While planning my annual Mother's Day weekend (as I have stated before, now that I have three children, it requires two days of celebration), I realized I have nothing to wear for my night on the town with some of my mom pals. Since track pants and a t-shirt really won't cut it, and most of my dressier clothes are from the winter, I began to do some online research to make my shopping trip with Little Man the next day as short and successful as possible (shopping for evening wear with a toddler who will fling grapes from the stroller, while repeatedly shouting his new favorite word, "nose", simultaneously poking himself in the eye, the entire time is yet more evidence as to why it is Mother's Days in my house).
I found some really cute tops and showed them to H to get his opinion. Why, I have no idea, since I would not be wearing the top in his presence and you all remember how well it worked out the last time I asked his sartorial advice. His response? "You're not wearing that without me." Whaaaat? Let me elaborate here - the top I showed him was a flowy, one-shouldered number, not a tube top. After a few minutes debate which ended with my giving him a big, fat "Whatever", he went to walk the dog. Upon his return I showed him an alternative - a wrap dress in a very muted zebra print. "Hell's to-the-no." Again, whaaaat? I would be more covered! It had long sleeves for Christ's sake! "You are not wearing anything animal print while I'm not around. Especially in a bar."
So the debate continues with my assuring H that I am a little long in the tooth for any guys to be checking me out and I give off a seriously "married" vibe anyway. He tells me I have no idea how men's minds work and that there are definitely men, even in my regular comings and goings who check me out, unbeknownst to me. Given the men I interact with on a daily basis I am skeptical. "Oh yeah", I tell him, "Mobin's giving the baby free munchkins is really just a ploy to get in my pants."
I must confess, these reactions did make me feel good. First, my husband would be ferociously jealous if another man hit on me - after almost twenty years together you gotta love that - and, second, he still thinks I'm Stacy's Mom enough for that to be a possibility. However wrong I think he is, I'll take the compliment.
So in the end I bought the top, and an alternative one, not because I need H's OK, but because I'm not sure which one I like best. No matter what I wear though, It will be accompanied by a smile knowing while I'm out there's a guy home in New Jersey who, after two decades and more than a little aging, still thinks I'm hot.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Open letter to the mall kiosk vendors...
Dear Sirs and Madams,
I am writing in reference to our recent interactions this Friday afternoon at the Garden State Plaza Mall. Let me begin by acknowledging that you have a very difficult job, sitting out there among the mall foot traffic trying to hawk your wares to passersby, most of whom are either there to totally check out the guy who sits behind them in bio and usually have no money, or others who are too busy trying to quickly maneuver around the first group in order to get their shopping done and get out of this hell hole of commerce with their sanity intact.
I am in the latter group.
To the lovely Isreali man selling Dead Sea beauty products, no, I do not have time to stop and try your hand cream no matter how beautiful you tell me I am (and let us not discuss the falsity of this statement in my current state). My hands do not look like this because I am using the wrong hand cream, it is because they spend so much time submerged in a sink full of dirty dishes, bathing children and wiping asses, I have no time to use any product at all. Even if it is FULL OF NUTRIENTS!
To you hair-straightener-lady, no, I do not want you to tame my hair with your ionic, ceramic, miracle straightener. My hair is not in a ponytail because I haven’t found the right styling tool, it’s because I have three children. The fact that my husband claims he would tell me to my face I was ugly should I cut my hair is the only thing preventing me from chopping it off entirely. Also, I haven’t washed my hair in three days and if I remove the elastic holding up said pony it might actually just remain in that configuration and I would die of shame.
And you, child modeling agency workers, dressed in your Express black suits, puh-lease. First of all, I live in the area and frequent this mall quite often, and have been dodging you guys for years, so the thrill of having a complete stranger tell me my daughters have beautiful eyes and my son has such a great smile wore off six years ago (no matter how true those claims might be). Also, I just saw you proposition the mother of the kid with the hare-lip and wall-eye over there so your credibility is pretty much in the crapper.
Lastly, Verizon guy. Yes, I have a cell phone. In fact, I have a Blackberry that, unfortunately, my son is using as a chew toy, otherwise, I would have clamped it to my ear thirty feet back to have a very spirited pretend discussion with no one at all in order to prevent you from trying to engage me in a sales pitch.
My last and most important point to all of you, my friends, is to be more discerning about whom you solicit. I know your job is boring and frustrating and you work for commission, but seriously, is a mother with three children under seven, two of whom she is physically dragging along while the other is crying and trying to extricate himself from the restraints in his stroller, really the ideal mark?
So let’s come to an agreement. When I am alone, feel free to pitch away and, perhaps, one day I will actually buy something (but not one of those creepy clips with the fake hair on them – you can just leave me alone). And when I am with my offspring, let’s look at each other with beleaguered smiles and leave it at that, because even though you are the only one getting paid, we are both at work. And how would you like it if I tried to sell you a neck pillow right now?
