by Linda Keenan
At Status Wrappers we provide you with the cover you need to tote around your purchases without embarrassment. Whether it’s the spanking new Nordstrom bag or the well-worn, but current issue of the New Yorker, which of course you read cover to cover (Wink, Wink!), or the wide selection of Annie’s Organic boxes, we will provide you with the perfect receptacle to house or hide the crap products you really love, without the slightly raised eyebrow or snippy behind-the-back comment.
Here’s a testimonial from one satisfied customer:
“One day I had a stack, and I’m not lying, a stack of flattened McDonald’s Happy Meal boxes sitting in my passenger’s seat when I saw that totally snotty bitch from my daughter’s ballet class walking toward my car. I was immediately able to cover the stack with both a copy of Vanity Fair and a Whole Foods reusable tote with three boxes of Earth’s Best Elmo’s Pasta with Sauce with Carrots and Broccoli. Thank you, thank you, Status Wrappers!”
You know what your parents always told you? Don’t judge a book by its cover? Well, you know now, that was a load of shit! Everyone judges a book by its cover. Welcome to adulthood! So what’s that cover going to be? Let Status Wrappers be your cover, in a judge-or-be-judged world!
Dad Pretends IKEA Is
Child Cultural Enrichment
Suburgatory, USA—A local dad was outed for pretending IKEA was a culturally enriching outing for his son.
Peter Marello lost his job eight months ago and is now the primary care provider for his four-year-old son James Patrick. Marello admits to being “kinda lost” and one day, on a quest to find a garlic press, he made his first-ever visit to IKEA. He found a lot more than he bargained for. “They have free childcare, food that doesn’t break the five-dollar mark, clean bathrooms, and nice people. And of course, modern Swedish design at quality prices. Life’s just a lot brighter and shinier at IKEA.”
How did his regular IKEA pilgrimages begin?
“It sort of evolved … how I started going so much.” Marello said sheepishly. “At first, I made a list of those little odds and ends you need but never buy—the new silverware tray, new knobs for the bathroom, new curtain rod—but then I just bagged the list and said, ‘Fuck it.’”
Now they go a few times a week, with Marello dropping James Patrick in “Smaland,” IKEA’s free childcare drop-off and what James Patrick actually thinks IKEA is called. Then Marello finds a comfortable spot in the store’s vast cafeteria and sits down with his bottomless coffee and iPad. If no children are there, he switches the TV channel to ESPN to catch up on the scores; a few IKEA associates usually join him for that.
When James Patrick’s childcare hour is up, Marello retrieves him and they visit parts of the store that James Patrick has named: the “Land of a Thousand Bedrooms” and “Magical Forest,” where they play hide and seek among the artificial plants. They finish their visit with a cinnamon bun and a quick chat with Stephen Marsden in Returns and Exchanges, who especially loves James Patrick because his own grandchild lives hours away. “Sometimes if my wife works late we go for Wednesday Rib Night—it is off the wall cheap and James Patrick loves the Swedish meatballs,” said Marello.
But he doesn’t tell his wife, Jill, a busy corporate executive, where they go for ribs. Instead of admitting that he and James Patrick have unofficially joined the IKEA family, he tries to avoid detailing their outings, or, when pressed, says that they were attending a “museum of Scandinavian design and culture.” Then James Patrick adds, “It’s called Smaland.”
Marello was outed, however, while at the home of friends Marisa and Joe Mucha, empty nesters Marello used to work with. While catching up, they asked Marello what he and James Patrick do together during the day and James Patrick immediately said “Smaaalannd!” Marello quickly described Smaland as a “small museum with a focus on Scandinavian design and culture,” and hoped that would be the end of it. “Wow, Scandinavian design and culture? That sounds totally random, but these days I guess there’s a museum for everything,” said Marisa.
James Patrick said, “It’s not small, Daddy, it’s huge. You should see the furniture pickup area!”
Joe asked, “What did you say, James Patrick?”
Marello said, “Oh he’s just talking about a part of the museum where you can touch the furniture. So what else is going on with you guys?”
Marisa, already looking suspicious asked James Patrick, “Sooooo, what else do you do at the museum of Scandinavian design and culture?”
