But what’s weirder is, I like it.
The door to the salon opens, and a little boy, maybe three years old, runs in. He throws himself at Millie and hugs her leg. She ruffles his hair.
“My Brrrrayden!”
Brayden glares at me—I am clearly in his chair. He sees, then reaches for, my lolly, where Millie left it on top of my smock. I grab it—and Brayden’s hand—through the nylon material. Brayden’s eyes widen in terror. Good, I think. Be afraid. And back off, kid—I ain’t done yet.
Millie pats him on the head. “Go sit. Is almost time.” Brayden gives me a dirty look and slinks off to sit at the bench that I hope is still just a little bit thigh-sticky.
Meanwhile, my daughter—oh, right, I have a daughter—calls to me from across the reality chasm, her hair a bouncy halo of monstrous, sparkly curls.
“MA-MA, LOOK!”
I smile as she bounds over, reaching into my purse for a crumpled fiver, which I then shove into her hand before sending her off in the direction of the Claw Grabber Game. I don’t know what Millie did to me—whether she used some form of gypsy voodoo black magic, or if maybe she just jammed her scissors up my nose when I wasn’t looking and gave me a quick lobotomy. All I know is that I would give my daughter the password to my ATM card right now if it would get me an extra two minutes in the eye of Millie’s sweat-cloud.
Millie spins me around to the mirror to show me her handiwork.
Although it’s not the worst haircut I’ve ever had, it’s definitely far from the best. The most I can say about it is that it’s level.
I nod as if to say, “It looks amazing.” * Millie grunts a gracious, “Mmh mmh mmh,” as if to say, “You’re welcome.” I lean in to her gargantuan bosom, wishing I could stay just a little longer. But of course, I can’t. She pats my head while I pop the purple lolly into my mouth, and then she pulls away. Oh, Millie, you wicked enchantress, you.
I step out of the chair and tip her (big), and as she sweeps up my hairs a thought occurs to me. “Millie,” I ask, “when you said you like the difficult ones—were you talking about me?”
She picks something green out of her teeth and looks at it, then at me. “What do you think?” Then she pulls her wig up and gives me a quick peek at her wispy bald dome underneath. And damn it all if the sight doesn’t give me a huge thrill.
I grab my daughter, the volume of her six-inch-high hairdo equal to the volume of useless plastic booty that she’s extracted from the Claw Grabber Game. We head for the cashier, passing the toddler who is still BLAPATTA-BLAPATTA’ing away on Strawberry Shortcake’s paddles. Through my new, Millie-improved eyes, I begin to believe that he may have some innate talent for pinball after all.
As CAITLIN! rings us up, she asks, “SO, PRINCESSES, DID YOU HAVE A MAGICAL DAY?!” And as much as I hate being proven wrong—and believe me, I do—for once I am grateful for it. OH EM GEE, CAITLIN! IT HAS BEEN A MAGICAL DAY!
*Those weird jagged sewing scissors that are great if you want to create a reasonable facsimile of your cousin Vern’s teeth; other than that, they’re totally useless.
†A moment that may or may not have involved me saying, “Yes, whatever you want, just please leave Mommy alone right now so she can finish crying to The Notebook.”
*I’ve never been able to make that kind of commitment because I can’t handle the small talk required of the stylist-stylee relationship; I worry that, due to my captive status, I will blurt out something inappropriate, and my discomfort gets magnified in the presence of all those scissors and hot styling implements, so I just stay quiet, which then causes me to worry that I’m offending the stylist, who I’m certain is quietly resenting me as she or he works, taking it out on my hair in ways that I won’t see until the next time I wash it. It’s exhausting, but rather than confront my feelings around this particular neurosis, I’ve just found it easier to go someplace new whenever I need a haircut. It’s my “Cut and Run” policy.
*Which, just to reiterate, it doesn’t.
