Working Girl

I managed to escape the house for a few hours yesterday and go see the new Rachel McAdam's vehicle Morning Glory. I know, I know, total garbage, but sometimes I need to go see something mindless with pretty clothes on the big screen. And while I don't particularly love Rachel McAdams, and did not see her breakout performance in The Notebook, based on the book by Nicholas Sparks, who is to writing what Thomas Kinkade is to painting, because I wasn't either a fourteen year-old girl or a middle-aged woman trapped in a loveless marriage looking for a dose of romance, Morning Glory did have the allure of Harrison Ford, who unfortunately wound up reprising his role as good-looking curmudgeon, of which I am growing tired. Dear Harry, being back the Han Solo smart-assness please. Love, Mean Mommy.

The movie centers around McAdams as a young television producer and her efforts to climb to the top. There was the standard romance component and a lovely cameo by Ty Burrell from Modern Family, and I have new running song courtesy of the soundtrack ("Strip Me" be Natasha Beddingfield the reigning expert of inspirational songs for soccer moms), but what stuck with me after the film ended was just how much I really, really miss working sometimes.

Wait, wait, this is not going to be another why-am-I-at-home-when-I-have-master's-degree rant. My life is so busy now, I think any nanny I tried to hire would walk away laughing if I offered her anything but my entire paltry teacher's salary to deal with all this nonsense. And wathcing H trudge off to work in a bad mood this Monday morning, meetings galore in front of him, I again appreciated my ability to make my own schedule. No, what I miss is all the non-working stuff related to working. In no particular order I miss:

Getting dressed in the morning. This movie was full of cute skirt suits and jazzy heels, smart, long-legged trousers and tailored blouses. I can't remember the last time I wore anything on a weekday that was dry clean only or that was not peanut butter-proof. Getting to dress for style, rather than functionality is something I miss desperately. Oh, nothing beats that feeling of stepping out the door on a sunny day, hair freshly blown out, coffee in hand, wearing a cute outfit, on the way to work. Makes you want to stand on a street corner and throw your kicky beret in the air.

Lunch. What am I in the mood for? Where should I go? Wanna go to lunch? Oh, I miss such questions. To have choices and takeout establishments and restaurants at which to make them seems like a dream, when it used to be my reality five days a week. Instead, most days I find myself forlornly looking into the freezer to see that over the weekend H has eaten the one good Lean Cuisine panini that was left, even though he can have whatever the hell he wants for lunch Monday through Friday (how he thinks he even gets a vote when we have takeout is laughable, but he is so annoyingly picky about it, it's like living with a fifteen year-old girl, and I just relent and let him get what he wants). And never mind having someone to eat with. I either eat with the kids, whose constant requests for more juice, which will then be spilled all over the table, or scarf down my lunch standing at the kitchen counter, after having forgotten to eat all day, moments before picking the kids up. And don't even get me started about being able to get coffee when you need it.

Work friends. As I have said before, I consider a lot of the moms I interact with to be "work friends", enjoying a little witty banter at drop-off and pick-up, but there is a different tenor to these conversations than there was when I was actually speaking to a colleague years ago. Parenting is very personal and we all make different choices, and someone giving you, unwanted, negative feedback on the way you're potty-training your kid can ruin your whole day.

I have also discussed those women and men who move past "work friend" status and become actual friends and you meet without your kids and occasionally with your spouses, and I miss having frequent 9-5 interaction with these few. I also noticed, watching McAdams chat with a fellow producer who was male, that for most of my life I have had a "work husband", having gotten along well platonically with men, especially when I needed some perspective on the emotional chow-chow some women insist on constantly participating in. While I do currently have one (shout out, A), again, we don't get to really hang out all that much.

I miss joking around about nonsense with a colleague, I miss adult conversation that does not involve discussing bowel movements.

Commuting. Oh, to have an hour and a half each day to read, listen to music or to stare blissfully unmolested into space would be heaven. Yeah, yeah, H, I know you do work on the train and you have practically worn the letters off your Blackberry to prove it, but you did manage to watch two seasons of Mad Men and read a couple of books, so I wouldn't beat the Working Commute drum too loudly. Oh, and the fact that commuting means you actually get to levee work, rather than living there, as I do, is a perk I miss considerably.

Yes, I know I am lucky to be home with the kids and, yes, I know working sucks a lot of the time, but everyone has to admit these things are the definite perks of being employed outside of the home. The moments when you don't actively despise working. That and, you know, pay day.