Schmogiversary

Some words make me cringe: Prezzies. Panties. Hubby and all its derivations: Hubs, the Hubs, the Hubster. It's the inner William Safire in me, (the grammarian William Safire, not the Republican mouthpiece William Safire) or maybe just the fact that I'm an anal-retentive Virgo who likes real words just fine enough--which, I know, doesn't really explain my distaste for panties. It just sounds porny.

Ugh, I hate the word porny.

Above all, I really don't like the word Blogiversary, despite the fact that far better people than I are using it. Maybe because it seems like an outdated Friends reference, or maybe just because I'm weird.

But that seems to be the word we're saddled with and so, I take a deep breath and say,

This week is my blogiversary.

Yes, it's been one whole solar calendar year since my first confession, despite the date stamp on my very first posts which might lead you to believe that it's been one year and a couple of days. I wrote that "first" post a day later then backdated it. Then I wrote the backstory and backdated that before the first one. Pathetic, huh? What can I say, it doubled my archives at the time.

One year ago, I didn't really know what a blog was. I thought html was pronounced "hatemail." I certainly didn't think I'd still be here today, not with actual readers and advertisers and writing opportunities and blog friends, and certainly not with so many blogfriends turned flesh-and-blood friends. And certainly not with so many lame-o press releases from behemoth PR companies showing up in my in-box weekly. Hey Mom101, love your blog! Do you want to talk about our new Splenda-filled pudding packs on your site? It will be a GREAT fit with your content! Don't you always talk about giving your 19 month old daughter chemicals to snack on? Plus, in return, we'll send you THREE twenty-five cents off coupons.

And lord knows I never thought I'd have a second blog that would slowly turn into an actual business with a real business partner and super committed writers and (gulp) an accountant. How did that happen?

So I'd like to take this opportunity, this blogi-[mumble mumble] to pay it forward.

I'd like to acknowledge my very first person-who-didn't-know-me commenter, a guy named Freethinker. I don't know much about him except that he must have hit "next blog" at the top of the blogger randomizer and come across mine, and he in his infinite mercy and kindness left me a comment. Here. In my bad haiku post. You can still see it.

So how did I respond?

I didn't.

I clicked over to his blog and wow, he was very popular. I think he had nine comments that day. He knew how to post photos. He had a blogroll! I was intimidated. And maybe a little freaked out, as the realization struck that anyone could read what I wrote here, not just my mother and Nate's sisters and Hally.

I did not comment back.

To this day, I'm kicking myself for it.

And so, if you have ever enjoyed anything here at Mom101, I ask that you help me right a wrong, do penance for the ultimate blogging sin. In honor of my [that one year thing with the word I hate], mosey on over to FreeThoughtGuy and just say yo...

Because I think he's a really really nice guy. And nice guys deserve a million comments every single day.

Maybe next week I'll honor my first troll.

All sarcasm aside, thanks for being here. Thanks for reading, thanks for supporting, and above all, thanks for keeping me writing.

It means everything.

Stand-Off at Starbucks

In my current state, I knew I could not survive the 50 mile drive home from my mother's house yesterday without something sweet. And unfortunately, any viable options were not to be found in their usual spot at the bottom of my Longchamps tote, thanks to the evil cat. She has a $3 a day Zone Bar habit, the wretched beast, and in the absence of one in my bag at 3 am when the urge seems to strike her, she'll settle for anything high-caloric in there. Every morning I wake to a half-gnawed, cat saliva-coated piece of something formerly edible strewn about the house. Every morning I wake to Nate just telling me to remember to zip up my damn bag at night, already.

I knew there was a Starbucks along routhe 9A and so I figured I could make do with a Rice Krispy bar and a mocha decaf something-or-other. (I'm not an efficient Starbucks orderer. They always correct me for asking for the drink before the decaf part, then roll their eyes when I tell them I want it "in whatever size the medium is called." Stuff it, baristas. You know it's a medium, I know it's a medium, so just give me the damn thing in the medium cup and spare me the attitude.)

I glanced back at Thalia who was just starting to doze off in the soothing light of dusk and I found myself faced with a dilemma: Do I leave her in the car right in front of the (safe, suburban) Starbucks for a moment or do I rouse her, unstrap her, and drag her inside for the two minutes it will take to secure some sugary substinence?

These are not customary issues that NYC moms grapple with; we're more likely to debate whether we leave the baby in the apartment for five minutes while we race down to the basement to dump another load in the washer. The car conundrum was new to me.

About a mile away from the coffee shop, the decision actually started to stress me out in a way that should be limited to the SATs and felony trials. Reasonable, Laid-Back Me knew that if I left Thalia in the car for all of 120 seconds she'd be totally fine. I could park right in front of the entrance so I could see the car at all times. I could even wait to go in until I was sure there was no one else on line. It was sooooo not a big deal.

