The 2011 MOTY Awards were truly an extravaganza as mommies from all across this beautiful country of ours converged upon the Grand Ballroom of the Hilton Garden Suites right here on New York’s City’s West 28th Street. This is an historic first for the MOTYs, which had been held in Abilene, Texas from the moment of their conception.
Yours truly and my two very best mommy friends, Lizzie and Kay, shared a cab from the UES to join in the fun and perhaps see one of our own take home a prize (spoiler alert)! What a rush, whizzing past 72nd Street on our way downtown to the East Village to celebrate the very best in motherhood. Lizzie, Kay and I shed a tear in unison as we contemplated coming together with women from all walks of life --even women whose husbands don’t work in Finance! -- to celebrate our common love and devotion for our children.
Bravely pretending the gays and homeless people loitering at the entrance to the hotel did not exist, this year’s winning mommies walked the red carpet in the latest from Chloe (moi et mes amies) and Ricardo Montalban for Target (everyone else) to collect their prizes for being the Very Best Mommies of 2011!
The ceremonies opened with the Pledge of Allegiance and a special Mother’s Prayer read aloud by Barbara Jean Dean, age 7, from Hialeah, Florida. “Dear Jesus,” she said, “Please help us to hate evil and please watch over all the unborn children and don’t let bad mommies eat them.” Amen, Jean!
Our Mommy Hostess with the Mostest, Elizabeth Hasselbeck, stunning in a cotton-candy pink gown from her eponymous QVC line, took the stage to announce the winner of the prize for the Mommy with the Healthiest Yum Yums. Congratulations Sandra Pancake, an Oregon mother of six whose children have been raised on not only an organic diet, but one 100% grown in Sandra’s backyard garden, which she composts solely with her own dear children’s refuse. Not easy for a woman with no hands, but you won’t hear Sandra complain!
There could have been an awkward moment when Elizabeth tried to hand Sandra her plaque, but Sandra demurely turned her back to the audience, lifted her right leg out of her sandal, and took that plaque in her toes like an absolute monkey. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as she hopped off the stage!
Next, Elizabeth announced the winner of the Award for the Mommy Who Suffered the Most (Non-Bed-Rest Category). No surprise here – the winner was Caitlyn Snodgrass from Ramsey, New Jersey. Caitlyn, widowed at 40 after her husband Rodney suffered a massive heart attack when the New Jersey Devils missed the playoffs, drove her son Ryan and his best friends Jake and Landry a total of 41,600 weekend miles to attend hockey games and practices. And this after working double-shifts every day as a critical care nurse at Ramsey Memorial Hospital!
Caitlyn accepted her award with a simple “Thank you” before passing out on stage. The crowd erupted into cheers of “USA! USA!” until Caitlyn came to and crawled to the wings, smiling bravely.
Elizabeth then pressed her hand to the tiny silver cross at her neck and the room grew quiet. “This next award really resonates with me,” she said, “because I had prayed for the opportunity to show my unborn children how much I loved them from the moment of conception.”
There was non-stop applause and foot-stomping for the next eight minutes until Elizabeth counted 1-2-3 on her fingers then pointed to her eyes, the universal sign for “1, 2, 3, eyes on me!” At that moment, you couldn’t hear a flag pin drop.
“The winner of the Award for the Mommy Who Suffered the Most (Bed Rest Category) is New York’s very own Lizzie de Lima!” announced Elizabeth. “Lizzie, immediately after coitus with her DH, took to her bed with her head at the foot of the bed and her legs at a forty-five degree angle from the headboard. Lizzie remained in that position for forty-eight hours, after which she stayed in bed, with pillows under her hips and knees, for the next ten months until her beautiful daughter Virginia was born. Right there, in that very bed! Come on up here Lizzie!”
I can tell you, because I was sitting right next to her because I am one of her dearest mommy friends, that Lizzie was shaking like a leaf when she heard her name called. She made her way to the stage and took the microphone.
“I really can’t tell you what this means to me,” Lizzie said. “All I can say is that once I relearned how to walk and recovered from the bedsores, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my days spreading the word about the benefits of PCBR, post-coitus bed rest, especially for those mommies out there who, like me, are … over 29!”
Wild laughter and cheers for Lizzie!
Finally, we came to the Breastfeeding Resilience Award.
“The winner of this award is truly a heroine,” announced Elizabeth. “An investment banker and a woman, this Mommy was pumping her breast milk while working 25-hour days finalizing a telecom deal in Mexico. She would pump her precious milk and then send it by corporate jet back to Westport, Connecticut to feed her two-week-old son William Harry.”
“Awwwwww,” said the crowd in unison.
Elizabeth held up her hand. “But that’s not all,” she said.
“As this deal was about to close, her breast pump broke!”
Two hundred mommies were perched on the edge of their seats.
“Not to be deterred, she purchased a Mexican breast pump and carried on pumping. Except do you know where that Mexican breast pump was manufactured?”
“China! China!” we cried.
“Exactly,” said Elizabeth. “And it ripped her nipple clean off.”
There were gasps throughout the room.
“So you know what this mommy did next, crouched on top of a toilet in the Mexico City Corporate Suites Hotel? She put that pump on her other breast and carried on pumping until she had six ounces!”
“Hurrah!” we shouted.
“Mary Anne Jones-Davis, come on up here, girl, and claim your prize!”
Mary Anne, snappy in an Anne Taylor double-breasted suit that hid the bandages from her recent nipple transplant, leapt on stage in a single bound.
