Hip-ocrisy

Let’s go with the “Two kinds of People in the World” theme for a moment.

As in, there are Two Kinds of People in the world, people who are hip and people who are…me. But I’ve looked at Hip from both sides now, and it seems to boil down to PR. Celebrity is as cheap as paper, or airwaves (which are, theoretically free) so…what’s stopping any of us from achieving what Jessica Simpson has done without any apparent talent other than extreme gravitational resistance?

Because I gotta tell ya, I was watching Dancing with the Stars and all I could think was…where are the Stars? George Hamilton, now he’s a star, but half these people have about as much acclaim as Adam’s housecat. Begging the question…if you don’t know someone is a celebrity…are they one? And conversely, is someone not a celebrity, just because you don’t know them?

Which led me to the inevitable conclusion that I am …the Unknown Celebrity. I am famous for being obscure. Heck, I don’t even tell you my name here, and it’s my blog. My most personal revelations of my thoughts are…anonymous. Because I must protect my Unknown Celebrityhood. Otherwise I might start getting endorsements and the best tables at restaurants and those pesky paparazzi. (Say that again…pesky paparazzi. Pesky paparazzi. That should be a pizza topping.)

And back to Hip…are you Hip and edgy if no one knows you? Or are you just dressed funny? I swear I’ve seen Sienna Miller wearing some stuff my mother wouldn’t let me out of the house in (if she lived with me) and everyone says ‘ooh, let me wear that, too!’ Whereas I tend to think, “And the emperor is still naked.”
I concede that it's possible to be Hip without being famous, but it's gotta be hard. For Hip to exist without celebrityhood...is to carry one’s own universe about on one’s shoulders unsupported. To sustain a self-fantasy, without benefit of memorializing photos and million dollar goody bags, is just exhausting. On the other hand, it's just what every drama major undergrad in America does as a matter of course.
But be careful, babies. The road from hip to bitter is damn short.

All Torted Up

My husband told me some woman has filed a suit against a major beauty company over a face cream. Apparently she had a lab analyze it and they didn’t find any elfin magic. Only normal ingredients. So she sues. How great is that? If she wins, I can sue the Gap because their denim is only ordinary cotton and doesn’t really possess the power to make me look like teeny tiny Sarah Jessica Parker – and isn’t that what they promised me? Isn’t it? Hey, even better – Angelina Jolie is modeling for St. John now – if I buy the dress, does it have something in there that will make me look like her? Or BE her? And if not, if Brad Pitt doesn’t come rushing into my arms, dropping little Maddox in a mad rush to embrace me – how much do I get? A million? Two? Neat!

What a cool game we’re playing with our expensive court system. How far can we take it? Can I sue the hospital if my ER doctor doesn’t look like Goren Visijnic? If my doctor doesn’t diagnose me as brilliantly as Dr. House? Why should I settle for boring old reality, however effective it may be, when I can sue my way to a whole new, much more attractive reality? When a judge can make it all real.

Have we had enough of this childishness yet? Have we become so addicted to a supposition of certainty in this world that we become outraged – and litigious – when we find out life is unfair, uncertain, unknowable? When we find out a salesperson – egad! -- exaggerated? Alert the press!

Only a child thinks the world is predictable and certain – and then, only a child whose parents are silly enough to let them think so, past the age of 10. Everybody else should grow up and pay attention to real problems.

Did the cream work or not? Who knows if she even used it? She just took it to the lab for testing. Maybe if she’d tried it, and felt more attractive in the morning, she wouldn’t have cared what was in it. Sometimes it’s not helpful to pull the wings off butterflies.

For my part, I like fantasy. I find it very comforting at the end of a tiring, ordinary day. Anticipating the sight of George Clooney every Thursday on ER got me through two post-partum depressions. Tomorrow morning that nice smell in the bottle waiting for me in the shower is the only thing that’s going to get me in there for the 4011th time. And if we can’t enjoy beauty, scent, life – all the silly, lovely, imperfect, impermanent hopes we were born to fall for again and again – we have no one blame but ourselves.
Unless of course, this case sets a legal precedent.

