Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Surrender Kate

I gave up this morning. It was a full-blown surrender. OK, not FULL BLOWN - I did put on a bra. Ladies, this is not optional. It's a school day, for the love of Pete, and we don't live on South Beach. And, jeez, my entire morning - and most likely yours - was spent telling people to get dressed. "You need to get dressed." "Go put on clothes please." "Ugh, appropriate clothes." "Maybe a shirt?" "Have you got your socks on?" "Hey! Get dressed!" "No, you may not go commando, this is not a fraternity."

This would be a great time to follow your own sage advice. That, or just stay in the car at drop off. I need coffee before I can absorb you taking the girls out for a morning stroll, even if it is under a sweatshirt. Plus, you don't want morning snark from me, and on this particular morning, I just can't be trusted to keep my mouth shut.

Anyhow, I can usually rely on my vanity to at least get myself somewhat put together before venturing out into the world. For me, there are three facets: hair, makeup, outfit. As far as I'm concerned, you can blow off two of them, as long as the third is done. Goofy outfit, hair in a ponytail? OK then, throw on some mascara and lip gloss. You get my drift..if nothing else, it conveys that you tried.

Me? This morning. No trying. None. Besides the bra and brushing my teeth, I was basically just waiting for the flying monkey army to come take me away. Me and my little dog too....

Let's start from the bottom, shall we?

Sneakers: I love my sneakers. I'm a runner, and they are fabulous. However. Unless I am on my way out to run, or coming home from a run, I don't wear sneakers. Ever. They are my Ferrari of shoes. And me wandering around in my RUNNING shoes is akin to taking out said Ferrari and keeping it in first gear. You know when you buy your kids new sneakers and they tear all over the store, testing them out, and seeing how much faster they are? Yeah, that's me. I'm either running in them, or they're on the floor.

Socks: Discovered shoved inside aforementioned sneakers, where they'd taken up residency since the last run. Fairly certain they have grown the culture for curing cancer. That, or they're causing it. Either way, their proximity to shoes makes them viable option. I'm gross.

Scrubs: Amazing how one can hear a collective groan over the Internet. Now, don't get me wrong. Scrubs are awesome. But they, by law, should only be worn by medical professionals in a medical setting. I'm even OK with them outside a medical facility, say the grocery store, when it's clearly obvious that 1) the person wearing them is still a medical professional; 2) they are either coming from, or going to, said medical facility; and 3) they exude that aura of lifesaving abilities. You get that "oooh, he's like McDreamy" thought.

I, however, was batting zero, and pretty sure every single person I saw was thinking "ewww, she's like McEscapee from the McInstitution."

In their defense, they're comfortable, reversible, the handy drawstring. But flattering? Oh hell no. I knew better than to look in the mirror, where the view from behind makes it look like my ass is slowly melting into the back of my knees.

But, I have a strange affinity for these pants. I got them the day after my daughter was born, when Season One came to the hospital.
[Sidebar: -- oh, I have to explain: I'm on Marriage #2. For those of you who were fans of "Bewitched," you'll remember that Season One had the first Darrin. Then they switched Darrins. Goodbye, Dick York. Hello, Dick Sargent. No explanation. So, that's my life. Season One wasn't working out, so we had to cancel him. McLovin is the new Darrin. We live eight houses down the street from Season One, in the EXACT same style house, where the pictures are hung in the EXACT same places, and the kitchen drawers are arranged the EXACT same way. Seriously, I just changed Darrins. And yes. It is EXACTLY as weird as it sounds.]

OK, back to the hospital. Season One shows up with clothes for me to wear home, post-baby. They're my pre-baby clothes. Like PRE pre-baby. I pull on my shorts, to find the button resting on one hip bone, and the corresponding buttonhole on the other hip. I feel like I'm watching an invisible tennis match across my abdomen, looking back and forth at the grand expanse of skin between the fabric. Season One would have laughed had it not been for the fact that he knew he would be in a full-body cast if he did. Yeah, fit clothes over all that plaster, Funny Man.

One kind nurse + one pair of scrubs = new mom not going home half naked.

Top: White t-shirt bought on Gap clearance rack that said "Irregular." Two bucks! SWEET! I figured, what could be so bad? Especially at that price. Ummm, this shirt is all kinds of whack. It's a 3/4 sleeve on one side, 2/3 on the other. Basically one below the elbow, the other above it. So you spend all day shoving one up and tugging down on the other. And, whatever bias-cut means, let's call it what it is: Boobs Akimbo Syndrome. I swear it looks like my left one is in my armpit, while the right has decided to go pay a visit to my bellybutton for the day. NO BRA fixes this. And yet, I keep this shirt. Why? No %*)$#*% idea. I swear up and down I'm trashing the thing, and then it comes out of the laundry and I think of one other outfit that might salvage its whacktacularness. Or, you save it for Surrender Day. I put on the most industrial, wire-laden, full coverage, encased in elastic bra I have, throw on my $2 Rip-off shirt, and watch as the girls bid each other farewell for the day and depart for their respective locations. Stupid shirt.

I have on no make-up, save for what remained from last night when I didn't wash my face. Yes, I'm grossed out too. I'm wearing a baseball cap and my hair is assembled - not brushed, mind you - assembled into a ponytail.

In a phrase, I am a hot mess.

Which is reinforced by every person I see.

Daughter, McGee: "Hi. Mom? Are you sick?"
Older Son, Lefty: "Are you going on a run? Coming back from a run?" [pause] "Can you just drop me off at Kiss-n-Ride today?"
Younger Son, Happy: [worried look on face when I walk in his room] "Where's Daddy?"
Crossing Guard: [sucks in lips to keep from laughing] calls to other Guard, and then, I must assume, does the raised eyebrow look in my direction.
Other Crossing Guard: "Well, helllloooooo" Me: "Shut up." They burst into laughter. Nice.
Teacher at Preschool: [to my son] "Good morning, Happy. Where's Mommy today? Oh. Ohhhh."
Other Teacher at Preschool: [very long pause] "Wow."
Lydia: "Finally...you know it's a bad day when I look cuter than you do."

I get home, and as I'm heading through the kitchen toward my room, I see a note my daughter has left for me on our kitchen board: "Hi Mom. Have a good day. Not to bother, but can you look normal when you pick us up after school? Or, we can walk home too, its OK. Love, McGee. PS You can use my shampoo if you're all out."

No need to send the flying monkey army. Apparently they already live in my house.


Popular Posts