“My fellow mommies,” she said. “I am humbled to be in your presence. I didn’t do this for the glory. I didn’t do this to win a MOTY. I did it because it was the best thing for my son.”
I can tell you, I still have chills.
Then, when we thought we had really hit the highlight of the evening, you’ll never guess who came on stage next!
Sarah Palin, bless her!
Sarah, bless her, came all the way to New York City to continue her important work lobbying for a constitutional ban on homosexual marriage. And while she was in town, she presented the Constructive Criticism Award (or what Sarah affectionately referred to as “The Turkey”) to the Mommy Most in Need of Improvement (excluding all those truly horrible mommies in news stories too upsetting to read) to … drumroll please …
All Mommies of Vegan Children!!
Accepting the award on their behalf was none other than Alanis Morissette, who also was on hand to accept The Turkey for the Not-Nicest Baby Name (Boys’ Category ) for her son Ever Imre.
“‘Happily Ever After Imre’ would be one thing,” noted my table mate, Kathie Lee Duncan of Des Moines, Iowa, proud mother of four sons, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
Ms. Morissette had little to say for herself, perhaps because she arrived at the MOTYs in the back of Todd Palin’s snowmobile, bless him, bound by her hands and feet with a paper bag over her head.
“Mmmmf frmmmh hmmmm,” said Ms. Morissette, writhing on the stage.
“I’m pretty sure she just said, ‘God Bless America!’” exclaimed Sarah Palin, bless her, pulling out a pink lipstick from her purse and drawing a big smiley face on the paper sack.
Then, during perhaps the most dramatic moment of the evening, Ms. Morissette jackknifed her feet to her chin, freeing the bag from her head.
“I’m not even an American, you morons!” Ms. Morissette shouted. “I’m from Canada!”
“I can see Canada from my porch!” responded Sarah, bless her, to thunderous applause.
Then Todd, bless him, shot Ms. Morissette in her ample bottom with a moose tranquilizer and tucked her right back into the snowmobile.
What a night!
See you next year folks!
* Mother of the Year
HOME WITH BABY HENRY
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
My Boss Sucks ... On Me
It’s almost the first anniversary of the day I quit my job. I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to quit. I had asked my boss, the CEO of the publishing company for which I worked as the general counsel, to breakfast. Just to talk. And see if maybe I could work part-time. Or full time from home while holding my baby.
I brought Henry with me because he was just a few weeks old, still small enough to evaporate if I left him out of my sight for more than a few seconds.
My boss was already there, sitting in a corner, drinking coffee. My stomach dropped. She was the first boss who ever intimidated me. And that’s saying something.
I have worked for a brilliant federal judge and half the white shoe law firms in this town, for some amazing lawyers and for more than a few who seemed to have escaped from the Reptile House at the Bronx Zoo. And none of them scared me because I knew that under their Brooks Brothers suits (or Armani, in the case of a particular downtown firm), they were the same little boys who once peed their pants in the lunch room and fainted during the fetal pig dissection.
But this CEO, she was different. A non-lawyer, formerly in sales, she had an off-with-their-heads style of management that kept the most senior executives cowed. She sometimes had a salad for lunch, sometimes a vice president. I respected her, and on this particular morning, yes, I feared her.
Still, she had a soft side for babies, and was bouncing Henry gently on her knee, cooing to him.
“Oooh,” she said. “We could set up a little nursery in the office, couldn’t we?”
Henry was a warm little bobble head then with a new gummy smile that could melt tungsten. Even his poop smelled like fresh grass and coconuts.
She was charmed.
Then we had a long conversation about the current demands of the business, an upcoming senior executives’ meeting in Vegas, and the energy we needed to start the Second Quarter with a bang.
I realized that I couldn’t fly to Vegas and leave Henry in New York. Let’s face it -- I hadn’t gone south of 72nd Street since Henry was born. And I had no energy. I wasn’t a lawyer, I was a husk. I saw myself in the office draped across my desk like an empty suit while my CEO spun through the executive suite like a tornado in black pumps.
I had to tell her I wasn’t coming back, but how? She was drawing a pie chart on a napkin, speaking animatedly about a new sales initiative. I had a trick I used when she gave me my monthly reviews. She had a strong British accent, so I just closed my eyes a little, until everything was slightly blurred, and pretended I was in a Monty Python skit. Then whatever she said was funny: “You still haven’t finished that vendor contracts template, have you? The one you promised me last month?” Ha ha!
So I squinted a little and blurted out: “I am either going to be spending all my time with you or Henry. And I can’t help it. I pick Henry!”
She was crestfallen, but understanding. Her reaction was perfect and I didn’t even have to pretend we were talking about a parrot or a cheeseburger to get through the rest of the conversation.
I rolled Henry home in his stroller and spent the rest of the day marveling that I would now be a full-time-mother. A SAHM, as we stay-at-home-mothers like to say. And for months, I doted on my little baby while he gazed at me lovingly.
Then one day, out of the blue, he said, “Get that!” He was pointing to a book. I got it for him and he threw it on the ground in disgust, probably because it had no pictures.
“Up!” he said later, and I picked him up.
“More,” he signed, putting his fingertips together, and I gave him another helping of pureed sweet potatoes. At his next meal, he spit out his macaroni, so I made him cheese toast instead.
