Excuse me, would you mind moving your cart over? That’s all I said to the woman, parked next to me, whose shopping cart is sitting in the parking spot that will soon be mine. I’m at Trader Joe’s, parking spots are a commodity and this is the last in the lot. The woman, either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to me hear me. She’s busy trying to figure out how to unlock her car. Apparently, in between the bulk cashews and organic lettuce, she forgot how to unlock her own car. Nonetheless, I’ve got 30 cars honking behind me, angry that I’ve held up the line, each hoping I’ll move on so they can take the spot. I ask again, Excuse me, would you mind moving your cart? She turns to me, winks, and says, “Eventually” and goes back to trying to unlock her own car.
Every time I’m at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, I’m faced with a similar issue. There’s always some sort of automobile altercation involving two people who in addition to loving sustainable foods, also love Range Rovers. They’ll fight to the end over the last parking spot or the last cumquat. They’ll overpay for organic air, but pass the free sample table 10-20 times saying things like, “Oooh, what’s this?” as if they haven’t already had 30 squares of free cheddar, outed only by the fact that they and the sample girl are now on a first name basis.
I’ve always thought the customers at these expensive healthy markets are so rude because they’re hungry. Tempers can rise when the last real meal you had was cooked kale and barbequed tempeh. Judgment isn’t always clear when you’re on your third day of a 47 day cleansing fast and you’ve run out of Cayenne Pepper, the sole ingredient in your fast other than jicama. People aren’t always nice when they’re hungry.
But these angry people seem to be all over the place. It’s sort of like the three years where everywhere I went I’d see either Jennifer Grey or Jeremy Piven. It got to the point where I started to consider they were the same person since they were never in the same place but one of them was always there. But now instead of Baby and Ari following me around town, angry and hungry are after me. Everywhere I go there’s someone yelling at someone.
From Election Day to yoga class, there they are. The girl who speaks in hushed tones, breathing deeply through carefully modulated breaths is the first to say “No way” when the teacher asks her to move her yoga mat to make room for another. Obama loving, No on Prop 8 voting open minded citizens duking it out in from of my polling place, neither willing to give up the closest parking spot to the building. A woman, kids in hand, screaming at the checker at Babies R Us, “I’ll wait for you outside and cut you!” also has a bumper sticker on her car that reads, “God loves us all.”
Personally, when people like Miss Eventually gives me a wink and an ignore, I want to roll down my window and say, “Well maybe eventually you should go fuck yourself.” But ever since I flipped off that huge angry man who chased me and my husband for 20 minutes through back allies and private roads only to catch up to us and scream, “Now what do you have to say?” I’ve tried to tone it down. Especially when my kid is in my car. I try to remember that it’s not my job to remind everyone else that they’re morons, chances are they already know.
It’s hard to go through life thinking there will be enough because it always feels like there won't be...enough parking spots, free samples, space to exercise. It's hard to remember to take a deep breath and remind yourself there will be more...of everything. There will be enough. And screaming at strangers or taking something away from someone else doesn’t create anything more; it just makes us feel good for a second, until something else makes us feel badly.
So when I see Miss Eventually still struggling with her car when I finish my shopping, I roll myself and my kid over, and show her how to open her car door. My husband calls me Tech support cause I can figure things out, a Mommy MacGyver if you will. Figuring out how to open a car in 2008 isn’t so tough.
The woman thanks me profusely and says she just couldn’t figure it out. I simply respond, “Oh you’d a figured it out.” And while I’m still tempted to ding her car or block her in, I just load my boy and my crap in my KidUV and go home. And while it’s not as gratifying to walk away from the opportunity to be right, getting into it is a bad idea. That kind of stuff catches up with you. Maybe not now, and maybe not a long time from now, but it catches up with you, eventually.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
ANYTHING FOR YOU
The first thought the came to mind when my son was born was, “Anything for you.” When I saw his little face, full head of hair, ten fingers and toes, all I could think was, “Anything for you.” And now, I’m standing in the Nordstrom Kid’s Shoe department hoping I didn’t say that loud enough for anyone to hear.
It happens overnight. One day, you’ve got a noodle who just eats and sleeps all day, the next you’ve got a terror who needs shoes. My kid has been toying with walking, or falling, for a while. But now he’s moved up to the big leagues, the Frankenstein walk, and he couldn’t be happier. My kid is a Walkaholic. It’s all he wants to do, unless he has the opportunity to climb, which he considers just walking turned upward.
Walking well is undoubtedly just around the corner. Walking far, coming up on its tail. And running is in my near future. I say mine because it is I who will running after he, my terror, when he discovers that running is like walking on crack. So my kid needs shoes.
Buying a kid his first shoes is a Sunrise/Sunset moment. It’s emotional. As my kid gets closer and closer to crossing each milestone, I get closer and closer to losing a good friend I fondly call, “disposable income.” This makes me emotional. Having a child is like living in Manhattan. From the second you leave the house, you’re twenty bucks poorer.
The problem isn’t just the price, it’s that I love them. One pair after another are really, really cute. It’s not just the tiny Chuck Taylor’s or the mini Ugg Boots, it’s the Prada loafers that have their own special rack with a smart sign and label. The shoes beckon me and remind me that I said, “Anything for you.”
In my mind, I know it’s silly to buy a child anything expensive. Kids like to do things like grow, lose, hurl, maim, and destroy. They don’t know the difference between Gucci and Gap and will undoubtedly not fit into either within 4.4 seconds of their purchase. But still, they’re really cute. I’m tempted. I’m just keeping my promise, “Anything for you.” Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?
