Overheard at a Kohl's dressing room:
Mother: Honey, I think those are too small.
Daughter: Your mom's too small!
(Long pause)
Mother: I don't have a mother...
Daughter: I know. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
That dirty girl
I was always jealous of the women in white dresses. No, not brides. Just any woman in a white dress, worn tastefully after Memorial Day, as she struts down sidewalks or across lawns at garden parties, cottony fabric blowing in the breeze behind her. I've always harbored a slow, burning contempt for the woman who can wear a crisp white sweater that looks brand new after six-months of heavy wear and ample washings.
Because I could never do that. I am a chronic spiller, usually spilling something at least once a day, most often on myself. All of my garments are speckled with splashes of coffee, checkered with fluorescent highlighter marks, or mapped with wandering paths of ink from mid-thigh to knee.
I kept thinking this was something I would grow out of, like a little girl grows out of sitting with her legs splayed open in public, or belching the alphabet with her brothers. But it hasn't happened. I am a refined, young woman in most other ways. I paint my toe nails with some regularity, can apply eye liner with relative precision, and usually carry just the right amount of womanly accessories in my handbag. But I will always be the girl with stains all over her clothes. I might leave the house fresh as a daisy in the morning, and make it about an hour before the train unexpectedly jerks forward, and hot tea splashes onto my khaki pencil skirt.
On Tuesday, as I ate a salad at my internship desk, I pulled open the dressing packet, and emptied some of its contents onto the fresh bed of baby spinach, feta and green beans that was eagerly awaiting digestion in my tumtum. About halfway through, I decided more raspberry vinaigrette was in order, picked up the packet, and in a split second, squirted several tablespoons of the dressing all over my pants, and onto a new t-shirt. This was no discreet stain. It looked like I had been slaughtering hogs in my cubicle for a mid-afternoon pig roast.
When I asked an associate editor for her pass card for the bathroom, I saw her lips turn up slightly, and her brow furrow while she tried not to laugh at me. That poor dirty girl with the stains all over her clothes. She took pity on me and handed me the bathroom pass, while averting her gaze from the sanguine, oily mess that was dripping from crotch to knee on my pants, and chest to hip on my t-shirt. After several minutes of fierce blotting and furious towel-wetting in the powder room, the stain was no better; in fact, it looked considerably worse.
As I stood staring hopelessly into the mirror, an image of Kelly Ripa in the Tide-to-Go commercials flooded my head. NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOOD BYYYYEEE. This mess I made was even too big for a Tide-to-Go stick. What would Kelly say? I bet even her tiny toddlers do not make such frequent and sloppy messes.
When I got home, my mother was ready with her stain-removing arsenal. She could take the spots out of a leopard if she wanted. While the clothes were soaking, she discreetly tucked a Tide pen into my work bag, and shot me a leveling gaze that only a mother can give. The gaze that tells you instantly, "You may be fully grown, but you will always be an incompetent four-year-old who needs her mother, and what would you ever do without me?" I muttered thanks and she patted my shoulder and said "I think you'll have more use for that than I will."
Yes, mother. I think I always will.
Because I could never do that. I am a chronic spiller, usually spilling something at least once a day, most often on myself. All of my garments are speckled with splashes of coffee, checkered with fluorescent highlighter marks, or mapped with wandering paths of ink from mid-thigh to knee.
I kept thinking this was something I would grow out of, like a little girl grows out of sitting with her legs splayed open in public, or belching the alphabet with her brothers. But it hasn't happened. I am a refined, young woman in most other ways. I paint my toe nails with some regularity, can apply eye liner with relative precision, and usually carry just the right amount of womanly accessories in my handbag. But I will always be the girl with stains all over her clothes. I might leave the house fresh as a daisy in the morning, and make it about an hour before the train unexpectedly jerks forward, and hot tea splashes onto my khaki pencil skirt.
On Tuesday, as I ate a salad at my internship desk, I pulled open the dressing packet, and emptied some of its contents onto the fresh bed of baby spinach, feta and green beans that was eagerly awaiting digestion in my tumtum. About halfway through, I decided more raspberry vinaigrette was in order, picked up the packet, and in a split second, squirted several tablespoons of the dressing all over my pants, and onto a new t-shirt. This was no discreet stain. It looked like I had been slaughtering hogs in my cubicle for a mid-afternoon pig roast.
When I asked an associate editor for her pass card for the bathroom, I saw her lips turn up slightly, and her brow furrow while she tried not to laugh at me. That poor dirty girl with the stains all over her clothes. She took pity on me and handed me the bathroom pass, while averting her gaze from the sanguine, oily mess that was dripping from crotch to knee on my pants, and chest to hip on my t-shirt. After several minutes of fierce blotting and furious towel-wetting in the powder room, the stain was no better; in fact, it looked considerably worse.
As I stood staring hopelessly into the mirror, an image of Kelly Ripa in the Tide-to-Go commercials flooded my head. NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOOD BYYYYEEE. This mess I made was even too big for a Tide-to-Go stick. What would Kelly say? I bet even her tiny toddlers do not make such frequent and sloppy messes.
When I got home, my mother was ready with her stain-removing arsenal. She could take the spots out of a leopard if she wanted. While the clothes were soaking, she discreetly tucked a Tide pen into my work bag, and shot me a leveling gaze that only a mother can give. The gaze that tells you instantly, "You may be fully grown, but you will always be an incompetent four-year-old who needs her mother, and what would you ever do without me?" I muttered thanks and she patted my shoulder and said "I think you'll have more use for that than I will."
Yes, mother. I think I always will.
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