“Uh oh,” he said the following day at breakfast, then tossed his sippee cup on the floor. I picked it up. “Uh oh,” he said again, this time throwing a handful of Cheerios at me.
“That!” said Henry, pointing at a ball. I brought him the ball. “Neh, neh, that!” he said, shaking his head at me.
“What?” I asked.
“That!” he shouted.
I brought him his dinosaur puzzle. He shook his head. “Neh, that!” I brought him his stuffed chameleon. His face was turning purple. He threw himself backwards, like an armless gymnast attempting a back handspring.
“That! That!” he cried, writhing on the carpet.
“What? The ducky? The pirate ship? The snorkel?”
He stood and strode to his miniature batting tee and picked up the plastic bat. He walked back to me and whacked me on top of the head. “That,” he said, smiling.
And that’s when it occurred to me. I have a new boss. A supervisor in size 3 Pampers, and he makes my former CEO look like a Twinkie milkshake in comparison.
I do say “No,” to Henry. I say it often and with gusto. But he just says it right back.
“Henry, no, you can’t play with that. That’s Windex.”
“Neh.”
“No.”
“Neh.”
“No!”
“Neh!”
“NO!”
“NEH!”
“NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!”
“NEH, NEH, NEH, NEH, NEH, NEH!”
Okay, so he’s not the first boss to bite me on the nipple.
That’s a joke. Yes he is. But he literally won’t allow me to stop breastfeeding him.
He’s relentless. “Up,” he says, and I pick him up, lest he dive backwards on to the hardwood floor. He walks perfectly well, but he likes me to carry him around the apartment like he’s Emperor Shah Jahan and I’m an elephant. He even gives a dictatorial salute as we parade around the living room – it’s the beauty queen wave without the wrist motion.
Then he says, “Vite!” which is “fast” in French and means that he wants me to run as fast as I can while carrying him, until the wind catches his corn silk cowlick. He smiles a small, satisfied smile. Until I stop.
Tubby time is the worst.
“Henry, time to get out of the tubby.”
“Neh.”
“Yes.”
“Neh.” He kicks his legs violently.
“Yes, Henry, now.”
“Neh!” He bows his head forward and comes up with a bubble beard.
“You can’t fool me,” I tell him. “I know it’s still you, Henry, and it’s time to get out of the tubby!”
And that’s when I lunge to catch his head as he tries to slam it against the side of the tub in protest.
I have had my share of bosses who were full of s*&%, but at least I used the phrase figuratively. Although I had to carry my share of other people’s litigation bags, their underthings were not my problem. Now that Henry eats like a real person, he poops like a manbaby and his diapers smell like a truck stop toilet. And he hates to be changed, so midway through cleaning what should be designated a Superfund site, Henry arches his back and tries to fling himself on to his stomach despite the fact I am holding his legs in a vice-like grip.
Sometimes he is successful.
That’s when I cry a little. Then I hug him ferociously. And then we both laugh hysterically, me because I am now literally, not figuratively, in crap up to my elbows, and Henry because he has a baby sense of humor and thinks poop is hilarious.
And I wonder, what would have happened if I had been given massive doses of oxytocin while working as an associate in a law firm?
I brought Henry with me because he was just a few weeks old, still small enough to evaporate if I left him out of my sight for more than a few seconds.
My boss was already there, sitting in a corner, drinking coffee. My stomach dropped. She was the first boss who ever intimidated me. And that’s saying something.
I have worked for a brilliant federal judge and half the white shoe law firms in this town, for some amazing lawyers and for more than a few who seemed to have escaped from the Reptile House at the Bronx Zoo. And none of them scared me because I knew that under their Brooks Brothers suits (or Armani, in the case of a particular downtown firm), they were the same little boys who once peed their pants in the lunch room and fainted during the fetal pig dissection.
But this CEO, she was different. A non-lawyer, formerly in sales, she had an off-with-their-heads style of management that kept the most senior executives cowed. She sometimes had a salad for lunch, sometimes a vice president. I respected her, and on this particular morning, yes, I feared her.
Still, she had a soft side for babies, and was bouncing Henry gently on her knee, cooing to him.
“Oooh,” she said. “We could set up a little nursery in the office, couldn’t we?”
Henry was a warm little bobble head then with a new gummy smile that could melt tungsten. Even his poop smelled like fresh grass and coconuts.
She was charmed.
Then we had a long conversation about the current demands of the business, an upcoming senior executives’ meeting in Vegas, and the energy we needed to start the Second Quarter with a bang.
I realized that I couldn’t fly to Vegas and leave Henry in New York. Let’s face it -- I hadn’t gone south of 72nd Street since Henry was born. And I had no energy. I wasn’t a lawyer, I was a husk. I saw myself in the office draped across my desk like an empty suit while my CEO spun through the executive suite like a tornado in black pumps.
I had to tell her I wasn’t coming back, but how? She was drawing a pie chart on a napkin, speaking animatedly about a new sales initiative. I had a trick I used when she gave me my monthly reviews. She had a strong British accent, so I just closed my eyes a little, until everything was slightly blurred, and pretended I was in a Monty Python skit. Then whatever she said was funny: “You still haven’t finished that vendor contracts template, have you? The one you promised me last month?” Ha ha!
So I squinted a little and blurted out: “I am either going to be spending all my time with you or Henry. And I can’t help it. I pick Henry!”
She was crestfallen, but understanding. Her reaction was perfect and I didn’t even have to pretend we were talking about a parrot or a cheeseburger to get through the rest of the conversation.
