Ugh. Or should I say Uggs?

So remember the quippy comment I made a few weeks ago about the gal sitting next to me on the flight to Disney? Well guess what #1 asked me for this week. Yup, a pair of Uggs. Here we go...

As you know, I do not think Uggs are attractive, nor can I understand the fact that they cost as much as my Christmas shoes, when they essentially look like wads of shearling wrapped around one's feet and calves. But here in New Town, as in most suburban towns, Uggs are part of the girl-living-in-suburbs uniform, worn with an oversized shirt and either skinny jeans or leggings. I had avoided the situtaion all together by steering my eldest away from the display of knock-off Uggs at the Skechers store. Those, while less expensive, were even more hideous, with their fake Ed Hardy embellishments and light-up soles. They're like Uggs in Vegas. Alas, my efforts could not over come the subtle daily influence of every female between the ages of eight and forty-eight sporting a pair (Uggs on anyone over the age of 40? Please see "Trying to Hard"). So Monday night, while I was making dinner she asks, in the sweetest, quietest voice, "Do you think I could get a pair of Uggs?"

I realized at that moment I was, yet again, going to have to let her express herself sartorially in a manner with which I did not agree, nor was it inappropriate in anyway, giving me an easy out, as with miniskirts. What I now had to struggle with was whether to get her the real deal or a pair of knockoffs. My daughter went on the explain her best friend has a fake pair and that would be totally fine with her. What to do, what to do.

I am all about knockoffs. My Tory Burch purse is a knockoff purchased at the preschool bazaar (apparently, counterfeit goods are a great way to make money for education), and the Christmas shoes of which I speak are basically fake Manolos. So I have no issue with buying things pretending they are the real McCoy. And did I really want to spend three times what I would normally, for a pair of boots that wouldn't fit next winter?

Texting H, for his opinion was useless since he just shot back, "Get them", not going through the emotional acrobatics I was. He did not ask himself, for instance, what are we teaching our child about the value of money, buying an item for which a more reasonably priced substitute could be obtained? Were we already raising expectations for brand name items at such a young age? Were we supporting the herd mentality?

So I called my resident expert, S, who has a twelve year-old. She reminded me of Dr. Spock's wise words, that part of childhood is wanting to fit in to some degree. So that assuaged my fears about the herd part. It was not a terrible thing to let my kid fit in about something so benign, knowing I have the cell phone, Facebook, curfew debates ahead of me. S also reminded me that my eldest sees me enjoy nice things, especially shoes, so how could some of that not rub off? Good point. Now what about the money?

Talking it over with H that night, he basically asked me if he's working hard so we can have nice things, doesn't this sort of qualify? And as for Uggs being the gateway drug to designer clothes, he reminded me that we simply wouldn't let that happen. You can have Uggs, but you will still get your jeans at the Gap, and your way too sparkly t-shirts at Children's Place, thank you very much. H is also what one would call a "quality consumer". He would rather wait and save his money to buy the house, car, or gigantic TV he wants, than have one of inferior quality we're just going to be marginally satisfied with and wind up replacing down the road anyway. He reminded me of his favorite shopping maxim, you get what you pay for. Not having done a side-by-side comparison of Uggs and knock0ffs, I hoped this theory as applied to sheepskin footwear.

So in the end I ordered them, and Zappos had them at our door the next day (love that!). I left them in her bed and when she got home, told her her room was a mess and she needed to do something about it. I have to admit the squealing I heard from her room, followed by the thundering down the stairs and knock-me-over hug was pretty gratifying. Later that night, we sat on the couch and she and I talked about what a special treat they were and how she had to take care of them. We also talked about bragging and name brands and how to brush it off if someone asked her if they were "real". About how it's not what you wear, but who you are that counts.

All of this caused by a pair of boots. I never expected so many little parenting interactions and decisions to be so loaded. But then again, nothing about parenthood is exactly what I expected. I did, however, expect my daughters would appreciate good shoes. Damn, they still are ugly though.

