Monday, August 17, 2009

Sausage Mom

The only acceptable place for "muffin top".

Is there a generation of school children handing in essays that begin with "My mom is the juiciest mom because . . . "?
I saw many juicy sausages at Coney Island on the 4th of July weekend. No, I don't mean the one's served up at the innumerable concession stands. I mean the moms, squeezed like sausages into terri-cloth or jersey fabric casings, emblazoned with "juicy". A co-worker of mine called it "Juicy Couture", and perhaps it is actually known by that name, but just as moms in the flat topography of my world don't look like that, 'couture’ doesn't even remotely resemble that--unless the word "juicy" is made of thousands of hand-sewn sequins, or has been painstakingly embroidered by some elderly French master of the needle and thread. I could be wrong, but I'm guessing that on the Paris runways, it would certainly not be accessorized with a 7-eleven Big Gulp, unless in the form of an insanely ironic handbag.

Not only did I see 'juicy' moms, but also one with short-shorts that shouted "pinch me" across her ass the size of a highway billboard—and I almost did, to wake this woman up and remind her that her 7-ish year old daughter was walking with her, and watching her every move. I resisted the urge. I mean, dignity is so over-rated. . . apparently. Her male companion’s wardrobe choices weren’t much better, by the way--just because you’re skinny, doesn’t mean you should be dealing “crack”, if you know what I mean. I hope that belt is still under warranty.
More appropriate—or at least, more to the point, I think—would be a line of similar clothing that says on the rear end "warning: contents under pressure", or across the front, where it might serve as a reminder to the potential wearer, "Objects in mirror are larger than they appear. . . Seriously". Perhaps the side seams could carry a colorful reminder surrounded with an oh-so-feminine floral (or baking) motif, as well, that simply says in a girlish script "muffin top". Before you say I must be some kind of prude with all kinds of body hang-ups, let me assure you I’m not. I know how to ‘work it’ for a night on the town. Hell, I’ve even been to a nude beach. But I also saw a television once, and now know that there is such a program as “What Not To Wear”, which performs a valuable public service (and as a side note, when at a nude beach, What Not To Wear is an SPF 8 sunscreen. You’ll want to upgrade. Trust me).
At this point, as you’re thinking “I never knew she was such a judgmental bitch”, let me just acknowledge that I’m fully aware that, at this very moment, they could very well be watching my ass, with the naked eye, from the international space station. My ass,and the Great Wall of China. OK? But at least it’s by accident—I haven’t sent radio signals or set it on fire in order to help them locate me. Know what I mean?
Leaving a parking garage the other day, I saw a young girl, maybe about 12 years old and dressed like a major tomboy (clearly beginning her rebellion), actually reaching over to what I imagine was her mother, and pulling mom’s red-sequined tube-top up higher over her titantic heaving breasts, as her cup runneth over. Daughter teaches mom about modesty—seems somewhat backward to me, but I guess she understands that they are watching from space. What could be more embarrassing for an adolescent girl than to have her mother’s cleavage show up on the satellite images in Google Maps. Though, I suppose it would make that Google flight simulator quite a bit more . . . interesting. Eat your heart out,Grand Canyon.
I imagine a shopping excursion with one of these mom's. [No, really—I do.] When she asks "do these pants make my ass look big?", I say to her, "No, no . . no . . . but your ass does make the pants look small. . . .quite. . . . small".
I can hardly believe I'm saying this, and don't tell my feminist friends, but growing up with a Barbie might have done these gals some good, if only. I ask my boyfriend, "honey, am I under-confident, or are these women over-confident?" Ever the diplomat (of a sort) he pauses, then says only, "the two of you are equally unrealistic". The attempt to extract the meaning of that statement is enough to keep me quiet for a good few minutes. He's good—very good.
We marvel at the 'scenery' as we continue walking to Nathan's famous hot dog stand—it’s almost time for the annual Competitive Eating event. Not the one that happens daily here at Coney Island, all over the boardwalk, but the one that gets some actual Press; the one that has actual fans and a scorekeeper.
"I'm rooting for Kobayashi", he says.
"Yeah, me, too" I say, "Joey Chestnut's goin' down this year."

**Post-publishing of this entry, note that, in fact, Joey Chestnut did not actually go "down" this year. He won again, and even set a record for number of Nathan's Franks consumed (68 in 10 minutes). He is an inspiration to . . .I don't know . . .someone, I guess.