I rolled Henry home in his stroller and spent the rest of the day marveling that I would now be a full-time-mother. A SAHM, as we stay-at-home-mothers like to say. And for months, I doted on my little baby while he gazed at me lovingly.
Then one day, out of the blue, he said, “Get that!” He was pointing to a book. I got it for him and he threw it on the ground in disgust, probably because it had no pictures.
“Up!” he said later, and I picked him up.
“More,” he signed, putting his fingertips together, and I gave him another helping of pureed sweet potatoes. At his next meal, he spit out his macaroni, so I made him cheese toast instead.
“Uh oh,” he said the following day at breakfast, then tossed his sippee cup on the floor. I picked it up. “Uh oh,” he said again, this time throwing a handful of Cheerios at me.
“That!” said Henry, pointing at a ball. I brought him the ball. “Neh, neh, that!” he said, shaking his head at me.
“What?” I asked.
“That!” he shouted.
I brought him his dinosaur puzzle. He shook his head. “Neh, that!” I brought him his stuffed chameleon. His face was turning purple. He threw himself backwards, like an armless gymnast attempting a back handspring.
“That! That!” he cried, writhing on the carpet.
“What? The ducky? The pirate ship? The snorkel?”
He stood and strode to his miniature batting tee and picked up the plastic bat. He walked back to me and whacked me on top of the head. “That,” he said, smiling.
And that’s when it occurred to me. I have a new boss. A supervisor in size 3 Pampers, and he makes my former CEO look like a Twinkie milkshake in comparison.
I do say “No,” to Henry. I say it often and with gusto. But he just says it right back.
“Henry, no, you can’t play with that. That’s Windex.”
“Neh.”
“No.”
“Neh.”
“No!”
“Neh!”
“NO!”
“NEH!”
“NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!”
“NEH, NEH, NEH, NEH, NEH, NEH!”
Okay, so he’s not the first boss to bite me on the nipple.
That’s a joke. Yes he is. But he literally won’t allow me to stop breastfeeding him.
He’s relentless. “Up,” he says, and I pick him up, lest he dive backwards on to the hardwood floor. He walks perfectly well, but he likes me to carry him around the apartment like he’s Emperor Shah Jahan and I’m an elephant. He even gives a dictatorial salute as we parade around the living room – it’s the beauty queen wave without the wrist motion.
Then he says, “Vite!” which is “fast” in French and means that he wants me to run as fast as I can while carrying him, until the wind catches his corn silk cowlick. He smiles a small, satisfied smile. Until I stop.
Tubby time is the worst.
“Henry, time to get out of the tubby.”
“Neh.”
“Yes.”
“Neh.” He kicks his legs violently.
“Yes, Henry, now.”
“Neh!” He bows his head forward and comes up with a bubble beard.
“You can’t fool me,” I tell him. “I know it’s still you, Henry, and it’s time to get out of the tubby!”
And that’s when I lunge to catch his head as he tries to slam it against the side of the tub in protest.
I have had my share of bosses who were full of s*&%, but at least I used the phrase figuratively. Although I had to carry my share of other people’s litigation bags, their underthings were not my problem. Now that Henry eats like a real person, he poops like a manbaby and his diapers smell like a truck stop toilet. And he hates to be changed, so midway through cleaning what should be designated a Superfund site, Henry arches his back and tries to fling himself on to his stomach despite the fact I am holding his legs in a vice-like grip.
Sometimes he is successful.
That’s when I cry a little. Then I hug him ferociously. And then we both laugh hysterically, me because I am now literally, not figuratively, in crap up to my elbows, and Henry because he has a baby sense of humor and thinks poop is hilarious.
And I wonder, what would have happened if I had been given massive doses of oxytocin while working as an associate in a law firm?
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Mama Auditions for the Role of "Mom"
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Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Puttin' on the Ritz
Wild horses couldn't drag me away from Henry. But the promise of a New Year's Eve soiree at the Ritz in Paris with Kate and her husband Jeff had me packing my Louboutins and waving "Ta ta!" to my baby boy faster than you can say foie gras.
With Henry entrusted to his uber-competent babysitter Perri, who would be tag-teaming with my parents for the next five days, Scott and I struck out for Newark Airport. He had convinced me to pack light. No electric breast pump, no framed photographs of the children. Just a few dresses, six pairs of shoes, and my skinny jeans.
Kate and I had made the compelling argument that we had to fly Business First since we were only going for a long weekend and wouldn't have time to recover from jet lag. Kate is wise in many ways and has taught me many things. Like this little chestnut from the ad world: If you want your man to spend a lot of money on something he doesn't necessarily want himself, suggest a manly slogan to justify it and allow him to adopt the slogan as his own. This second part is critical.
Thus, to Scott, she said of the Business First ticket: "You're protecting your investment." To her husband, she added: "Go big or go home!"
Using our slogans, we also convinced our men that our only real option for New Year's Eve was the four-figure party at the Ritz. That way we wouldn't have to walk outside and potentially ruin our shoes and the expensive hairdos for which Kate had made us appointments at the hotel's salon -- once again, protecting investments! And hey, go big or go home!
His special slogan now firmly entrenched in his subconscious, Scott gamely convinced himself that not waiting in line to check in at the airport was worth the price of the ticket. Since thousands of flights had just been cancelled because of a blizzard days earlier and the lines were epic, this was almost true. In the lounge, we were served free red wine, rail drinks and all the potato chips we could eat. "This is the life," Scott said, sipping a Popov Vodka and tonic. "Go big or go home," agreed Jeff, toasting us with a plastic glass of Chateau Continental.