Good Will Dating...

Dear Matt Damon, and Ben Affleck,

I am writing to publicly shame you for the disservice you have done to women all along the Eastern seaboard. After watching The Town last night, I must call you out for creating an urban myth so suddenly pervasive, it is causing single, educated women anywhere in the vicinity of Boston, to seek out any good-looking man in his twenties, wearing an Adidas track suit, a Red Sox cap or a Notre Dame Fighting Irish leprechaun tattoo - preferably all three. I am talking about the mythical creature that is the brooding, yet sensitive, Southie Man..

Matt and Ben, you started it all way back in 1997, with Good Will Hunting, by creating the character Will, an emotionally tortured genius struggling with his identity. Is he a Harvard-level scholar, or is he a knuckle-head who sits around hole-in-the-wall bars watching Bruins games? Oh, and he's cute and has washboard abs. We all swooned as he courted snobbish Minne Driver. Ben, you kept it going in The Town, having shaved of more than few pounds (I'm sure because my totally in shape BFF Jennifer shamed your ass onto the treadmill), and looking quite good, to play a bank robber from Charlestown who is so sensitive, he falls in love with the woman he and his cronies kidnapped during a robbery. It seems the panties of intelligent, socially conscious women drop like empty beer cups at a Sox game around this particular species of man.

This mythical creature is akin to the one created by the likes of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Could this person exist? Sure, there are plenty of extremely attractive, drug-free hookers who will only kiss men they love - I'm sure if Julia hadn't met Richard Gere she would've just started charging extra for that service later down the road - but is it the rule rather than the exception? I don't think so. But Prius-driving, liberal arts-college-attending women everywhere hold out hope after dating overly-polite, conflict-averse men who are in touch with their feelings who they met in their Gender Studies class, that somewhere there is a hot, wicked-smaaaaht Southie , who just chooses to work in construction, and is so adorably jealous and masculine, he will sweep them off their feet by threatening to beat the shit out of that guy who keeps trying to friend her on Facebook (see photo). This myth is so pervasive, so common, one douchebag I met in a Boston bar actually told me he was from Lowell with the same you-are-totally-going-home-with-me swagger as if he had told me he drove a Ferrari.

So thanks for nothing, Matt and Ben. I'd throw your cronie Mark Wahlberg into the mix, but our sitter canceled and we didn't get to see The Fighter. He might get a pass though, since his character's romantic interest is a tough-talking, hard-drinking, fist-throwing redhead from the same neighborhood*. You two are off living your lovely lives, with your wives and kids, having poisoned the minds of young women everywhere. You owe it to the world to make a movie in which one of these romances results in marriage. We need to watch these tough guys chafe under the yoke of domesticity, arguing over the fact that a track suit is not, in fact, appropriate attire for Back to School Night in Newton, where the well-heeled girlfriend-turned-wife will insist they live, and hitting kid with a belt is not "tough love". She will question what the hell was really so wrong with that writer who sent her poetry who worked in the coffee shop and he will spend his Saturdays screaming, "Will you shut up? The Sawks are on!"

What do you think? Coming to theaters in 2012?

Love,
MM

*Upon seeing the porch-fight scene involving the girlfriend's (wife's?) family, H turns to me and say, "Look, it's your family!" Smartass.

Welcome to The Mom-i-day Inn

SCREEEEEECH!

That was the sound of the van tires as I finally, finally, dropped all three kids off at school for the first time in five days. Between #1’s sore throat that kept her home Monday, Little Man’s double ear infection, and yesterday’s ice storm, I have had at least one of my offspring around me pretty constantly, asking either for juice or to play Wii, for the past three days.