But then Anxious, Mommy Me weighed in rather strongly with the opinion that Reasonable, Laid-Back Me was absolutely insane.

"Why risk it?" she said, before bitch-slapping her adversary into submission.

Why risk what, exactly? That Thalia might somehow, miraculously learn how to undo her 5-point car seat harness, leap into the front seat and hotwire the car? Suddenly break into a life-threatening rash that I could have prevented had I noticed it within the first 12 seconds of its initial appearance? Bum a cigarette from a passer-by? Surely there was some risk involved here, even if I was hard-pressed to name it just yet.

And then, there was a third voice that caught me by surprise.

This one asked not, "what if something goes wrong?" but, "what if you get caught?"

As if a cop might happen by and arrest me for child neglect. As if the paparazzi hangs out in the bushes around quiet Hudson Valley area strip malls just waiting for evidence of Britney-esque parenting to splash across the pages of Dumbasses Weekly.

Even so, even the most remote possibility of facing the negative judgment of peers, parents, bystanders--the press--was compelling. Very compelling. As I sat in the idling car, weighing my options just feet away from that blessed coffee counter, I envisioned message board chatter, blog talk, the New York Post for goodness sake: PREGNANT YUPPIE ABANDONS INFANT FOR STARBUCKS FIX. They'd have more sympathy were I a crack mom running inside the welfare office to grab my check.

Oh yes, were I to leave Thalia in the car for a moment, surely my life as I know it would end.

And so I took her inside.

And I was annoyed at myself the entire time.

What kind of world are we living in where we parent by looking over our shoulders, more afraid of the judgments of others than any actual harm that may come to our children? The cocktail playgroup non-controversy, the sanctimommies, the uber-boobers versus formula feeders--it's all too much to bear at times.

I want to say I don't care what people think, but I'd be lying. Even as I roll my eyes at the germaphobes, ignore the city-haters, dismiss the Dr. Sears disciples who show up here from time to time to condemn my choice to help my daughter get a decent night's sleep, their comments haunt the back of my mind every so often. I want people to think I'm a decent mother. I want people to smile at my well-behaved toddler in a restaurant and decide that its the result of good parenting. Despite my tagline, I want people to think I know what I'm doing. At least to my face.

It's been said that we mothers are often our own worst critics. Are we? Or are we just trying to beat everyone else to the punch?

Sharing the Love

Just because I've had the damn thing stuck in my head for two straight weeks...

Wonder pets, wonder pets we're on our way
To help a baby elephant and save the day
We're not too big and we're not too tough
But when we work together, we've got the right stuff!

Almost makes you long for the days you just got Britney Spears lyrics stuck in your head, doesn't it.

Picking The Right Long Distance Plan Suddenly Has New Meaning

Actual Vonage Customers

Actual close-up of Vonage customers

Am I the only one who notices these kinds of things? Or, better question: Am I the only one who bothers to pause the tv, get the camera, rewind, and take photos of these things?

Notes from the Bleeding Heart Liberal Capitalist Pig

Yesterday I had the energy to read about two blog posts, and I'm glad that one of them was from Meaghan at My Dog Harriet. I had the pleasure of meeting Meaghan at the BlogHer conference last summer. She’s smart, articulate, and cool, so it's not surprising that she wrote a very compelling essay in response to a Minneapolis Star Tribune article (a paper which has amazingly crappy archives - find it republished here instead) on marketing to children, that kept me reading even through my feverish haze.

This is less a retort (since I love so much of what she has to say) than my own take on the subject.

As an ad industry person myself (and Meghan's a sales and marketing pro herself), don’t think I’m about to give a pass to marketers. We judge each other most harshly, I assure you; you've never seen anything until you've watched a party filled with drunk advertising creatives rip apart every Super Bowl ad, overpriced second by second; or pull our hair out over the fact that there are people in the world who actually like that freaking Afflac duck. I can spot product placement in a reality show before most people have digested the opening credits and it makes me crazy. And I'm so skeptical of polluting my daughter's toy chest and mind with licensed characters, I was flamed on a message board during my pregnancy for asking why I couldn't just find diapers that didn't have TV characters on them.

So I admit we as a whole can be a shady and sometimes despicable bunch (See also: Bratz Dolls, cellulite creams, Armstrong Williams). But I'm not entirely sure the examples in the article make this one of those cases.

The crux of it is the notion that now automotive companies like Hummer and Honda are marketing to children with kid-friendly websites and cross-promotions . As Meaghan and I discussed in a subsequent email exchange, the fact is we’re probably appalled by the Hummer campaign less because they’re turning our 2 year olds into consumers (Wha-at? Kids want things? Why, when we were children we never asked for anything but rocks and twigs!) and more because we agree that Hummers offend us as a rule. After all, HotWheels and Matchbox have been cultivating car brand loyalty in the pre-driving set for years. But no one seems offended by that. We're just not conditioned to think of it in a nefarious way.

