Hemptons Hell

It's official, I've now been to the The Hamptons and let me tell you: it's exactly like that hellish episode of Sex and the City where Charlotte gets crabs.

My mother-in-law wanted to have all us "kids" gathered for shits and giggles at a "fabulous summer rental I found online!"

So let's explore some myths and realities shall we? Let's call this a game of Puff Daddy vs. in-law reality. (Yes, I am aware that it's Diddy, but can you blame a girl for clinging to a pre-recession, golden-age, white-party past???)

Myth: "It's such a beautiful drive!"

Reality: 176 hours in the car will suck the beauty out of anything.

Myth: "The cleaning crew just left."

Reality: Cobwebs as dated as Fendi Baguettes, bugs the size of New York City rats and a kitchen floor so dirty, my white page jeans are still black on the bottom--after two clorox intensive washes.

Myth: "Everyone should pitch in and make dinner one night."

Reality: A refrigerator so inept at keeping things cool and dry that my crisp greens emerged soaked. Oh and that pasta didn't have sauce when it went in there. Really the fridge should be rechristened THE LAGOON.

Myth: "There's a gorgeous ocean breeze."

Reality: It was so fucking hot and humid I briefly considered hiding in THE LAGOON.

Myth: "There are three full baths in the house."

Reality: The only shower worth considering was the sun shower. If you know me, you know I don't do anything outside.

Myth: "Everyone here is so relaxed and the kids are having a great time."

Reality: The children, including the baby, were allowed to eat things off the aforementioned floor, had dirt under their nails that was never washed off, and felt the need to stick their grimy fingers into every possible bag of chips, bowl of snacks and item of food.

Oh and one last anecdote I must share: While eating on the patio, my brother-in-law was to busy focusing on eating his steamed shellfish ("my favorite food everrrrr") to notice that his naked, filthy toddler was crawling toward a chicken bone that had been there for at least two days (that I could count), and which was covered in swarming flies.

His reaction? "Oh," reaching over for more grub before exclaiming: "That's not a good idea."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

June

Big My Secret

On a muggy, disgusting, rainy Sunday, we thought seeing a movie was too predictable. A jaunt to the mall on Father's Day it is!

We made a deal, the hubby and I, a quick dash to Victoria's Secret for me (trust that I could hold the world record when it comes to shopping--NOBODY is quicker), before a never-ending visit to the electronics store for him.

Enter we did, amid all the semi-annual bla bla signs featuring Heidi and Co. in their skivvies. I came upon the style I was looking for before an annoying woman chased me down and asked what size I needed. "34D," I informed her*. Without skipping a beat she told me they were out of that size, but "why don't you try a 36C? You know they're sister sizes," as she pulled up the offending garment.

The hubby, in an iPhone stupor, simply snickered, as if knowing what I was about to say next.

"Let me ask you something," I said as I turned to Nostradamus, "what size shoe do you wear?"

"7.5 " was her reply.

"Narrow or Wide?"

"Narrow."

"So you wouldn't be a 7 wide, now would you?"

Long pause. "I guess not."

"I didn't think so."

Shifting gears, she tried to steer me toward a different style. "Well I do have your size in this pushup demi." The flimsy, cushiony, lacy mess had no relation whatsoever to the everyday (ok, purposely unsexy) garment I had been seeking. "A pushup kinda defeats the purpose with these bad boys, don't you think?" I could hear her brain freeze, in a Microsoft Vista fashion.

Someone needs to explain the following: Do most women go to work in push-me-up-so-high-I-spill-over boulder holders? I long ago noticed that European lingerie lines focus on pretty fabrics and sexy styles without all the muss and fuss that VS seems to be obsessed with: Bigger! Rounder! Higher! Is this an American thing? Because let me tell you, yes La Perla is pricey, but whether you're A or C cup, they love you just the same.

As we walked out, I resigned myself to the fact that I would leave the mall empty boobed handed. But those VS models wearing wings? They got nothing on my angel. He got me a shiny new toy today. Why? Just 'cause.

Yep, a great (sugar) daddy he will be.

Mrs. Cleavege Cleaver,

June

*Cleavage size has been changed to protect the innocent.