Today being Thursday, S is was with LM so I could go to the gynecologist in the morning. It was my annual appointment, and after passing nine pounds of human out of my lady bits, an internal exam* seems like a manicure, so it wasn’t anything to stress about. I did leave feeling old this year though, having been given instructions to begin taking baby aspirin every day to prevent a stroke, since I have migraines accompanied by aura (which basically means, I go blind in one eye when I get one - very convenient when caring for kids), and a prescription for my first mammogram. H almost blew my ear off, calling to respond to my text, informing him of the new method of medical torture I would have to endure, asking, ‘YOU HAVE TO GET A WHAAAT?”, thinking I had found a lump.

Sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting to have our I-just-had-my-hand-up-your-vagina recap, I noticed all the pamphlets for laser hair removal and spider vein treatment. It seems all doctors these days are trying to horn in on what was once the territory of plastic surgeons and dermatologists and trying to get time-strapped patients to take care of that pesky mustache while getting their annual Pap smear. This got me thinking about two more combo businesses I have come up with lately.

You all already know of my dream, bookstore-wine shop-bakery, but during my massage at Disney, I came up with another idea. For those of you who have had a massage, you are familiar with the feeling afterward, when they tell you to “get up slowly from the table”, and you wipe the drool off your lower lip, blinking, even in the dimmed light. By the way, am I the only one who almost drools on the floor when she’s lying face down during a massage? True, I am a bit of a mouth breather when asleep, but I can not be the only one who has had to suck a string of saliva back up in to my mouth to prevent It plopping onto the toe of my masseuse.

Anyway, the masseuse meets you in the hallway with a cup of water and you are so out of it, you sort of bumble along next to her, back to the locker room, trying not to walk into the walls. You try to remember the combination to the locker, or remember where you put the dumb key on a rope thing, then fight your way back into your clothes as, no matter how long your post-massage shower, your oily skin makes sticking your arm back into your shirt like trying to fit a sausage into its casing. Clothes on, valuables collected, you are thrust back into the harsh light of day to face the world. Yuck.

My business combines a spa with a clean, luxurious, no-hookers allowed, by-the-hour hotel. Instead of having to join the real world right away, you can pay a hundred bucks for two hours in a hotel room with a king-sized bed with high-end linens and a bathroom with a giant tub. Let’s face it, the only thing one is equipped to do after a massage, is sleep, so why not make a profit? You can also get gourmet room service to end your day with some good food and a bottle of champagne. Genius!

My other idea is not so much a combination of businesses, but does require your booking a separate service, so it applies. Here’s the idea. Those of us with small children know how exhausted we are come the weekend. We need a few hours with no one asking us to put on another episode of Team Umizoomi, so we book a sitter and plan a night out with our spouse. Problem is, we parents are so tired, we don’t always want to go out and get dressed up and stay up late. Sometimes we want to sit on our couch and watch TV, unmolested, in the middle of the day. Or, as is the case with H, some crazy people find cooking relaxing, and want to cook a meal in their own homes without little bodies crawling up your leg.

My business idea is yet another hotel, but these are all beautiful apartments with gourmet kitchens, intimate dining rooms (to prevent people from using them for big parties and screwing up the nights of other guests), and living rooms with crazy entertainment centers and giant, comfy couches. These hotels are meant to be like your home, but better, cleaner, quieter, and totally devoid of toys. So book a sitter and leave your house so you can cook, watch TV, take a long shower (with shaving your legs and everything) or nap in a home-like environment. You can rent by the hour (again, no hookers please!), or by the day.

So who’s ready to invest? I think it’s sort of sad that none of my business ideas involve anything ambitious, like global finance, or meaningful, like education, but center instead around books, booze, sweets and sleep. But necessity if the mother of invention and, currently, I am lacking regular access to all those things that I consider necessities.

*Which is made exceptionally awkward by the fact my gynecologist looks exactly like Greg Kinnear and listens with such intensity, I swear to God, he is looking into my soul. Ask H, even he agrees the guy is dreamy. Dr. E is the only other man I shave my legs and armpits for.