Hollow Tree Ventures parenting humor
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Jealous much?

Recently, Gerry and I saw an episode of Up All Night  (NBC, Wednesdays at 8/7c - but don't tell them I mentioned it - they'd be horrified to be associated with me) in which the lead characters, a couple who were once late-night partiers but are now the responsible, up-standing parents of a little baby, discover they have new neighbors. Cool neighbors. Hip neighbors. Neighbors with trendy, chic clothes and stylish hair and and an elegant dog. Of course the couple starts to worry that the neighbors won't think they're cool enough, resulting in them making fools of themselves for 22 minutes. Laughs galore.

Except I know those guys.

Not the actors, but my own version of the the Cool Neighbors. I call her Posh Mom (I don't have a name for him, but I guess by default he'd have to be Posh Dad). I see her daily in the schoolyard, waiting for her kid. She's holding a baby, one so tiny that it was either born that very morning or has an eating disorder, yet Posh Mom is already stick thin; I try to tell myself she must have adopted the baby, or found it in a basket on the way over to the school, but I know I'm deluding myself.

She's always wearing something casual, without looking like she's trying to look casual, but nice enough that (unlike me) she clearly didn't sleep in it for the past two nights or hastily pull it out of the hamper. I often see her in dark jeans and dainty ballet slippers (the kind that make my feet look like gift-wrapped sausages), paired with one of those loose, blousy tops that I don't wear because the gathered hem invariably hits me at the widest part of my hips, making me look like I have the girlish figure of a grain silo.

She obviously has her hair professionally cut and styled every morning; it's one of those choppy, sophisticated styles and hers always flips up exactly where it's supposed to flip and curls under just where it's supposed to curl, whereas if I got that cut it would look awesome on day one, and every day thereafter I'd look like a Bearded Collie.

My hair does not care to be layered. It's an unfortunate truth.

Then Posh Dad saunters up. He appears to be an art museum architect/part-time cowboy, and he's similarly casually cool in jeans and a button-down shirt. Their child bursts from the school as class is dismissed, and it's a boy I recognize. Although I know his actual name we'll call him Mini-Brad-Pitt, because he looks exactly like a shrunken version of said actor, and plus if I mention him by name his Posh Parents might be pushed over the edge and decide to file a restraining order.

After greeting each other they glide to the curb, oozing perfection, where their glistening H3 is waiting to carry them home to their castle, or off to some major cultural event. I avert my eyes lest Posh Mom catch me looking, smile at me with dazzling pity, and cause me to stammer something regrettable. "Uh, cool family you got there. Personally, I was just on my way to a New Kids on the Block reunion concert."

Then my kids emerge through the school's double doors. Even from a distance I can see that Zoe has a large splotch of something brownish orange on her white shirt, which she no doubt picked up either in art class or at lunch. She's facing me but can't see anything because her eyes are squeezed shut and her tongue is sticking out as far as it will go.

As she runs into the kid in front of her, I see Jake walking slowly through the grassy schoolyard. He and a buddy are bent over his open backpack, which is always packed to the gills with books and Lego guys and assorted electronics that I told him not to take to school. By now Zoe is running toward me at a full gallop, her teacher shouting, "No running" behind her, and I see the brownish orange stuff is also all over her face, so I silently hope it's from lunch. She and Jake greet me with big hugs and sticky kisses, and skip off down the sidewalk toward home, telling me about their day.

They're so cute, and so happy. Nobody cares that my hair's in a ponytail or that I have mashed bananas on my maternity tank top. Nobody, including my husband, who thinks I'm gorgeous even if I haven't had time to shave my legs for three weeks. Nobody, including my kids as I tell them to wipe their mouths and zip up their backpacks.

Nobody, including me.

I hope you enjoyed yourself while you were here - and I hope you come back! Please share inappropriate giggles with me on Pinterest, Twitter, and Facebook, or subscribe via email so you don't miss a thing!


The Third Partier said...

Hey! Thanks for calling me handsome and junk! I agree with JP. Your blog puts my blog to shame. But that's cool, cuz you're mine.

Sperry said...

Aww... You make me laugh every day, but this one almost brought tears as well! On a side note, I learned in biology class that beautiful (non-flippy) straight hair like yours is recessive, and therefore rare and special. Like you. :-)

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