I can't help but allow my view of an advertiser to influence my view of their tactics. When Beaches or the Cayman Islands sponsors Sesame Street I think eh, kids on a beach. Not so bad. But when McDonald's runs a spot, I admit I judge the network a little more harshly for allowing the message through. Now what if it was instead an ad for healthy, delicious organic vegetables? Or the Peace Corps? Or an all-out effort to institutionalize National Make Your Mom Chocolate Chip Pancakes in Bed Day? Would we still judge the notion of advertising on PBS as harshly?

I wonder whether it's that we don't want our children to be consumers, or that we just want to dictate the kinds of consumers they can be.

For those of you who eschew all forms of marketing, own no television sets, manage your own food co-ops and spend your days teaching your children classic poetry and the magical tones of the pan flute, more power to you. Hope you create the perfect rash cream when that organic hemp layette you sew doesn’t work out too well.

But the vast majority of us, I believe, are reasonable people of moderation. We recognize that not all marketing is bad, not all products are evil, not every advertiser is out to steal our soul. It has its place in a functioning capitalist society and it behooves us to work with it--to figure out which messages are essential to challenge, and which are just little annoyance.

I admit, it bugs me to see easy knee-jerk reaction to a post like Meghan's along the lines of "the nerve of those evil, evil people at Honda!" When it comes down to it, is the notion of a safe, reasonably priced brand of family cars trying to get my toddler to like them over, say, a Toyota, the biggest of my concerns? Not so much.

Here’s what I’m thinking in terms of marketing outrage priorities:

1. Things that cause immediate physical harm to our children
Tobacco, drugs, violence, guns, war. Yes, war. I used to appreciate the post-punk kitch value of a pair of toddler-sized camos but now that people are actually dying again in them, I’m sticking with florals. The rest of the list: Primo importance. Anything else is a way distant second and a good way to keep the outrage in check over other media-related issues.

In other words, if you've got the time to write a letter to a marketer about something, consider it falling into this category.

By the way, I also think we should be incensed at the seafood industry for the lack of warning labels about mercury in fish. Guaranteed that it's going to affect more kids aversely over time than Hummers.

2. Things that, if not monitored, can cause long-term harm to our children
One of my biggest issues is companies like Coke (of whom I'm a dedicated consumer, by the way) placing vending machines around school halls because it’s the only way the school can fund their extra-curricular programs. It's product placement of the worst kind because it's totally under the radar. Fried fast food crap in the cafeteria – same deal.

It's the kind of marketing especially deserving of our attention because our children don’t even have a choice in the matter; where they do have a choice, they’re not in supervised environments where parents can help guide those decisions. But of course, it's among the hardest marketing tactics to be aware of, so accustomed are we to seeing these products in our daily lives.

Best solution? Get marketing out of our schools. Unfortunately, impossible now considering the lack of funding for most schools coupled with idiotic measures like NCLB.

3. Intolerance, hatred, racism, discrimination
These are the values that creep in a child's mind when you're least paying attention. Any evidence of it through marketing should be called out and shot to little bits. I still get crazy when I think about that ad for the Hook-Up on the N-Spot that I wrote about last year, an online game teaching tween girls to deceive and destroy one another for the sake of a guy.

Which brings me to...

4. Premature sexuality, a.k.a. self-esteem issues
The beauty industry, Laguna Beach, anorexic models, Barbies and their ilk, princesses as the end all be all--I do believe that a lot of these can be managed with parental involvement and the fostering of self-esteem at home. Let your kid (either sex will do) know that girls should be valued for more than their looks. It goes a long way.

Of course I do think we do need better role models than belly-baring pop stars and teens who spend more time in rehab than English class. But again, we as consumers and media gatekeepers have a lot of influence here. Don’t buy the Lindsay Lohan album for your kid, multiply that by millions of moms, and guess what – her next one will only be available in Germany.

4. Everything else
Not too long ago, a client of mine got hate mail from an angry viewer about a commercial featuring a jubilant if overweight mother running through a parade--the viewer was upset because the actress' boobs were big and shook while she ran and her 10 year old son commented on it.

File that one under People With too Much Time On Their Hands.

------

I know everyone has his or her own hotbutton issues when it comes to the media. No doubt my list is incomplete and could use some more thought and refining, and will conflict in some ways with your own. But I like the idea of moms taking the time to figure out their priorities, instead of simply shaking an angry fist at "marketers" every time the word appears next to the word "kids."

Besides, there's something to that whole united we stand thing.

If parents of the world somehow manage to put our minds and voices together towards the issues that really matter, I'd be excited to see the good that can come of it.