“Oh, eat cinnamon buns and jump into the huge ball pit and throw balls all over and go to the Land of a Thousand Bedrooms and we talk to Stephen and … hey,” James Patrick said, running his hands up and down the living room chair. “This is the Ektorp Jennylund!”
At this point, the jig was up, and while Marello looked mortified, Joe said, “James Patrick, does the museum of Scandinavian design and culture have a big sign with the letters I K E A?”
“Yes! Does that spell Smaaaland?”
Marello’s friends erupted in riotous laughter and asked why he didn’t just say he was going to IKEA. “It sounds pathetic! And don’t you dare tell Jill, I don’t know how, but she still hasn’t figured it out. She’s totally turned into a man now, and barely even asks about our day. But she’d still kill me if she found out I wasn’t providing James Patrick with ‘enrichment.’”
Joe Mucha said, “Oh, don’t beat yourself up. When you’re a parent you gotta do what you gotta do to just get through it. Don’t make yourself crazy. We know all about that, right Maris?”
Marisa agreed. “James Patrick enjoys it, you enjoy it. End of story.”
Not quite. James Patrick emerged from the kitchen with a melon baller.
“This toy is miscontinued.”
“Discontinued, James Patrick,” Marello said.
“But you can bring it back and get store credit—ask for Stephen and tell him James Patrick said Hi!”
Mom’s Thrill Dashed by
Sex and the City’s Miranda
Suburgatory, USA—A mom tried to appear blasé—and failed—about news that actress Cynthia Nixon has not only moved to town, but has also enrolled her child at the local school.
“Oh yeah, it’s a great school that we’re zoned for. We’ve really lucked out. Oh and you know, I think Cynthia Nixon’s new in town and she’s zoned for the school, too,” said Joyce Birney, in an intentionally offhanded way en route to the first day of classes for her nine-year-old, Aaron.
Arriving at the school, Birney said, “Yeah I mean we could have easily afforded to send Aaron to Briarcliff, but we just thought, we have a great school right here, people love it, and—Holy shit, there’s Miranda! I mean, um, there’s Cynthia Nixon.”
Birney’s husband, Robert, turned away quickly. “I don’t know how I’m going to talk to her when I know what her boobs look like the whole time. They’re little and super white, not my bag. I mean, not bad or anything, any boobs are better than no boobs at all, but, I don’t know, it’s going to be distracting to me.”
Nixon had arrived with her partner, public education activist Christine Marinoni. As Birney and her husband attempted to hide their furtive glances, Birney discussed the values that she believes she shares with Cynthia Nixon. “You know, Miranda, she realized you have to give up your ‘city dream’ eventually. Leave Manhattan. Try Brooklyn. Now she’s here. Just like me! Can’t send your kids to those crap schools in the city. She was always the most sensible of the four girls. Oh, and she’s a lawyer, too, who didn’t stop working after Brady came along. Oh, there’s Aaron’s teacher. We need to talk to her, I guess.”
The teacher was already speaking with Marinoni, as Birney waited her turn. “Cynthia must really respect her. She never respected Steve. Now this relationship must be built on something real and lasting. That woman must worship Miranda!”
As Marinoni finished, Birney whispered to her husband, “Let’s blow off the teacher,” and decided it was “too much of a coincidence not to say hello” to Nixon,
the coincidence being “She’s just a mom like I am.”
Birney introduced herself to Nixon and said, “We’re thrilled that you’ve moved to town! It’ll take some getting used to life outside the big city and all but it’s worth it for the kids, right?!”
Nixon very cordially said, “It’s lovely to meet you! But we are only in town for six months.”
Birney looked crestfallen. “So you didn’t move here–move here?” Nixon said no. Birney then brightened, “Wait, you’re not shooting the next Sex and the City movie out here, are you????”
“Oh no no! I’m doing the play Angels in America at the McClaren.” Nixon said.
“Wow, that must be such a drag for you after shooting with all that glamour and fun costumes in Abu Dhabi!” said Birney, in what her husband Robert calls her “annoying girl-talk tone.”
“Actually that was shot in Morocco. And I’m not knocking Sex and the City at all, but really theater is my first love, so it’s a thrill for me to be here, even though we are heartbroken to take the kids out of P.S. 34 back in the city—it’s … um …” Nixon looked around. “It’s a little more diverse. And in a way, this is really a lot more like what you’d find in private school. Christine and I really believe in diverse public education. I’m sure it’s great here though!” said Nixon, seemingly trying to soften the blow.