Momenomics 101

I don’t know if S---- is my most brilliant friend, but with a Harvard MBA she’s no slouch. So when she complained to me that she found it difficult to value her work as a mom, I asked her to be specific. She said her efforts were not ‘quantifiable.’ Definitely a HMBA thing to say.

So I thought about that, about how to quantify the work we do as mothers. The place to start would be where any currency begins – as a way to describe a unit of work. Then we’d need a name for that unit. Let’s keep it simple and call it a “MOM.” Now how much would a “MOM” be worth?

The first and most valuable service a mother provides is, of course, giving birth. So let’s assign a value of 10,000 MOMs each time you give birth. If your husband is there for the birth he’s going to think you’re a goddess – at least for a while, so add an extra 2,000 MOMs. But remember that any MOMs dependent on a husband’s appreciation tend to depreciate quickly, so don’t bother trying to save them. (Many mothers manage to parlay them into a nice piece of jewelry. Being able to trade MOMs for actual currency is the work of a master.)

While your child is an infant you get 20 MOMs for every hour the baby doesn’t sleep. For my daughter, who woke up every 45 minutes for two years, I would calculate several hundred thousand, but loss of sleep has permanently damaged my ability to add.

Now, as the children grow and the difficulties of motherhood accumulate, you continue to accrue MOMs, but they can take different forms. Don’t be befuddled – just think of them like the money of a foreign country.

There are several kinds of motherhood currency.

For example, there is the ‘Aunt Bee,’ named after the Mayberry character in whose powdered bosom a generation took comfort. Aunt Bee’s are given as payment for ‘boo boo’ moments – kissing minor wounds, buying bandaids with cute characters on them, and the general comforting ‘tut-tuts’ every day calls for.

The opposite of an ‘Aunt Bee’ is a ‘Joan Crawford.’ Deduct 10 ‘Crawfords’ for losing your temper. Under any circumstance. Clotheshangers don’t need to be present – the Crawford is a unit of guilt you feel whether circumstances warrant it or not. Moms accrue lots of these. – Oh, and don’t forget the “Roseanne,” named for the Queen of Crass. You get 10 Roseannes for cursing in front of your children, or for any uncouth behavior – oh joy, oh pride! -- they later display in public.

Got the idea?
We’ll continue later.

Acceptable Gains…

I was waiting for my son outside his upper East Side private school among all the other moms and nannies waiting for their boys. One of the moms, a lovely, slim, rather quiet person was standing nearby and I made some comment about her sporty attire. “Were you just working out?” “Yes,” she said. “That’s nice,” I commented, “I don’t get a lot of time,” I lied.
It just sounds much better to say I’m busy than to say I’m disinclined. “Oh,” she said, “I just do it so I can indulge myself.” I nodded in understanding.

Until she said, “You know, like Chinese food.”

CHINESE FOOD! Is an indulgence? No wonder I’m huge. I could’ve sworn it was a staple. It’s brown rice and broccoli! Here I am cutting out desserts and snacks and trying to shrink my portions and wondering just when the pounds are going to drop away like a house in a California mudslide, and come to find out I’m supposed to be cutting out whole cuisines. Entire countries.

And I thought, “Should I do that? Could I become the sort of person who thinks a little brown sauce is a big naughty? Do I even want to be that person?” Honestly, a lot of these thin women seem a little…underanimated. As if they are so exhausted after their trainer leaves and they have their morning…what? Water? That all they can do is look at you through half-lidded eyes and sort of…nod. The wan Upper Eastside demeanor is so common that it has to be an effect of their eating habits. Unless I’m among the living dead and nobody told me.

I don’t know. My biggest secret for looking thin is to stand next to my husband. Compared to him I look…slim. And when I want a bowl of ice cream covered in his fabulous homemade fudge sauce that we’ve nicknamed “Happy Marriage Sauce,” I don’t ever, ever glance over to see if he’s judging me for digging in. Because he’s not. If I don’t fit into the latest fashions, well, I can’t really afford them anyway. So let’s call it…acceptable losses. A sacrifice of perfection in the eyes of the world that I can live with.

It really came together for me the morning I invited the school mom who is a world-famous singer to join a couple of us for a cappuccino. “I can’t,” she said, “I’m in training for a video.” I couldn’t help it. I looked at her and said, “Ha, ha, I’m not famous, I can eat cake.”