Once on the plane, we settled into our double-wide seats. We were torn between trying to get a full 7-hours' sleep and consuming everything our business class seats afforded us. We split the difference, eating the four-course dinner - warm nuts, a salad of mozzarella balls and limp greens, something that tasted like chicken and an ice cream sundae with all available toppings - but forgoing the onflight entertainment to catch a few hours of shut-eye.
We landed in Paris. I had taken an Ambien, and when I stood up to deplane, I felt like I was on a moon walk. But as soon as the four of us piled into a taxi and shouted "Au Ritz!" I was rejuvenated.
"Your rooms are ready," announced the desk clerk, which, at 10:30 a.m. at the Ritz, was a miracle. Kate and I had stayed there before and were always forced to wait for check-in at 3:30 p.m. sharp. We were taken to a hallway I had never seen before, up an elevator that appeared out of the shadows to what may have been a "special unit" of the Ritz, like the locked ward in a hospital. Our room was sparse. White. There was none of the Louis XIV furniture I had come to expect from my favorite hotel in the world.
"Not to be an ingrate," I began, "but this really isn't what we were looking for in a room."
Jeff had already unpacked, but Scott knew from the look on my face we weren't staying. Kate and I arranged with the concierge to have us moved to adjacent rooms done in the more traditional style of the Ritz.
Everything was going perfectly. I went inside our new marble bathroom with the plastic travel breast pump I had brought in lieu of the 10-pound electric version I used at home. I didn't have the instructions with me, so I revved up my new iPad. An Internet connection cost 25 euros, but no matter, I had to pump to avoid the rock-hard leaking disasters that my boobs would become without it. Thus, I was really just protecting our investment in the weekend.
There were 12 steps to putting the pump together, like AA for the lactating. It took me about a half hour to assemble the pump, then another hour of frantic hand pumping to get the job done. I was frustrated, but kept up a positive attitude, thinking about how Scott and I would soon be strolling down the Rue St. Honore.
The next day was New Years Eve. The Ritz soiree started at 8 p.m. Kate and I began our preparations at 4 o'clock with hair appointments while Scott and Jeff had cocktails by the indoor pool.
We were blow-dried and brushed to perfection while champagne and chocolates were passed. Heaven. Then Fred, the Ritz's in-house make-up artist, offered his services. Kate went first. Kate is a knock-out on her worst day, and in Fred's hands, she became a super model. I was so excited for my turn, I was bouncing up and down in my seat and clapping my hands like a trained seal.
But something seemed off about my look. Fred swooped black make-up around my eyes, then decorated the corners with false eyelashes. The base color of my face went from white to a cheddar cheese tone. "Don't worry," said Kate. "This is going to look fabulous in pictures." And wasn't that what really mattered?
Time was ticking - less than two hours before the big party. But I didn't feel rushed. All I had to do was pump and put on my dress. I dallied in the salon, sipping champagne and chatting with other revelers.
"We should get going," said Kate.
Back in the room, Scott was getting dressed. He tried not to look surprised by my appearance. With my hair and make-up done, but still in a t-shirt which was now showing two wet bulls-eyes because my boobs were leaking, I looked off, like a transvestite in full make-up wearing a hairnet and no wig.
I opened my iPad to find the directions for my travel pump and started putting it together. Something was wrong. "The lid doesn't fit anymore!" I complained to Scott.
"That's impossible," he said.
"Look!" I demonstrated, trying to force the top down. Then there was a sickening sound, like a bone breaking. The plastic catch that helped vacuum seal the pump broke off.
There was a moment of total silence.
Then my tears.
"Why did I listen to you when you said not to pack my electric pump?" I yelled at Scott, who had started backing towards the door.
"I'll fix it," he said.
He called the concierge and spoke in hushed tones, then put down the receiver, looking satisfied.
"Someone is coming upstairs to discuss this with you," he said.
"What? I don't need a conversation, I need an electric pump. Now! And it's 7 p.m.! On New Year's Eve! In France!"
I picked up the phone and dialed the concierge, speaking rapid-fire French.
"Hello? Yes, listen, I am a mother. Who feeds her baby. With her breast. But the baby is in New York and so I must discharge the milk. Understand? So I need an apparatus to do that for me."
"Yes, madam. I believe we may have something here in the hotel. A moment, please."
The concierge came back on the line.
"We will send something up to you now."
I had a bad feeling. "Are you talking about a cell phone charger?" I asked.
"Yes, madam."
"Did you understand anything I just said?" I asked.
There was a cough.
"J'ai envie d'un breast pump," I repeated.
"Ah, a breast pump. We can try to rent one for you at the emergency chemists."
"Okay, great, now we're getting somewhere."
"Spend any amount of money you need to get the pump," said Scott. "I'm just protecting my investment."
"Out!" I ordered.
"I'll be in the bar," he said, closing the door behind him.
And within 15 minutes, a bellhop appeared holding a discreet brown valise and a paper sack.
"Will there be anything else?" he asked.
"No, merci. Merci beaucoup!" I handed him a fistful of euros.
Then I opened the valise. I was expecting a pump, but instead, there was what appeared to be a small red toaster oven. In the paper sack was a funnel, a vial and several pieces of tubing. None of which fit on the toaster oven. I looked at the clock. 7:20 p.m. It was like trying to solve a Rubik's cube at gun point.