seventeen
WAYS IN WHICH MY PRESCHOOLER HAS INSULTED ME
MOMMY, WHEN YOU MOVE YOUR ARMS REALLY FAST, SOMETIMES IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE CLAPPING • CAMPBELL’S MOM IS SO MUCH PRETTIER THAN YOU. AND FUN-NER. AND NICER. BUT YOU’RE BETTER AT FOLDING THINGS • MOMMY, YOUR TUMMY LOOKS LIKE A BAGEL • DON’T SING ANYMORE, MOMMY. IT MAKES MY EARS SAD • WHEN WE GET HOME I’LL TELL YOU ALL THE THINGS YOU DID WRONG TODAY, MOMMY • WHAT ELSE DON’T YOU KNOW? • OW, MOMMY, YOUR FEET ARE TOO SCRATCHY! • MOMMY, ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE YOURSELF PRETTY TODAY, OR ARE YOU GOING TO LOOK LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO? • WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE A DINOSAUR WHEN YOU DANCE? • SOMETIMES YOUR MAD FACE MAKES ME LAUGH • IS DADDY COMING HOME SOON? YOU’RE BORING • MOMMY, DID YOU TAKE A SHOWER TODAY? BECAUSE I DON’T THINK IT WORKED • MOMMY, CAN I HAVE YOUR IPAD WHEN YOU DIE? • SOMETIMES WHEN YOU KISS ME YOUR TEETH SMELL LIKE SOCKS • MOMMY, YOUR BUTT IS JIGGLY LIKE JELLY. AND ALSO LIKE JELLO • YOU HAVE A LOT OF HAIRS ON YOUR FACE. IS THAT A MUSTACHE OR A BEARD? • I WANT DADDY TO READ MY BEDTIME STORY. HE READS IT BETTER AND HE DOESN’T TALK SO LOUD • CLARA AND I WERE PLAYING IN YOUR UNDERPANTS. THEY FIT BOTH OF US AT THE SAME TIME, HA HA! • THE HAIR ON YOUR LEGS REMINDS ME OF A DANDELION. THE FURRY KIND YOU BLOW ON • WHY DO YOU HAVE ALL THOSE MEAN LINES ON YOUR FACE? • WHICH ONE IS THE OLDEST: GRANDMA, GRANDPA, OR YOU? • AUGH!! YOU SCARED ME. YOUR FACE LOOKED LIKE AN ALIEN • IT’S SO FUNNY HOW THE HAIR ON YOUR KIKI LOOKS LIKE A SQUIRREL’S TAIL • WHEN YOU DIE CAN I ALSO HAVE YOUR WEDDING RING? • YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE A FART.
eighteen
MY VERY AMERICAN GIRL
“MOMMY, YOU’RE GOING TOO FAST.”
It’s eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. We are speed-walking to a yard sale that I’ve been planning to hit since last night when I’d pulled the flier off a telephone pole and committed the address to memory before using it to pick up a piece of my dog’s Tootsie Roll–size poo.
Honoring my daughter’s request, I slow my pace, though this is difficult for me—like holding back a jaguar about to pounce upon an injured fawn. The quest for bargains falls somewhere between sport and religion for me. I take after my mom in this regard—and I say this with deep respect for the woman who has given me food poisoning more than once because of her insistence on keeping food long past the “fresh by” date.
The fact is, I love my shopping like I like my men: cheap, easy, and accessible by car. . . . But mostly just cheap. I once bought sixteen boxes of tampons at the corner store because they were discounted by 75 percent. Why they were so heavily marked down, I have no idea, but if you’d told me it was because they were “pre-owned,” it wouldn’t have made a difference to me: I am all about the bargain, and the bragging rights that follow.
Yard sales occupy a special place in my heart—not only are they like snowflakes in their uniqueness, they offer the added thrill of the chase. It’s elemental; man versus man, Haggler versus Hag. The argument could even be made that I am borderline ruthless in my pursuit of the perfect deal; I once came very close to wounding a woman over a yard-sale fondue pot. I had just picked it up to inspect it when she yelled to the owner, “HOW MUCH YOU WANT FOR THAT?” as though the volume of her desperate request trumped my “possession is nine-tenths of the law” status. I was so enraged I nearly stabbed her with one of the still faintly cheesy-smelling skewers; instead, I regained my composure, hissed a “thanks” at her for brokering my deal, and then sauntered away, one Three-Dollar Fondue Pot richer.
I am the Queen of the Crap That You No Longer Want or Need. And on this Saturday morning I am salivating at the thought of sharing—and eventually handing off—the glorious crown to my four-year-old daughter.
As we walk up the cracked driveway, a sea of treasures spreads out before us, and my heartbeat quickens with the potential of what we might find.
I am making a quick and thorough visual scan of the goods (men’s clothes, garden tools, a poorly collaged mirror, stained luggage) when I see the seller: a sixtyish woman pour
ed into a yellow “Juicy” tracksuit, a hot-pink fanny pack bisecting her middle, and on her head a nest of orange curly hair just barely contained by a “Las Vegas Is for Lovers” visor. The sight of this woman at so early an hour makes my corneas ache.