“Ah well, great to meet you,” Birney said. As they walked away, Birney looked deflated, and whispered to Robert, “Such a boring snotty lesbian.”
PAID ADVERTISER CONTENT
The Calorie-Schmalorie Pizza Kitchen
Boy, there’s no bigger buzzkill than eating that enormous bacon cheese hamburger with fried onions and fried egg and then stumbling upon that nasty nutritional information. We know what it feels like: Oh My Fucking God. I just ate in one meal what a whole African village might get in a day!
Well, at The Calorie-Schmalorie Pizza Kitchen we will never, ever reveal the calories in our delectable dishes. To anyone. What if we’re forced by the arm of the law to post our calories? Then we’ll just pack it in; that’s how important our commitment to ignorance in eating is.
Not only will we avoid public posting and online customizable calculators, but we will resist all direct questions from our patrons. Let’s say you’re thinking of eating our wonderful, decadent Death by Chocolate Molten Lava Cake, and you think, “Gee, I should ask the waiter the nutritional content of that Lava Cake even though I really, really don’t want to.” Finally you cave and ask. Our waiters will simply tell you, “You look so thin! Do you work out? You must really deserve our wonderful cake, because you are really taking care of yourself.” Don’t try to persist. Our waiters are trained to withstand al-Qaeda terrorist interrogation—they’re not going to spill our secrets to little ole pesky (and thin) you!
Worry about your ass somewhere else. Eat, enjoy, and don’t look back. The Calorie-Schmalorie Pizza Kitchen.
Feared Room Mommies
Divide Iraqi Oil Revenue
Suburgatory, USA—The Room Mommies, infamous for their take-no-prisoners negotiating tactics, have been dispatched to settle an issue that’s dogged Iraq in the years since the 2003 US invasion: the division of oil revenue among rival factions.
Mommies Christina Hohn, Rachel Tovacs, and Lisa Epstein traveled with military escort to Baghdad, at the behest of Iraqi president Jalal Talabani. Hohn spoke from inside the still heavily fortified Green Zone.
“Listen, last year when we had to manage the holiday gifts at the preschool and divide them between the teachers, it was just a major, massive shit storm. Every teacher is supposed to get the same amount, the float teachers get a little less, Bernardo the facilities guy, he gets some too. And what happens? We have to drag these mothers kicking and screaming out of Starbucks to cough up the cash. And do they accept our authority?”
Epstein, as is custom among the Room Mommies, finished Hohn’s thought for her.
“… NO! One parent went renegade and snuck in some big Neiman card on the sly. One bought organic food baskets with kombucha or some bullshit granola crap. Some gave nothing, but still wanted their kid’s handprint on the group card. The Bible thumper gave her own card with a creepy hologram Jesus, you know, like, right out of Carrie, and then gives it to Miss Levine. LUH-vine! One actually gave swag from work… .”
Mommy Tovacs grabbed the microphone from Epstein and tried to shout over the din of mortar fire.
“… then the teacher who got swag is pissed at the teacher who got the Neiman gift card. The teacher who got kombucha had no clue what it was. Then Miss Levine filed a complaint about the Jesus card. But you know what? We got them to take their junk back and give us cash, talked Levine off the ledge, and handed out perfectly apportioned Amex gift cards, all before holiday break. And we’re going to get the dirty work done here in Baghdad, too. The Kurds, the Shia, and the Sunnis, they know our rep. We’re not here to make friends. We’re gonna knock some heads before bath and bedtime, and everyone will get their fair share of those oil dollars.”
After the morning’s first meeting, which featured a nutrient-dense snack and water sippy cups, Mommy Tovacs was ebullient at their progress. “Now, look, with 59 percent of Iraq’s oil reserves concentrated in southern Basra we pointed out to the Shia that poor Dahook, Anbar, Babel, and Dewaniya have nothing! Is that fair to Dahook, Anbar, Babel, and Dewaniya? No! And the Shia said politely, ‘No, Mommy Tovacs.’”