The Housewife Chronicles

W (no relation to Georgie) is one of my best friends. Married young, she is having baby "issues," i.e. her husband is as excited about the prospect as you or I about cleaning the toilet bowl.

I am also having issues with my own hubby, who views the prospect of procreating with a mixture of wonder and horror: the same expression one has while watching a volcanic eruption--"how beautiful from a distance, but goddamn it I'm so glad I'm nowhere near that." That type of thing.

So W's husband asked her to go off the pill, which was promising. But then a funny thing happened on the way to the baby forum: he stopped sleeping with her. Now you could blame that on stress, anxiety, the normal ebb and flow of married sex-life or, a silent protest against going through with baby-making deed. Well, that and the fact that he's gained 30 pounds to his already rotund frame throughout the course of their marriage. I believe the term is "mobility issues."

Why is this? I thought it was typically men who insisted on kids, with little understanding for the sacrifices (professional and personal) that most women make when carrying a baby for 40 weeks (that's TEN months, not nine).

It's official: men are the new women.

This far away from buying a pack and lighting up,

June

Taking it Off

Anyone who knows me knows that my nails are always done. I will go without food and clean clothes to visit the nail salon where they know my name (yes, nail spas are my Cheers, though I'm still working on the theme song).

While getting a polish change a few weeks ago, my beloved Rosie--whose disposition matches her name--noticed that my nails were patchy and slightly, shudder, yellow. "It's because you always have polish on," she said. Now in the midst of a full-blown existential crisis--"without my fancy polish what am I?!"--I filed this information away for another time, outwardly remaining calm while quietly panic-strucken.

A few weeks went by; as I went in yesterday and signed in for a mani/pedi service, it was as much of a shock to me as to Rosie when she asked me to pick out my color, only to hear my reply: "no color today."

This must sound silly to the majority of you who:

a. get your nails done only once in a while

b. have enough in your life to keep you otherwise busy and fulfilled.

But for little ol' June, this is a tectonic shift on a scale unseen since I dusted off my flat iron and attempted to do my own hair--to no avail. Now I just walk around with a vintage scarf and big earrings to detract from "the hair."

So how does it feel? Free, liberating, and gosh-darn-it, I'd forgotten just how cute my toes were, unencumbered by bright red polish. Who knows? This may force me to stop trying to make everything else in my life seem "right" and just accept the pretty within. Or not.

Always striving for better,

June

(S)Talk to Me

My therapist is stalking me. 

Allow me to provide some background: I last saw Dr. E two years ago, after weekly visits that lasted a couple of years. She was sweet, great at what she does and very warm, which is apparently an anomaly when it comes to the profession; detached is a word I hear often from my fellows in treatment. 

So what went wrong? She got too friendly. Our first minute or so of exchanging polite hellos and discussing weather/news/whatever turned into Dr. E spending the first fifteen minutes of our sessions (you know? the same sessions I was paying top dollar for) asking me where to get the sweater I had on that she just had to have. Describing a run that helped ease my tension (ok, anger) prompted her to veer off course in the excited manner of an annoying friend, years your junior, in high school: how far do you run? what gym do you go to? do you stretch after?! Last time I checked I wasn't a personal trainer. 

Dr. E also had the unsettling habit of inadvertently sharing way too much information about her patients with me (example: "Hi June, sorry I kept you waiting but my 5 o'clock--the British lady who moved here for her husband--was very deeply discussing her childhood parent trauma issues."). All I could think was, WHAT IN HELL'S NAME DOES SHE SAY ABOUT ME?!

The last straw came when I described finally reorganizing my closet after ignoring the messy pile for months. She practically jumped out of her leather seat and asked me how I'd found the motivation because she just couldn't get around to it. No doubt she'd been comparing my method with her other patients, I mean one can only assume. 

Big Mama June (my mother) taught me never to trust someone who always told you other people's business. After all why would he/she treat your secrets any differently? 

My frustration got the better of me. Feeling the need to end yet another no-longer-comfortable relationship (a subject we had often discussed, in fact) I just told her I felt "healed," and "ready to lay off therapy for a while." Coward? I've been called worse things--many. Just ask those friends I no longer keep.