She is in midhaggle with a young couple over a dingy, busted-up wicker armchair. “Can I give you twenty dollars?” the man asks.
“I paid over a thousand dollars for that new in 1983,” she drawls. “All it needs is to be recaned, reglued, restuffed, and upholstered. And you want me to give it away for twenty dollars? No, sir! One fifty’s the lowest I can go.”
This isn’t haggling; this is delusional price-setting, a cardinal sin among yard salers. Clearly, her overenthusiastic use of chemical hair dye has obliterated her common sense. We will not score here—it is time to cut bait.
I grab my daughter’s hand. “Doesn’t look like they have anything we need. Let’s go home for waffles!”
The Vegas-loving eyesore steps in front of my daughter: “What a sweet pea! I bet I’ve got something you’d like!” And before I can process what is about to happen, she flexes her sausage-cased arms and opens a suitcase to reveal a disheveled doll who smiles blankly, oblivious to the shit storm that she is about to unleash.
A sweat mustache begins to form on my lip. I try to steer my child away, but I can see by her wide-eyed expression that I am too late.
“That’s an American Girl doll,” the woman says. “They’re a hundred dollars new, y’know.”
No lady, I didn’t know that. I live underground, I have never seen a TV, nor have I heard of computers, condoms, or penicillin. Of course I know the price of an American Girl doll. I’m a mother to a four-year-old female and have been trying to shield her from this specter of marketing genius since the moment the doctor said, “There’s one lip, and there’s the other lip. It’s a girl!”
When I was a kid we had Barbie. With her Dolly Parton figure and Farrah Fawcett smile, she was like nicotine to our little lady brains.
My Barbie collection was small, but impressive enough to have been stolen sometime around my tenth birthday (a fact that enrages me to this day). And though I did not possess the holy grail of Barbie products—Barbie’s glorious Camper Van—the crowning glory of my collection was a “Growing Up Skipper” doll. With a 360-degree spin of her arm, she would grow an inch taller from the torso, and two conical protrusions would fill out her pliable rubber chest, turning this adorable little girl into a fully pubescent young lady. (A curious feature of Growing Up Skipper was that, after a few months, the rubber on her chest hardened to a state of permanent breast-iosity, leaving young Skipper looking like a disturbingly well-stacked eight-year-old.)
But as much as I loved my Barbies, they are mere candy cigarettes compared to the crack cocaine of American Girl dolls today.
My daughter fell for her first American Girl when she was two and a half years old, and may God have mercy on me, it was my own damn fault.
We were living in Chicago at the time and taking a walk downtown on what turned out to be a balmy, thirty-below-zero winter day. So as not to perish, we sought refuge in the nearest heated building, which was the American Girl flagship store.
We’d been there countless times before—it was a frequent shortcut due to its convenient location and hassle-free bathrooms, and I have to admit, as I pushed my disinterested toddler’s stroller through the aisles, I got a chuckle at the sight of tween girls crying and being scolded by their mothers “BECAUSE YOU’VE ALREADY GOT SIX DOLLS, THAT’S WHY!”
I laughed because I thought we were safe. I thought we were immune.
I thought oh-so-cockily wrong.
By the time I’d pulled the ice-encrusted scarf away from my daughter’s face, I could tell that something in her had been stirred, as though a second set of eyelids had been peeled back from her eyes and she was finally, for the first time in her short life, truly awake.
She sat straight up, cocked her head, and then stretched her sticky, chubby hands toward an immaculate display filled with dolls of every eye, hair, and skin color—each one wearing a vacant expression that seemed to be chanting, “One of us! One of us!”
My kid opened her mouth and began to scream/chant/gurgle, “MAAAHHH! MAAAHHH!” Whether she was trying to say, “Mine!” or “MOM!” or whether it was just a primal sound emanating from deep within her soul, I can’t say, because I ran that stroller out of there at a speed far faster than would have been safe, like all those other moms I’d laughed at not so very long ago.
My days became a series of evasion tactics: avoiding the store (two blocks from our home), intercepting the mail carrier before he could deliver the American Girl catalog, and crossing the street to avoid the neighborhood twin girls who carried twin American Girl versions of themselves everywhere they went (a disturbing and creepy sight).
Then came the repeated requests from the child, with an alarming frequency:
“I HAVE AN AMERICAN DOLL?” “Someday, sure.”
“I HAVE AN AMERICAN DOLL?” “Someday, yes.”
“I HAVE AN AMERICAN DOLL?” “Someday, okay.”