Epstein said this to the Kurds. “I know, I know the Sunnis did the gassing and all, but being good friends means forgiving. And sharing. And with 12 percent of total reserves held in Kurd-controlled Kirkuk, you have to share. You must share.”
The Kurdish representative, however, was visibly shaken by what happened behind closed doors. “Saddam … we praise Allah and the George Bush for saving us from that pure evil set upon our land. But these ladies, uhhhh, Saddam never met these ladies. Saddam, filthy dog, he terrified me. And the Sunnis, those puppies of the filthy dog, they scare me. But not like this. Now I see that I need to work on my sharing. I will work on my sharing.”
The Shia cleric, who demanded that the Room Mommies wear the hijab head cover during the talks, was similarly rattled by the morning’s brinkmanship. “I thought, well, I mean, I thought the hijab would soften the Room Mommies, but it didn’t work. These ladies … well … I’ve faced fedayeen [torture squads] who’ll give you cigarettes and sweets. And mercy.”
The Sunni negotiator, a former Baath party member and accused war criminal, was more blunt. “We’ll do whatever the Room Mommies tell us and, inshallah, they’ll go home, they’ll take those terrible devices—the nasal aspirator and the anal thermometer—away, and we can, what did that Jew lady call it? ‘Go nappy.’”
Waitress Wages Anti-Foodie
Jihad on Chowhound
Suburgatory, USA—A local woman, fed up with the high-end restaurant where she waitresses and the people who eat there, has launched an anonymous online jihad on the foodie website Chowhound.
“OK, [head chef] Graydon would be horror-fied that you are calling it ‘high-end.’ Because that sounds fancy and contrived, which, of course, Ploughshare isn’t at all. It’s just farm-to-table pure authenticity on a plate! This shit will set you back two hundred bucks for one dinner; the most expensive food in suburbia within a hundred miles, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still ‘rustic comfort food,’ isn’t it? Whatever that means.”
The woman spoke to this reporter at the Elm Street Applebee’s. She asked to remain anonymous, and would like to be referred to by the Internet name she uses while terrorizing the unsuspecting foodies on the section of Chowhound devoted to the region. Her Internet name is EatMyShit.
EatMyShit feels like it is her responsibility to puncture the illusions and pretensions of the foodies who make her job torture.
“So go to Ploughshare and look at the communal tables with that tiny hint of dust. That is not naturally occurring dust. It’s artfully dusted every morning. Do you know that the mapl
e used for those tables is recovered wood from a 1950s bowling alley? Because you know what foodies also like when they’re not eating food that’s farm-to-table? Irony! Mmmmm mmmm yummy yummy, gobble gobble, gimme my lobster gruyere mac and cheese and a Pabst Blue Ribbon, please!”
EatMyShit realized she could take out her many frustrations on the foodie website Chowhound, and away she went.
“Loco-More” asked if anyone knew where he could find regionally sourced wild ramps. EatMyShit responded: “You mean you need a bag of onions? Yes, Wal-Mart has started selling produce. Local enough for you? And does every fucking ingredient have to have a zip code attached to it?”
“Chowdah-hound” was in search of the perfect Tunisian Mahdjouba Djazairia sandwich with “round, flat griddled bread.” EatMyShit wrote, “Did you hear that a poor Tunisian man selling vegetables from a pushcart set himself on fire and touched off a revolution that swept the Middle East? No? Oh right, you’re too busy chasing down your super-special-ethnicI’m-the-coolest-sandwich.”
EatMyShit’s favorite guerrilla tactic is searching for people who use the words “famished” or “starved” or “dying” for something like, say, white truffle oil or nettle soup, and then posting pictures of emaciated Somali children in response.
Just where did this seemingly bottomless pit of anger come from? “You know, it’s not really that fun serving food you yourself can’t afford. I’d almost rather work in a place that actually screams out that it’s high-end, instead of pretending to be so simple and virtuous. Then you see these people trying to seem so casual snapping pictures of their precious dinners and putting it on Facebook like they just won the fucking Nobel Peace Prize for Eating.”
So when “Gordough” asked on Chowhound about the ambiance at Ploughshare, EatMyShit was eager to respond: “Douchebag with a side of Hipster. Oh, and you know the only thing worse than a hipster? An old, gray-haired suburban hipster. Give it the fuck up already.”