----
Edited to add: Somewhat anonymous reader ZMT makes the excellent point that what differentiates Hummers tactics from those of McDonald's, and thus makes them more infuriating, is that they're trying to manipulate children's preferences as a way of influencing their parents. My feeling: If your school-aged kids can influence your decision to buy a Hummer, you're more of a bonehead than the average Hummer driver, and that's saying something.

I believe it's more likely the company is trying to develop brand loyalty in children at an early age so that when they turn 16 they can ask for that Hummer "they've always wanted." Or...perhaps they simply want to make parents feel like it's a good family car--after all they care so goshdarn much about children. Just look at the fun word scramble on their kids' site!

Incubator Me

The only possible explanation for the last three days of my life is that miniature aliens have invaded my body, moved into my digestive system, hated the current decorating scheme, and as such, cleared everything out in the most expeditious way possible. Attention all lurking nourishment: Head towards the nearest available orifice immediately. You are no longer welcome. Hey you...teaspoon of water! Yeah, we see you hiding down there in that dark corner of the lower intestine. Out you go. And don't even think about coming back.

Oh I know this is shaping up to be simple faaaaascinating. The only thing people care less about than what you had for lunch is what you failed at having for lunch.

There's something incredibly humbling about being sick when you're pregnant, especially for those of us type A's who believe we can push through any obstacle, accomplish any bit of work if we just focus hard enough on it. And so, with laptop on shaky knees over the blanket in bed, as sweaty palms grease the bottom of the keyboard, I try my damndest to focus on the gibberish in front of me on the computer screen. And fail.

Suddenly that sense of pride and martyrdom I might have otherwise felt turns to regret as I realize this isn't just about me anymore. I have this 25 week old fetus (oh, so that's who's been knocking around my uterus these days), who needs me to get some sleep and some liquids into my system more than she needs me to crank out ad copy at this very minute.

And so I drop the laptop to the floor and resume shivering in bed, tormented, torn between the worker bee me and the incubator me.

Incubator me is hard. Even the second time around, it's hard.

If I'm the Pregnant One, How Come Everyone Else's IQ Seems to be Dropping?

I consider myself lucky. Mostly, so far, I have been spared the groping hands of strangers, the terrible unwanted advice, the annoying repetitive questions (when are you due/ do you want to know what you're having/ what is it/ do you have a name picked out/ so what are the contenders/ oh come on you can tell me/ I promise I won't tell anyone / what's your problem/ fine be that way) that every pregnant woman turns into her cache of war stories.

Perhaps this is a factor if it being the second pregnancy. Maybe there's something in my walk, in my poise, in my general aura that says, "got it down, now go away." Or maybe I've just been lucky.

But there is one question whose response seems to warrant retorts from people that are so beyond stupid, it's amazing: How old will Thalia be when the baby is born?

"They'll be 22 months apart."
"Wow, that's crazy."

"They'll be 22 months apart."
"Do you know what you're getting into?"

"They'll be 22 months apart."
"Wait until you see how much harder it is this time."

"They'll be 22 months apart."
"Mine are 2 years apart. It's a nightmare."

"They'll be 22 months apart."
"Well good luck. You'll need it."

"They'll be 22 months apart."
"Really? You planned it that way?"

Are people just senseless? Clueless? Socially retarded? Do they think that their need to express their own fears or difficulties somehow trumps my own need for reassurance and kindness right now? It's about ME, people! ME. You know, the anxious pregnant lady with the 18 month old in the stroller standing in front of you. Not you. Isn't there something positive to be said, some sort of optimistic comment about how close the kids will be, or how great it is to get all this pregnancy business over with, or how lucky I am to have milked the blessings of the fertility gods before hitting forty when they're far less cooperative--instead of jumping right to "you stupid fucking no-thinking breeder?"

Okay, no one's said that but it sure comes out that way.

Or maybe it's the hormones.

So I admit, there has been one other series of comments that stuck with me over the past week. They came from the mouth of my old friend (that's "friend") Single Childless 40-Something Coworker, that goldmine of clumsy quips and inadvertent insults, who I encountered once again on my business trip last week.

(Oh lord, please don't dooce me for this.)

"You don't look pregnant," she said to me accusingly when I first walked into the office.

Which means what? I normally have a huge distended belly? Boobs that enter the room five minutes before the rest of me? An ass just made for the new office's double-wide doorways? An overabundance of elastic in my wardrobe? Coats that won't button?

"I'm faking it," I responded. "You got me."

Ugh, there are easily ten better comebacks I could have mustered, but for some reason, I'm always dumbstruck in her presence.

I can only imagine it was a failed attempt to redeem herself the next day when she glanced up and down at my swollen figure and announced, "Oh you TOTALLY look pregnant today. MUCH bigger."

Par-tayyyyy! Whoooo!

The fine folks responsible for the best-selling series of Zagat surveys, in their infinite wisdom, have sent me an email asking whether I'd be interested in rating Los Angeles nightlife for their upcoming publication.

Uh, okay.

