What did Carly do, you ask? Well, it wasn't so much as what she did, but what she didn't do. See, as I approached the double doors, I was greeted by a very cute African American guy, another gym goer, who smiled as he opened the door for me. I love those chivalry-is-not-dead moments so I was kinda giddy when I reached the front desk and nearly walked right into the nice man's back. You see, normally it all works so seamlessly. 24 Hour Fitness is like a great conveyer belt: You glide through the double doors, the person at the front desk greets you as though you were an old friend, some smiling employee takes your membership card and swipes it and before you can say "free weights" your card is back in your hot little hands and you haven't had to break your stride. It's that quick. But Carly had to go and ruin the whole rhythm. Carly swiped cute Black guy's card and then asked for his driver's license. While the guy fished his ID out of his wallet, I noticed the handwritten sign that said something like "Members must have the following: Membership card, ID, and towel." I didn't have my ID on me, nor have I ever had to flash it. Luckily, the nice African American guy brought his. Carly wished him a great day, he walked on by to the floor and all seemed fine with the world. And now dear reader, you may be suspicious of me--why am I caught up in the fact that he's Black? What's up with that anyway? Am I a racist tool? No, I'm not, but Carly is. You know why? Because Carly, a woman I've never seen before and so has no cause to know who I am, never asked me for my ID. Black guy gets carded, freckled white girl of northern European descent, nope. I'm thinking Carly is a racist tool. And frankly, I'm wondering what other racist tools abound in Springfield's 24 Hour Fitness. Is it policy to card the Black guys and leave the white girls alone? Never before have I thought that Springfield is deserving of the crass nickname "Springtucky." Carly has made me a believer.

The Mormons are coming, the Mormons are coming!



Two nicely dressed, fresh-faced young men showed up on my stoop the other morning. I saw them coming, jumped out of my chair, adjusted my bra-less self and swung the door open. “You’re here about God right?” I asked. The dark haired one smiled and the freckled blonde shuffled his feet uncomfortably, unable to look at me. “We’re here on Mission, but you probably already know that.” I nodded. I could tell the dark haired one was in charge . . . and observant enough to know he probably wasn’t converting anyone in our house. “Well I’m not really into God” I offered, “But I’m spiritual.” I squinted as I said this and placed my hands firmly on my hips. My tone of voice was solid, matter of fact. Why is it whenever I run into obviously religious folks I feel the need to justify my religiosity or lack thereof? Dark haired boy paused to assess the situation—would he make his pitch, hand over some literature or just bolt? Freckle boy had already given up and was backing his way down the stairs. Then I felt a presence at my knee. B was making “shoosh, shoosh” noises while pushing a large broom out towards the door. We all stopped to watch—it was a nice moment. “Broom” he said, peering up at the dark haired guy. I thought I should explain: “See, B here is a witch. At night he likes to ride on his broom and practice his pagan rituals. Later we’re going to do some ritual animal sacrifice.” Dark haired guy smiled a real, toothy smile. I grinned back. Without words, we had mutually agreed that our conversation had come to an end. I could hear the floorboards creaking loudly as my husband approached from behind me, “Honey, what are you doing?” His tone was a bit accusatory. Without having heard any of this, Corey had decided I was messing with the poor boys. But he was too late. The dark haired one was waving goodbye and B’s “shoosh, shoosh” and “broom brooooom”s reverberating out to the sidewalk and down the street as my two young visitors soldiered on.