"Kate!" I went running to her room, pounding on the door. "Help!"
Kate came into the room. "None of this fits!" I wailed. "I'm leaking. I can't go to the party!"
7:25.
"Don't cry!" commanded Kate. "Your eyelashes will fall off. Are there instructions?"
"Yes," I said. "But I don't speak breast pump French. None of these words have any meaning to me."
I called the concierge. "I need a French person. Any French person. To translate some directions for me."
Within a minute, the bellhop was back at the door. He looked sixteen, tops.
"They gave me a demonstration on how to use this," he said, blushing a deep red.
He took off his white gloves and fiddled with the tubing until he had secured it over the "on" switch.
"That's the on switch!" I screamed frantically. "It can't go on there!"
He fumbled while I paced. Then Kate took control. She connected the tubes to the vial and attached the vial to the toaster oven.
"Voila!" said Kate.
The bellhop turned to go.
"Don't let him leave until I try this," I said.
I went into the bathroom while Kate blocked the door to the room.
I put the funnel to my breast and turned on the machine. The machine made a sound, like "grrrrrmmmmmmmmm" and sucked my nipple into the funnel all the way. I didn't know a nipple could stretch like that. The pain was other-worldly, like dropping a frozen turkey on your toe. And the machine wouldn't let go. It was like a pit bull with a new chew toy. I tried using both hands to pry off the funnel, but it wouldn't budge.
I started screaming. Kate ran into the bathroom and turned off the machine. My nipple retracted and was hanging off my chest at an odd angle, like a broken arm.
"I can't do it," I sobbed. "It hurts."
Kate fiddled with the tubing and removed a stopper. "Here," she said. "Put your thumb over this, then remove it." I tried the pump again. With my thumb on the tube, my nipple extended until I screamed, then I released it for a second and took a breath. I did this over and over again for twenty minutes on each side until my boobs had deflated from weather balloons back to A-cups.
Kate went downstairs where the party had started forty minutes earlier.
I looked at the toaster oven. "Methode Francaise," it said on the side.
But of course. Other than their cheeses and scarves, the French made everything harder and more miserable than it had to be.
I knew this because I had spent a semester studying in Paris at the Sorbonne. Instead of normal, written final exams, they had oral exams where you would appear in front of a proctor, other students lined up right behind you. And they would ask just one question.
In my case, the proctor said, "Le Canel de Suez. Expliquez."
I had spent the entire semester in a garret with a musician named Olivier. I was like, "Ummmmm. It's in Egypt? It was nationalized in the 50s? There was a ... crisis?"
I failed the exam to the snickering of the students behind me. But because everyone here knows that the French education system is too hard for Americans, my college "translated" my F into a B. And everyone was happy. Because that's how we do it in the United State of America.
Meanwhile, my eye makeup had run and I looked just like a raccoon. I repaired it as best I could with Q-tips from the medicine cabinet and pulled my dress over my head. The lesser gods of zippers were with me and I was able to zip my dress on my own, which cheered me up considerably.
The bellhop had left his white gloves behind. They were surprisingly small, like something Cinderella might have worn.
Within five minutes, I was in the Ritz Club pouring champagne down my throat. It was an excellent night.
The next day, Scott and Jeff were bedridden with a horrible stomach virus. Kate went to the concierge to get some extra supplies. "I need some extra tissue," she said.
"Tissue, yes, for the nose," said the concierge.
"For the nose and the ..." Kate pointed to her bottom. He didn't blink.
"But of course, madam."
Later, we went back to the concierge to arrange taxis to the airport for the next morning. The bellhop was there.
"Oh," I said. "You left your gloves in my room!"
The bellhop bowed slightly. The concierge was impassive.
Just as our flight took off from Charles de Gaulle, the stomach virus hit me. And then somewhere over Iceland, the pilot announced that due to a drain malfunction, there would be only one toilet operational on the plane. I refused all foods and liquids and hunkered in my seat, occasionally hyperventilating into an airsick bag.
When we landed, a police officer was at the door of our plane looking for a passenger. "No one can exit until Passenger Rutabaga presents herself to me," he said.
I flashed him my passport. "I'm not her," I said, running past him.
I almost fainted going through passport control. My stomach had never hurt so badly. Once outside in the taxi line, I found a large garbage can and threw up until I peed my pants. Kate held my hair, then handed me a tissue. It was a Ritz tissue.
At a dinner party at Kate's house the next weekend, her friends asked about our trip. Kate told them the story of the breast pump.
"I don't understand," said Andre, a Norwegian. "Why didn't you just nurse the bellhop?"
"Because we were in France, not Norway," I retorted. Sicko.
With Henry entrusted to his uber-competent babysitter Perri, who would be tag-teaming with my parents for the next five days, Scott and I struck out for Newark Airport. He had convinced me to pack light. No electric breast pump, no framed photographs of the children. Just a few dresses, six pairs of shoes, and my skinny jeans.
Kate and I had made the compelling argument that we had to fly Business First since we were only going for a long weekend and wouldn't have time to recover from jet lag. Kate is wise in many ways and has taught me many things. Like this little chestnut from the ad world: If you want your man to spend a lot of money on something he doesn't necessarily want himself, suggest a manly slogan to justify it and allow him to adopt the slogan as his own. This second part is critical.