Now I can honestly say that if they are looking to reviewers like me to rank the Los Angeles hotspots I've attended in the past year's time, it will be a very thin volume indeed. To say nothing of the guide's credibility. The fact is, I'm currently a) pregnant b) not drinking (much) c) too old, pale, and plagued with cellulite to get in anywhere good in L.A. Plus? I still have my own nose. Doesn't this all automatically disqualify me from any sort of nightlife reviewer status?

Then again, Cindy Adams still does it and she's like 104.

Still, I'm happy to help where I can. And so, I give you the Mom-101 2007 Guide to Los Angeles Nightlife As I Know It.

Note: this is not an excerpt. This is the complete thing. Any publishers out there reading? Shoot me an email. I smell a best-seller.

The Airport Westin Lobby Bar
This high energy lobby bar is the spot of choice for commercial pilots "with wedding rings in pockets," uniformed soldiers "sucking down Jager," and old people in wheelchairs bogarting the free buffet. Loud, indistinguishable pop tunes compliment the "watered-down drinks." "Grab your laptop and a booth by the corner," make use of the "free wi-fi," and and avoid eye contact at all costs.

The Whiskey Bar at Sunset Marquis
"Fabulous," "trendinista" WeHo bar still going strong after all these years "if you ever get past the velvet ropes." Perfect for kicking back after a meeting, until 7pm when you head upstairs to for bed. Hot waitresses in "catsuits" reluctantly refill your free bowl of cheddar cheese goldfish while looking over your shoulder "for someone more important" to give your table to. "Shut up and drink your Chardonnay."

Room 303 of the Belamar Hotel
Basic cable, a queen size bed, and "arty" chihuaha photos complete this "luxury boutique hotel" standard room where you can party the night away in total peace and solitude. The drinks should be free if you complain enough about "the smell, that awful smell" permeating the hallways, but won't be. Porn selection "adequate," if "overpriced."

Aunt Fredda's living room
"Quaint Santa Monica townhouse" provides quiet respite from famous people and cliched Pacific Ocean views. Management "extremely welcoming." Wine is plentiful and conversation delightful--but "be prepared to leave covered in dog hair." "Bring a lint roller and try the hummus."

7th floor kitchen area of El Segundo-area ad agency
Oversize rustic picnic benches, exposed ductwork give this wide-open cement-floored kitchen area a "Flintstones meets Extreme Home Makeover, pre-makeover" feel. Food options limited to vending machine selections, non-dairy creamer, and occasional meeting leftovers: "Pray for CPK." Booze is permitted but strictly BYO. Bonus: Open all night.

Driver's seat of Hertz Rental Car
Bare bones environment enhanced by FM stereo, personal temperature controls. Raves about easy access to "fast food drive-thru windows along Sepulveda." Lack of social interaction with others major drawback so "don't forget your bluetooth headset." Leave your garbage on the floor--"they'll get it later."

----

Psst...feel free to stop over and wish Hally a very happy birthday. She knows Bono!

Excuse Me While I Gush

I'm staring at Thalia in her crib, just watching her sleep.

I don't even know how many minutes pass, although I could probably count the time in her slow, steady breaths . I worry that it's too hot for her, too cold for her, that her pjs have ridden up above her belly, that the there is war and anger and people who might make her feel pain in this world. I wonder what she's thinking in this nocturnal state, what she's dreaming.

I want her to be happy, even now.



I am so deeply in love that I can't even imagine that there was a time before I loved her, a time where I questioned the depth of my affection, where I compared our connection with those described by other moms, hoping against all hope that I would one day feel for her what they already seemed to. I can't imagine that there was a time that I considered her a stranger, someone I cared for and protected more by maternal imperative than love. It doesn't seem possible. This is a love so strong, it seems to erase any feelings, any life at all that I had before it.

And so every time I wonder about this second little girl, every time the now tired, cliche fear about having enough love in my heart pops into my head, I try to remind myself of how far Thalia and I have come in 18 months.

And I must believe that lightning can indeed strike twice.

What I Did Not Do Last Week in LA

-Canoodle with George Clooney. Or George Foreman for that matter

-Share a Pinks hot dog with Pamela Anderson

-Go underwear shopping with Britney Spears

-Eat dinner out of my hotel room once

-Pull up next to Paris Hilton's new Bentley convertible, and show her how the gas gage works

-Call anyone I knew in an attempt to socialize

-Score tickets to an impromptu David Bowie jam at a small club in Los Feliz

-Stay awake to catch the last 20 minutes of Jesus Camp on pay per view (So what happens at the end? Does the rapture come? Does the mullet kid make it to heaven? Do all the Jews get annihilated? I must know!)

-Get close enough to Joan Collins to see the frightening contrast between her face and neck

-Sleep past 5 am

-Score an invitation to the Golden Globes

I did however get to witness this very awesome conversation between a woman who pushed her way to the front of the half-hour line at the LAX Burger King (But I'm late! My plane is already boarding--you must let me through!) and the girl at the register.

