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.