Thus, to Scott, she said of the Business First ticket: "You're protecting your investment." To her husband, she added: "Go big or go home!"
Using our slogans, we also convinced our men that our only real option for New Year's Eve was the four-figure party at the Ritz. That way we wouldn't have to walk outside and potentially ruin our shoes and the expensive hairdos for which Kate had made us appointments at the hotel's salon -- once again, protecting investments! And hey, go big or go home!
His special slogan now firmly entrenched in his subconscious, Scott gamely convinced himself that not waiting in line to check in at the airport was worth the price of the ticket. Since thousands of flights had just been cancelled because of a blizzard days earlier and the lines were epic, this was almost true. In the lounge, we were served free red wine, rail drinks and all the potato chips we could eat. "This is the life," Scott said, sipping a Popov Vodka and tonic. "Go big or go home," agreed Jeff, toasting us with a plastic glass of Chateau Continental.
Once on the plane, we settled into our double-wide seats. We were torn between trying to get a full 7-hours' sleep and consuming everything our business class seats afforded us. We split the difference, eating the four-course dinner - warm nuts, a salad of mozzarella balls and limp greens, something that tasted like chicken and an ice cream sundae with all available toppings - but forgoing the onflight entertainment to catch a few hours of shut-eye.
We landed in Paris. I had taken an Ambien, and when I stood up to deplane, I felt like I was on a moon walk. But as soon as the four of us piled into a taxi and shouted "Au Ritz!" I was rejuvenated.
"Your rooms are ready," announced the desk clerk, which, at 10:30 a.m. at the Ritz, was a miracle. Kate and I had stayed there before and were always forced to wait for check-in at 3:30 p.m. sharp. We were taken to a hallway I had never seen before, up an elevator that appeared out of the shadows to what may have been a "special unit" of the Ritz, like the locked ward in a hospital. Our room was sparse. White. There was none of the Louis XIV furniture I had come to expect from my favorite hotel in the world.
"Not to be an ingrate," I began, "but this really isn't what we were looking for in a room."
Jeff had already unpacked, but Scott knew from the look on my face we weren't staying. Kate and I arranged with the concierge to have us moved to adjacent rooms done in the more traditional style of the Ritz.
Everything was going perfectly. I went inside our new marble bathroom with the plastic travel breast pump I had brought in lieu of the 10-pound electric version I used at home. I didn't have the instructions with me, so I revved up my new iPad. An Internet connection cost 25 euros, but no matter, I had to pump to avoid the rock-hard leaking disasters that my boobs would become without it. Thus, I was really just protecting our investment in the weekend.
There were 12 steps to putting the pump together, like AA for the lactating. It took me about a half hour to assemble the pump, then another hour of frantic hand pumping to get the job done. I was frustrated, but kept up a positive attitude, thinking about how Scott and I would soon be strolling down the Rue St. Honore.
The next day was New Years Eve. The Ritz soiree started at 8 p.m. Kate and I began our preparations at 4 o'clock with hair appointments while Scott and Jeff had cocktails by the indoor pool.
We were blow-dried and brushed to perfection while champagne and chocolates were passed. Heaven. Then Fred, the Ritz's in-house make-up artist, offered his services. Kate went first. Kate is a knock-out on her worst day, and in Fred's hands, she became a super model. I was so excited for my turn, I was bouncing up and down in my seat and clapping my hands like a trained seal.
But something seemed off about my look. Fred swooped black make-up around my eyes, then decorated the corners with false eyelashes. The base color of my face went from white to a cheddar cheese tone. "Don't worry," said Kate. "This is going to look fabulous in pictures." And wasn't that what really mattered?
Time was ticking - less than two hours before the big party. But I didn't feel rushed. All I had to do was pump and put on my dress. I dallied in the salon, sipping champagne and chatting with other revelers.
"We should get going," said Kate.
Back in the room, Scott was getting dressed. He tried not to look surprised by my appearance. With my hair and make-up done, but still in a t-shirt which was now showing two wet bulls-eyes because my boobs were leaking, I looked off, like a transvestite in full make-up wearing a hairnet and no wig.
I opened my iPad to find the directions for my travel pump and started putting it together. Something was wrong. "The lid doesn't fit anymore!" I complained to Scott.
"That's impossible," he said.
"Look!" I demonstrated, trying to force the top down. Then there was a sickening sound, like a bone breaking. The plastic catch that helped vacuum seal the pump broke off.
There was a moment of total silence.
Then my tears.
"Why did I listen to you when you said not to pack my electric pump?" I yelled at Scott, who had started backing towards the door.
"I'll fix it," he said.
He called the concierge and spoke in hushed tones, then put down the receiver, looking satisfied.
"Someone is coming upstairs to discuss this with you," he said.
"What? I don't need a conversation, I need an electric pump. Now! And it's 7 p.m.! On New Year's Eve! In France!"
I picked up the phone and dialed the concierge, speaking rapid-fire French.
"Hello? Yes, listen, I am a mother. Who feeds her baby. With her breast. But the baby is in New York and so I must discharge the milk. Understand? So I need an apparatus to do that for me."
"Yes, madam. I believe we may have something here in the hotel. A moment, please."
The concierge came back on the line.
"We will send something up to you now."
I had a bad feeling. "Are you talking about a cell phone charger?" I asked.
"Yes, madam."
"Did you understand anything I just said?" I asked.
There was a cough.
"J'ai envie d'un breast pump," I repeated.