Fast forward to our familiar theme, this economy. It hasn't been so good to Dr. E. She, like all of us, has been losing business. She called to ask me how I was doing, and when informed of my newfound ongoing leisurely state, decided it was "imperative" that I come back in for a session--or five--to work on my "growing frustration." 

Dr. E called me three times in the past week.

Is business just slowing down? Or did others find themselves in my dire situation: playing friend to someone whose feelings we should not have to worry about?

Too bad I don't have a shrink to work through these feelings with.

Feeling like Betty Draper in therapy,

June

Good Morning, Interrupted

I was making myself a second pot of coffee (mommy needs her drugs in the morning), watching "The View," minding my own pajama-wearing, still-haven't-brushed-my-teeth business when...

the doorbell rang.

It was the repair man, unannounced, expecting to come in and perform whatever repairs have been in dire need of attention for weeks, and now this slob (you have no idea how much of understatement that is) wanted to interrupt one of my favorite activities: outwardly making of fun of the ladies, while secretly wondering when my mother and I turned into the same demographic. 

Anyway, I opened the door half way and told him to C-A-L-L N-E-X-T T-I-M-E, before slamming the door shut and getting back to the safe familiar womb that is my couch. 

Having now grown frustrated with the morning's interruption, I decided to take it out on share with my husband, who would no doubt not give a flying fuck love to hear about it. 

Unlike my boring self, he gets up and goes to work everyday, albeit, to a job he deplores, but more on that some other time. Naturally, it goes to voice mail, at which point I proceed to leave a long, rambling message in which I stressed "how busy I am", "it's not like I didn't have plans this morning" and "I mean, does he just think I just sit around ALL DAY?"

As I hung up, pondering how patient he will, no doubt, be about my predicament, I received a text message from my beloved that read one line: "Pooping. Call you right back."

For all of you out there already living with your significant other and wondering how marriage changes things? That's how marriage changes things. 

Mourning the death of romance,

June

P.S. love you honey, poop and all. 

Reliving My Youth...Already?!

(Culprit: the actual African print.)

So I tick off an age box between the numbers 30 and 40. This should not mean that I'm now relegated to housewife uniforms that fall under the following categories:

☒Rich, chubby housewife who disguises the fact that she never got back to her (eating disorder-induced) pre-baby weight with any and every designer garment/bag/shoe--she doesn't need to have style, she can buy Fashion!

☒Soccer mom jeans wearer.

☑Someone who wears sweatpants (ok, pajamas) everywhere with a constant air of "Oh I'm just on my way to the gym..."

In an attempt to shake things up, I put on my favorite bell-bottom-y summer jeans (70s vibe--something Nicole Ritchie would wear), bright T-shirt, and layered gold necklaces, all while sporting the messiest, frizziest hair you've ever seen (young, cool people don't actually bother with their hair do they?)

Feeling very hip (pun intended) indeed, I made my way to American Apparel, or as it's better known, where you can find every ugly trendy item you missed the first time around. Now I'm a courageous girl when it comes to fashion, but I do draw the line at African-print harem pants (hello? American Apparel? MC Hammer called. Even he doesn't want that look back). 

The final straw was when a lovely--if dim--salesgirl asked if I'd seen their newest dress. She then lead me to the vicinity of tight nylon covered in paint splatter that can be best described as burnt-sienna-no-wait-it's really-burnt-neon. Dimwit mistook my gasp of repulsion for pleasure and said, "I know! Isn't it amazing? SO vintage," without an ounce of irony. 

Ladies and gentleman, I never thought I'd live to see the day when something I wore long and hard came back to haunt me in my (is it twilight yet?) "grown-up" years. 

Join me next week as I relive the Vamp nail polish craze and watch "old movies" like "Trainspotting" and "Reality Bites". 

For the record: Ben Stiller has salt in his pepper, Winona Ryder plays Spock's mom in the new Star Trek and Ethan Hawke has wrinkles. All over his face.  

As Mr. Pointy Ears would say, this is all very illogical.

June