I turn the loafers over and am already thinking of the explanation I’ll give my husband for spending 80 or 100 dollars on kid shoes. But they’re not 80 or 100 dollars, they’re $250. I turn them back over, look up and see a sign: Sale. Four letters have never sounded so good. You see, I had a child, not a lobotomy. The only person whose getting overpriced shoes in my house is me. I’m far less likely to grow, lose, or maim.
I feel good leaving the store with a $30 pair of shoes, a chocolate brown loafer with a smart Velcro strap and a green balloon. My kid seems far more interested in the balloon than the shoes and I am happy I didn’t give in and overspend. On the way out, I pass a woman, her cell phone, and her daughter, all three covered in Burberry. The kid is throwing a temper tantrum because she wants her Mom to get off the phone. She takes off her Burberry rain boots and throws them into the aisle. The Mom doesn’t notice as she keeps on pushing the stroller and talking on the phone. At $300 a pop for for the boots, the Mom will find that to be a very expensive phone call.
I live in LA where no one seems to have a job and everyone seems to have money. The kids are as well dressed as their parents, designer duds not out of the question. Me trying to keep up isn’t doing anything for my kid. Doing anything for him means getting over my own desire to have my kid be the best dressed and do what’s right which is to get him what he needs, not what I want him to have. Undoubtedly, I have a lifetime ahead of me of my kid telling me, “But Johnny got a Game Boy, Xbox, PSP, new Car, trip to Europe…” which will be followed by the mandatory parental answer, “Well then you should go live with Johnny.”
At some point in the conversation my kid claim I am the meanest Mom in the world and at some point I’ll believe him. But when my kid can go to college because I didn’t spend my savings trying to keep up with Johnny, he’ll someday realize his parents did do anything for him. Making sure your kids will have a secure future is doing anything. Making sure your kids look great in the process, just an added benefit.
We watch the fountain and check out Santa, but then it’s time to go home. I put my kid in the car and look down. We’re down one man, one shoe gone. We owned the shoes for 30 minutes. That’s a buck a minute. My son’s feet charge more than some call girls. And while buying the shoes again is pricey, the time together is priceless, even if I did just buy a $30 balloon.
It happens overnight. One day, you’ve got a noodle who just eats and sleeps all day, the next you’ve got a terror who needs shoes. My kid has been toying with walking, or falling, for a while. But now he’s moved up to the big leagues, the Frankenstein walk, and he couldn’t be happier. My kid is a Walkaholic. It’s all he wants to do, unless he has the opportunity to climb, which he considers just walking turned upward.
Walking well is undoubtedly just around the corner. Walking far, coming up on its tail. And running is in my near future. I say mine because it is I who will running after he, my terror, when he discovers that running is like walking on crack. So my kid needs shoes.
Buying a kid his first shoes is a Sunrise/Sunset moment. It’s emotional. As my kid gets closer and closer to crossing each milestone, I get closer and closer to losing a good friend I fondly call, “disposable income.” This makes me emotional. Having a child is like living in Manhattan. From the second you leave the house, you’re twenty bucks poorer.
The problem isn’t just the price, it’s that I love them. One pair after another are really, really cute. It’s not just the tiny Chuck Taylor’s or the mini Ugg Boots, it’s the Prada loafers that have their own special rack with a smart sign and label. The shoes beckon me and remind me that I said, “Anything for you.”
In my mind, I know it’s silly to buy a child anything expensive. Kids like to do things like grow, lose, hurl, maim, and destroy. They don’t know the difference between Gucci and Gap and will undoubtedly not fit into either within 4.4 seconds of their purchase. But still, they’re really cute. I’m tempted. I’m just keeping my promise, “Anything for you.” Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?
I turn the loafers over and am already thinking of the explanation I’ll give my husband for spending 80 or 100 dollars on kid shoes. But they’re not 80 or 100 dollars, they’re $250. I turn them back over, look up and see a sign: Sale. Four letters have never sounded so good. You see, I had a child, not a lobotomy. The only person whose getting overpriced shoes in my house is me. I’m far less likely to grow, lose, or maim.
I feel good leaving the store with a $30 pair of shoes, a chocolate brown loafer with a smart Velcro strap and a green balloon. My kid seems far more interested in the balloon than the shoes and I am happy I didn’t give in and overspend. On the way out, I pass a woman, her cell phone, and her daughter, all three covered in Burberry. The kid is throwing a temper tantrum because she wants her Mom to get off the phone. She takes off her Burberry rain boots and throws them into the aisle. The Mom doesn’t notice as she keeps on pushing the stroller and talking on the phone. At $300 a pop for for the boots, the Mom will find that to be a very expensive phone call.
I live in LA where no one seems to have a job and everyone seems to have money. The kids are as well dressed as their parents, designer duds not out of the question. Me trying to keep up isn’t doing anything for my kid. Doing anything for him means getting over my own desire to have my kid be the best dressed and do what’s right which is to get him what he needs, not what I want him to have. Undoubtedly, I have a lifetime ahead of me of my kid telling me, “But Johnny got a Game Boy, Xbox, PSP, new Car, trip to Europe…” which will be followed by the mandatory parental answer, “Well then you should go live with Johnny.”
At some point in the conversation my kid claim I am the meanest Mom in the world and at some point I’ll believe him. But when my kid can go to college because I didn’t spend my savings trying to keep up with Johnny, he’ll someday realize his parents did do anything for him. Making sure your kids will have a secure future is doing anything. Making sure your kids look great in the process, just an added benefit.
We watch the fountain and check out Santa, but then it’s time to go home. I put my kid in the car and look down. We’re down one man, one shoe gone. We owned the shoes for 30 minutes. That’s a buck a minute. My son’s feet charge more than some call girls. And while buying the shoes again is pricey, the time together is priceless, even if I did just buy a $30 balloon.
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