"Ah, a breast pump. We can try to rent one for you at the emergency chemists."
"Okay, great, now we're getting somewhere."
"Spend any amount of money you need to get the pump," said Scott. "I'm just protecting my investment."
"Out!" I ordered.
"I'll be in the bar," he said, closing the door behind him.
And within 15 minutes, a bellhop appeared holding a discreet brown valise and a paper sack.
"Will there be anything else?" he asked.
"No, merci. Merci beaucoup!" I handed him a fistful of euros.
Then I opened the valise. I was expecting a pump, but instead, there was what appeared to be a small red toaster oven. In the paper sack was a funnel, a vial and several pieces of tubing. None of which fit on the toaster oven. I looked at the clock. 7:20 p.m. It was like trying to solve a Rubik's cube at gun point.
"Kate!" I went running to her room, pounding on the door. "Help!"
Kate came into the room. "None of this fits!" I wailed. "I'm leaking. I can't go to the party!"
7:25.
"Don't cry!" commanded Kate. "Your eyelashes will fall off. Are there instructions?"
"Yes," I said. "But I don't speak breast pump French. None of these words have any meaning to me."
I called the concierge. "I need a French person. Any French person. To translate some directions for me."
Within a minute, the bellhop was back at the door. He looked sixteen, tops.
"They gave me a demonstration on how to use this," he said, blushing a deep red.
He took off his white gloves and fiddled with the tubing until he had secured it over the "on" switch.
"That's the on switch!" I screamed frantically. "It can't go on there!"
He fumbled while I paced. Then Kate took control. She connected the tubes to the vial and attached the vial to the toaster oven.
"Voila!" said Kate.
The bellhop turned to go.
"Don't let him leave until I try this," I said.
I went into the bathroom while Kate blocked the door to the room.
I put the funnel to my breast and turned on the machine. The machine made a sound, like "grrrrrmmmmmmmmm" and sucked my nipple into the funnel all the way. I didn't know a nipple could stretch like that. The pain was other-worldly, like dropping a frozen turkey on your toe. And the machine wouldn't let go. It was like a pit bull with a new chew toy. I tried using both hands to pry off the funnel, but it wouldn't budge.
I started screaming. Kate ran into the bathroom and turned off the machine. My nipple retracted and was hanging off my chest at an odd angle, like a broken arm.
"I can't do it," I sobbed. "It hurts."
Kate fiddled with the tubing and removed a stopper. "Here," she said. "Put your thumb over this, then remove it." I tried the pump again. With my thumb on the tube, my nipple extended until I screamed, then I released it for a second and took a breath. I did this over and over again for twenty minutes on each side until my boobs had deflated from weather balloons back to A-cups.
Kate went downstairs where the party had started forty minutes earlier.
I looked at the toaster oven. "Methode Francaise," it said on the side.
But of course. Other than their cheeses and scarves, the French made everything harder and more miserable than it had to be.
I knew this because I had spent a semester studying in Paris at the Sorbonne. Instead of normal, written final exams, they had oral exams where you would appear in front of a proctor, other students lined up right behind you. And they would ask just one question.
In my case, the proctor said, "Le Canel de Suez. Expliquez."
I had spent the entire semester in a garret with a musician named Olivier. I was like, "Ummmmm. It's in Egypt? It was nationalized in the 50s? There was a ... crisis?"
I failed the exam to the snickering of the students behind me. But because everyone here knows that the French education system is too hard for Americans, my college "translated" my F into a B. And everyone was happy. Because that's how we do it in the United State of America.
Meanwhile, my eye makeup had run and I looked just like a raccoon. I repaired it as best I could with Q-tips from the medicine cabinet and pulled my dress over my head. The lesser gods of zippers were with me and I was able to zip my dress on my own, which cheered me up considerably.
The bellhop had left his white gloves behind. They were surprisingly small, like something Cinderella might have worn.
Within five minutes, I was in the Ritz Club pouring champagne down my throat. It was an excellent night.
The next day, Scott and Jeff were bedridden with a horrible stomach virus. Kate went to the concierge to get some extra supplies. "I need some extra tissue," she said.
"Tissue, yes, for the nose," said the concierge.
"For the nose and the ..." Kate pointed to her bottom. He didn't blink.
"But of course, madam."
Later, we went back to the concierge to arrange taxis to the airport for the next morning. The bellhop was there.
"Oh," I said. "You left your gloves in my room!"
The bellhop bowed slightly. The concierge was impassive.
Just as our flight took off from Charles de Gaulle, the stomach virus hit me. And then somewhere over Iceland, the pilot announced that due to a drain malfunction, there would be only one toilet operational on the plane. I refused all foods and liquids and hunkered in my seat, occasionally hyperventilating into an airsick bag.
When we landed, a police officer was at the door of our plane looking for a passenger. "No one can exit until Passenger Rutabaga presents herself to me," he said.
I flashed him my passport. "I'm not her," I said, running past him.
I almost fainted going through passport control. My stomach had never hurt so badly. Once outside in the taxi line, I found a large garbage can and threw up until I peed my pants. Kate held my hair, then handed me a tissue. It was a Ritz tissue.
At a dinner party at Kate's house the next weekend, her friends asked about our trip. Kate told them the story of the breast pump.
"I don't understand," said Andre, a Norwegian. "Why didn't you just nurse the bellhop?"
"Because we were in France, not Norway," I retorted. Sicko.
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