"I'm late for my flight. What can you make for me quickly?"

"What would you like, ma'am?"

"Well a sandwich of some sort for the plane."

"A breakfast sandwich?"

"Just a chicken sandwich would be fine, thanks. No lettuce."

"I'm sorry, it's breakfast until 10:30."

"So no chicken sandwiches?"

"No."

"I can't just get a chicken sandwich?"

"No."

"Really."

"Yes ma'am, I'm sorry. It's only 7:15 and we're still serving breakfast."

"Okay, then. I'll have a burger."

"I'm sorry ma'am no burgers. It's breakfast time."

"Can I have cheese on it?"

"I'm sorry - we don't have burgers until 10:30.

"No burgers? But this is Burger King. Absurd."

"Would you like a breakfast sandwich?"

"Can I get a burger on it?"

"No ma'am. Just what we have on our breakfast sandwiches."

She sighs audibly and looks around at the crowd--the crowd of people who let her cut in line in the first place--searching fruitlessly for sympathy.

"Okay then, how about chicken. Can't you just put that on the biscuit?"

"No ma'am."

"I'm late for my flight. We're already boarding. I just wanted a sandwich."

"Why don't I get you a breakast sandwich."

"I suppose that will have to do. Such a shame."

----

Here's what I did do when I got home:

Opened my door to find a squealing, beaming, gorgeous little 18 month old girl running toward me screaming, HAPPY! HAPPY!

Ain't motherhood grand?

A Match Made in Hell

Dear "Boutique Luxury Hotel,"

I'm sorry but it's just not going to work out between us.

When I first heard about you, I was excited at the potential. Your website promised me "saucy sophistication and insanely attentive service," and when we first met I found you easy on the eyes with a kind and welcoming demeanor. But there are a few problems with our relationship that I think just aren't going to improve.

I can forgive the fact that you have no store, no newspapers and no minibar. I was disappointed at the glaring omission of grilled cheese on the room service menu, or that your promise to "wrap yourself in a copious bathrobe" was a hollow one, there being no bathrobe, copious or otherwise, to be found. But my first sign that something was truly amiss was the plumbing system whose shrill screech drowns out the sound of the TV anytime anyone in a 6 mile radius decides to bathe.

I had been looking forward to partaking in your "famous" Sunday brunch, especially after your promise that I would "join the glitterati and discerning business professionals who have discovered L.A.'s most stylish new address." If by glitterati you mean the lone old man sucking on a chicken bone in the corner of the dining room while I wait 12 minutes for a waiter, until low blood sugar and the ravenous cravings of five months of pregnancy compel me to leave and dine elsewhere, then perhaps the issue was merely one of my own overinflated expectations.

The sense that we're not communicating well is a troubling problem in our new relationship.

Me: I left my ATM card at home. Is there any chance you can cash a check?

You: No.

Me: Oh. Are you certain? I'm a guest at the hotel for the week and I don't...

You: No. We don't do that.

Me: Thanks for your help.

But the final straw is the smell of raw, stinking, fetid sewage that's permeated the hallways since my arrival, keeping me hostage in my room until I'm forced to emerge; at which point I have no choice but to to traipse down the rear stairwell, to avoid the long, gag reflex-inducing walk down the hallway towards the elevator.

Your daily explanation for said raw, stinking, fetid smell of sewage? "We're looking into it."

But last night, my decision to leave you was solidified by the small matter of the toast.

If a member of your housekeeping staff feels the need to smear a piece of toasted bread a half-inch thick with butter and enjoy it while she cleans my room, perhaps she'd do best not to eat half of it and THEN LEAVE THE FUCKING THING SITTING ON TOP OF MY NEW SKIRT.

Ew.

And so, we're through. I'm done. I'm leaving you.

It's not me, it's you.

And don't call me again.

Also? Here's a link to your crappy hotel. Because I have a blog and I can do that kind of thing.

Yours,
A woman scorned

----

Update: Upon checkout, a perfectly nice man subbing for the absent (surprise) manager agreed the toast incident was disgusting, comped two of my three days, and explained the hotel had switched owners the week before and was "ironing out some kinks." I suggested they get a very, very large iron.

Anyone have a contact at Shutters for me?

Shopping for Self-Confidence. I'll Take a Large.

A call from the office Thursday insisting I fly to Los Angeles in 36 hours for an emergency project generated two immediate responses, in the following order

1 I’m going to miss Thalia
2 I have nothing to wear.

I’m not sure which was more traumatic at the time.

Maternity clothes shopping is no one’s favorite pastime but I could argue it’s tougher on those of us in stylish metropolitan areas who don’t qualify for the “cute skinny girl with bump” category. As easy as it is to hide in my apartment day after day in the same pair of Liz Lange for Target jeans that promote plumber's butt any time I bend forward at more than a 15-degree angle, I am expected to step up just a bit more at the office.