I am writing in reference to our recent interactions this Friday afternoon at the Garden State Plaza Mall. Let me begin by acknowledging that you have a very difficult job, sitting out there among the mall foot traffic trying to hawk your wares to passersby, most of whom are either there to totally check out the guy who sits behind them in bio and usually have no money, or others who are too busy trying to quickly maneuver around the first group in order to get their shopping done and get out of this hell hole of commerce with their sanity intact.
I am in the latter group.
To the lovely Isreali man selling Dead Sea beauty products, no, I do not have time to stop and try your hand cream no matter how beautiful you tell me I am (and let us not discuss the falsity of this statement in my current state). My hands do not look like this because I am using the wrong hand cream, it is because they spend so much time submerged in a sink full of dirty dishes, bathing children and wiping asses, I have no time to use any product at all. Even if it is FULL OF NUTRIENTS!
To you hair-straightener-lady, no, I do not want you to tame my hair with your ionic, ceramic, miracle straightener. My hair is not in a ponytail because I haven’t found the right styling tool, it’s because I have three children. The fact that my husband claims he would tell me to my face I was ugly should I cut my hair is the only thing preventing me from chopping it off entirely. Also, I haven’t washed my hair in three days and if I remove the elastic holding up said pony it might actually just remain in that configuration and I would die of shame.
And you, child modeling agency workers, dressed in your Express black suits, puh-lease. First of all, I live in the area and frequent this mall quite often, and have been dodging you guys for years, so the thrill of having a complete stranger tell me my daughters have beautiful eyes and my son has such a great smile wore off six years ago (no matter how true those claims might be). Also, I just saw you proposition the mother of the kid with the hare-lip and wall-eye over there so your credibility is pretty much in the crapper.
Lastly, Verizon guy. Yes, I have a cell phone. In fact, I have a Blackberry that, unfortunately, my son is using as a chew toy, otherwise, I would have clamped it to my ear thirty feet back to have a very spirited pretend discussion with no one at all in order to prevent you from trying to engage me in a sales pitch.
My last and most important point to all of you, my friends, is to be more discerning about whom you solicit. I know your job is boring and frustrating and you work for commission, but seriously, is a mother with three children under seven, two of whom she is physically dragging along while the other is crying and trying to extricate himself from the restraints in his stroller, really the ideal mark?
So let’s come to an agreement. When I am alone, feel free to pitch away and, perhaps, one day I will actually buy something (but not one of those creepy clips with the fake hair on them – you can just leave me alone). And when I am with my offspring, let’s look at each other with beleaguered smiles and leave it at that, because even though you are the only one getting paid, we are both at work. And how would you like it if I tried to sell you a neck pillow right now?
Saturday, May 2, 2009
If I Were a Boy, Part Deux
Even though I covered the topic pretty thoroughly a while back, I am still astounded, despite my best efforts, by my inability to fucking relax. Right now it is beautiful Saturday afternoon, the baby is asleep, H has taken the girls to swim lessons, and what was I doing up until two minutes ago? Orbiting around the house like a damn lunatic picking up toys, cleaning up from lunch, and starting to put a grocery list together in my head.
Screeeeeeeeech! (Sound of record scratching)
Then I realized what H would be doing right now were he in my shoes. His ass would be parked on the couch with the Yankees on, while he simultaneously surfed the web for Super Paper Mario cheat codes. So why the hell am I acting like June Cleaver on speed? It is this behavior exactly that turns women into exhausted, overtired shrews who snap at their children and husbands, who have done nothing wrong, simply because they are too dumb to stop and be damn still when they have the chance.
So hear I am, dear readers, on the couch writing, although sports are not on the tube. The Yankees can not hold a candle to the powerful combination of my BFF Sandra Bullock, a pre-botox, still-redhaired Nicole Kidman, Stockard-freakin'-Channing and modern day witchcraft in the classic Practical Magic.
I am learning.
Screeeeeeeeech! (Sound of record scratching)
Then I realized what H would be doing right now were he in my shoes. His ass would be parked on the couch with the Yankees on, while he simultaneously surfed the web for Super Paper Mario cheat codes. So why the hell am I acting like June Cleaver on speed? It is this behavior exactly that turns women into exhausted, overtired shrews who snap at their children and husbands, who have done nothing wrong, simply because they are too dumb to stop and be damn still when they have the chance.
So hear I am, dear readers, on the couch writing, although sports are not on the tube. The Yankees can not hold a candle to the powerful combination of my BFF Sandra Bullock, a pre-botox, still-redhaired Nicole Kidman, Stockard-freakin'-Channing and modern day witchcraft in the classic Practical Magic.
I am learning.
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