And yes, deep down I meant it, though I may have left out the “maybe after a nuclear holocaust” part. Because you know what? I never got a Barbie Camper Van, and I turned out okay. Sort of.
The American Girl store is a marvel of retail success. It has three beautifully appointed stories of merchandise. There’s a café where little girls can enjoy high-priced tea with their dolls and captive grandparents. There’s a dolly hair salon, and an actual dolly hospital where the healthcare services rival anything available through my own HMO. As a proud member of our capitalist culture, I am both inspired and impressed by the success of this business.
But as a parent and lifelong bargain hunter, I am offended to my very core by everything it stands for. Most offensive is that, as of this writing, a new doll costs over one hundred bones, more than I have ever paid for a regular article of clothing and only slightly less than I paid for my wedding dress. One hundred dollars for a child’s toy that doesn’t even plug in? Not my bag, baby. And definitely not the knock-off bag that has been passed down to me by my mother.
And now here I am, standing at the edge of a lesson in bargain hunting. Seems I will be going into battle after all.
“Yes,” I say to my neon-clad rival, “there’s quite a market for these dolls . . . when they’re in good condition. This one looks like it was well loved. By an aggressive, longhaired cat.”
One cool hand, casually played.
The Velour Demoness smiles at me. “It belonged to my daughter, Debi. She’s on her way to Princeton this year on a tennis scholarship.”
Ooh, she is good, implying that the doll’s got Ivy League juju all over it. But I don’t care if this doll comes with a transferable master’s degree. I will not pay more than ten dollars for it.
Me: “I’ll give you five dollars.”
One low-ball gauntlet, forcefully thrown down.
Old Juicy Dusty-Buns makes a sound like a cat coughing up a hair ball and says with disgust, “I can’t take less than twenty-five.”
And here’s where I pull my signature move: the laugh/walk-away combo that I’m guessing should result in a decent counteroffer, maybe fifteen dollars.
But the Orange-Haloed Battle-Ax does not quake under my laissez-faire attitude. Instead, she shakes her head and hisses as she sets the doll back into the suitcase.
She is tough as nails—she’s not budging. Well, neither am I. I grab my kid’s hand and start to walk away. I give her a sly wink, my attempt to show her that this is all part of the dance, but at four years old she doesn’t understand subtlety or the machinations of yard-sale subterfuge, the art that I learned at my mother’s knee and have perfected over twenty years of professional cheapskate-ism.
Her chin begins to quiver. “WHY I CAN’T HAVE THE AMERICAN DOLL?”
We are knee-deep in a teachable moment—but what will it teach her? Will it be a lesson i
n standing up for your principles, regardless of the outcome—or will it be a lesson in “you can’t always get what you want”? Or maybe it will be a lesson in how easily Mommy loses sight of her priorities. Or how wide Mommy’s nostrils flare when she’s agitated and backed into a corner.
I don’t like corners like this, particularly corners that break another cardinal rule of yard-sale-ing—never haggle over something that you are not prepared to lose.
I should walk, but I don’t.
“I’ll give you seven dollars.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Eight.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Nine dollars and 75 cents.” (I immediately regret the seventy-five-cents maneuver—it reeks of desperation.)
“Twenty-five.”
Another laugh (hers), another turn/walk (mine). This one not so much a tactic as a time stall.
I mumble to my opponent that I’m going to take a look around and see what else she’s got.
My mind races as I scan the yard: a threadbare cowboy hat . . . a salad spinner . . . faded Mickey Mouse ears . . . lederhosen (lederhosen?!) . . . and a cracked replica of a samurai sword, which is beginning to look more and more useful as the minutes pass.
I look at my daughter, now cradling the frizzy-haired doll with an ink-stained foot and one lazy eye, stroking its face and whispering into its ear, and God help me I watch as my hand, now seemingly possessed, reaches into my purse and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and five bucks in change, then hands it to the Goldenrod-Haired Gargoyle, who smiles in victory.
Because this is what happens when theory meets reality. When principles meet real life. When your deeply held beliefs meet the gaze of your four-year-old’s pleading eyes.
“ENJOY!” shrieks the Hideous Victor Who Has Stolen My Mantle of Yard Sale Supremacy and then turns her attention to an elderly man testing out a rusty wheelchair that’s missing two front wheels. “You take off the other two wheels and you’ve got an office chair that’s better for your back than anything you could buy at Staples. I’ll let you have it for ninety dollars.”
How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane Page 12