The office that is in L.A.

The L.A. in which one cannot show too much skin, wear too much white, or have boobs that are too prenatally perky--which is hardly a problem considering women above a size 4 are virtually invisible there. Or perhaps they're hiding in their apartments too?

Sigh.

Hi. I don't look like this. I don't even think she's pregnant.

My last pregnancy, as I’ve noted here before, heaved my weight upwards into numbers I never could have imagined seeing between my toes on the scale. For the first time in my mostly thin life, I found myself saving the Lane Bryant coupons I get in the mail and tossing the Barney's Co-op ones. At seven months pregnant, I found myself with an invitation to a somewhat fancy, artsy event. I hauled my spreading ass all the way from Brooklyn to the maternity boutique up in nosebleed territory of Madison Avenue. The young blond saleswoman--childless saleswoman--steered her skinny girl glaze downward along my body, stopping at my minivan-sized booty and sneered, “I don’t know that we’ll have anything that will fit you here.”

Indeed it was hard to tell which jutted from my frame more, my belly or my ass, but still.

The following hour I spent in the dressing room, determined to find something, anything, that would prove her wrong, all while fighting back tears as I questioned every you’re glowing!-type compliment given by friends and family over the previous weeks. They were liars, all of them. In the end, I was just the fat pregnant woman who would never fit into the straight-legged Theory pants and gauzy Dianne Von Furstenberg tops. I was the woman who, at the benefit, would overhear the whispers in the ladies' room: You can tell she's having a girl because...

Good thing she has that long sweater to minimize those gargantuan hips.

I might have left the store sobbing openly if it weren't for the fortuitous arrival of a thin young girl, hardly old enough to procreate by uptown Manhattan standards. She had no belly at all, and yet she hauled dozens of items into the dressing room, squealing with delight at cute outfit after cute outfit.

“How pregnant are you, exactly?” I asked her.

“Oh just five weeks. But isn’t it so fun shopping for all the clothes? I couldn’t wait!”

I was too shocked to be upset anymore. I bought an ill-fitting strappy black dress to spite the salesgirl and stomped out of the store, chin up.

Then I returned it two days later for the one thing in the store that didn't make me cry when I got home and tried it on again–an exorbitantly priced diaper bag. I borrowed an outfit for the benefit and arrived smothered in flowy black nylon. I felt like Mrs. Roper, surrounded by a roomful of Chrissies.

And I spent my remaining months in the same three ugly XL tee-shirts and two circus tent skirts simply so I wouldn't have to face an unforgiving maternity sales rack again.

This Friday, I somehow managed to dig up that crumpled sales credit from April, 2005. And so I took a deep breath and headed out towards my car determined to use the credit if only for a trendy, L.A.-approved t-shirt or two.

I talked myself down from the anxiety attack I was having behind the wheel, the clammy hands, the loose bowels. The entire way up the FDR drive from Brooklyn I mentally worked my way through an escape plan: The moment things get uncomfortable, I run right out of there and head straight back home to my ill-fitting jeans and boxy, SAMH tops. I'll just never take off my long leather duster once I get to L.A. Ever. I won't socialize after work and I'll minimize walks around the hallways. I'll blame it on sciatica. I'll blame it on morning sickness. I'll blame it on...

“You’ll take a medium in that,” the smiling saleswoman whispered over my shoulder as I examined a basic black, 36 DDD-masquerading cotton top.

“Oh I’m not so sure about that,” I laughed. “I would think a large. At least here.”

“Try the medium,” she said with a wink. “I’ll start a room for you.”

One medium turned into two mediums. Five mediums. A few larges. A few extra-larges. The sizes didn't matter. In fact this time around, I found myself laughing at the clothes that didn't fit instead of crying about them.

Where is the arm fat? Where is the justice?

What a difference a couple of years, a kind saleswoman, and an iota of self-confidence makes. Not to mention a handful of garments that don't rip at the seams when I try to button them. The single tee shirt I intended to buy turned into a whole shopping bag full of cotton-and-lycra-blend treasures. The saleswoman even talked me into a booty skirt (indeed!) and dusty orange top, a radical departure from my standby brown, black and grey winter wardrobe. For the first time, I now had a wardrobe I could proudly wear beyond the supermarket.

I left smiling.

It’s so shallow, isn’t it?

Don't answer, because I know it is; it's shallow that a bright pink bag full of overpriced maternity clothes that will get six months wear, tops, could make me feel so good. Or that the silent approval of a total stranger working in a boutique could alter my attitude about an entire business trip.

I want to tell you that I'm content with who I am, that I embrace my once and future state as a curvy, bouncy, bosomed, wiggly and dimpled in the wrong places, fertility goddess. And yet, I'd be lying. Blame advertising. Blame my ego. Blame Linday Lohan or society at large or the size zero editors clicking their Jimmy Choos across the polished marble floors of the Conde Nast Building. I accept it, but it doesn't mean I'm content with it. I know there are so many women bigger than I am, who struggle with this their whole lives and not just in nine month spurts. Surely I'm among the more fortunate in the world. But it doesn't make it easier when I look in the mirror.

Sometimes clothes do make the woman. Especially when there's a whole lot of woman to clothe.

So call me shallow when I tell you that this morning, when I woke up far too early in a strange Manhattan Beach hotel room and opened a suitcase that didn't contain that worn, outdated pair of butt-baring maternity jeans,

I was utterly happy.

I may even go out to dinner tonight after work.

Like they'll ever let me out of work.

Blorgy

With a sick child at home - just an ear infection; uncomfortable but not threatening - what's a decent, responsible mother to do?

No idea.

Me, I went out with the menfolk.

Nate was calling it the Drunken Blogger Orgy which Doug immediately shortened to Blorgy. And if by Blorgy one means a pregnant woman nursing a club soda and plate of hummus in a Soho bar while discussing toilet training methods and bloggers with book deals, then by God, Blorgy it was!

I was honored just to be invited along with the elite NYC dadblogger set: The effervescent Pierre, aka MetroDad; the erudite Doug, aka Laid-Off Dad; and the comic savant Tony, aka Crouton Boy, who remarkably, has committed every headline ever written for the Onion to memory. Greg from Daddytypes canceled at the last minute with some lame excuse about his kid, preschool starting in another city, blah blah blah...I don't know. Sounds like BS to me.

I definitely knew I was in low-estrogen territory the moment the waitress recommended the Cuban Pork Sandwich and three sets of eyes lit up. Still, they made me feel right at home and not y chromosomally-challenged in the least. Pierre even fed me fries, as promised in his last post, even if I still am waiting for ice cream and that belly rub.

For those of you who know and read these prolific writers, I'm going to let you in on some of the scintillating conversation:

Tony: Hey, Sesame Street came out with a new Old School video...
Group: No way! Awesome! So cool! Where did you get it? Wow!

Pierre: So I'm starting to work with Peanut on the potty on the weekends...
Group: No way! Awesome! So cool! Wow!

Yes, this is what happens when parents get together, no matter how cool they may seem.

Soon enough the conversation evolved to all things comedy and pop culture and occasionally, blogging. I admit my eyes glazed over when the discussion veered to sports blogs for a brief moment, but fear not female readers (except you, Sarah). It returned to someplace more accessible in no time. Highlights included LA versus NY, the evolution/devolution of Saturday Night Live, how anyone who doesn't think Dooce is an amazing writer is an idiot, babble.com, alternative comedy, the Muppet Show, Pierre's encounter with Jimmy Fallon, my almost-date with Will Arnett, Uma Thurman's alleged affection for ecstasy, neighborhood celebrity sightings (Paul Giamatti at the playground! Paul Giamatti at the gym!), the two-child debate (since three is inconceivable in this city), Soho House, literary agents, John Podhoretz, Rob Walker, Freakonomics, 80s music, and the poor excuse for Matt Damon's character arc in The Good Shepherd.

In short, nothing of substance.

Ah, the perfect evening.

If any of the wives are reading, I assure you that all three were perfect gentlemen. I didn't catch a one staring at my boobs, not even once. And that takes a whole lot of will these days.

sickness strikes

It's remarkable how fast a smiling, happy, giggling, chatty toddler can become a whiney, fevery, snot-runnning-out-of-the-nose, clingy mess.

When I first took her temperature it was 100. When Nate did it it was 104. In my world, that means she's 102. But then, I channel surf the weather reports to see which one I like best. In Nate's world however, it means her temperature is 104, despite the fact that subsequent readings garnered results everywhere from 99 and up.

We're heading to the doctor now just to hear a professional wearing a stethescope say that everything is okay and to keep giving her Tylenol.

It's wrong, I know, to be happy about any of this. I would do anything to make it go away of course. But to hear mama mama mama all day (a somewhat refreshing alternative to Elmo Elmo Elmo)--as much as I can't get anything else done because she won't leave my side, as much as I'm exhausted from the non-stop attention, as much as I don't even know how to take a temperature or give a proper dose of Tylenol,

as much as it pains dada dada dada when she refuses to let him kiss her or put a cool cloth on her forehead,

it's absolutely the greatest feeling in the world.

-----


Oh and thank you so much to the always supportive, funny and wonderful Girl Con Queso for awarding me a December Perfect Post award for Getting Ready to Breathe. This is a special one for me since it allows me to look back on something that caused me unwielding torment and be able to, well...breathe now. So gracias, Girl with Cheese. For other great posts, check the list of winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.