Brainwashed by Pink

It seems Kate is turning over a new leaf.

Lately, my three year old is a little less “hot mess” and more…more…well, feminine. I can’t say she’s been entirely ladylike, though there have been glimmers of a burgeoning Fashionista. But there’s also this other feminine personality making its existence known. It only comes out when Kate wears her hot pink cowgirl boots from Target. Hot pink cowgirl boots paired with a denim mini and whatever dance music is being piped into Victoria’s Secret on a random Monday afternoon.

Maybe it was the bordello-ish atmosphere of Victoria’s Secret that got her all riled up. Those hot pink painted walls and plastic boobies covered in lace demi-bras. Nary a man in site except for that one little blonde boy in a striped shirt who growled at everyone he passed. My girls stopped, turned, and stared at him in horror, their expressions indicating his kind wasn’t welcome there in Pinkville.

I maneuvered past a mannequin wearing a marabou covered thong which was covering the mannequin’s plastic vag, then looked back to see Gwen and Kate petting it. “Ooooh, this is soft Mommy!” Gwen said. “You should buy it.”

“I wanna touch it Gwen!” Kate hollered, stomping her tacky boot-clad foot on the floor. With a dramatic roll of her eyes, Gwen stepped aside and let Kate have at it. First, Kate rubbed the marabou covered mannequin crotch, then stepped forward and pressed her check against it. Her eyes closed and her tiny lips broke into a smile, “It’s so tickly,” she breathed.

Now, I imagine that most mommies would have tactfully steered their daughters away from the marabou crotch, but I stood there watching in a mix of amusement and horror and said nothing. It was like I was hypnotized by the whole scene and all I could think was, “Why the fuck do they put the cotton mommy panties all the way at the back of the goddamn store?”

Personally, my friends and I think it’s because VS doesn’t want those of us who have aged out of the whole “Pink” line lurking near the front of the store. We’d be holding up cotton panties for size while our children patted the mannequin crotches. Not sexy. Also, it serves as a public service announcement of sorts – this is your future high school girl!

You see, first forays in Victoria’s Secret entail thongs and cute little nighties. Maybe a pair of shorts boldly emblazoned with the word “Pink” across the ass – suggesting to the world, “Hey, fresh meat over here! Come and get me you dirty old men!”


Next, having secured boyfriends and fiancé’s and husbands, we move into the edgier goods VS has to offer. Things like that marabou thong and crotchless panties.

Finally, thanks to the marabou thongs and crotchless panties, we wind up with three kids, frizzy hair and the need for underwear that doesn’t get lost in the girth of our post-pregnancy asses. Thus, we have subtly and unwittingly been relocated to the rear of the store to make room for the next crop of breeders.

I quickly moved to the table holding the 5 for $25 mom skivvies and began digging for ones that don’t say anything like, “Boyfriends are Recyclable” or “Pure Pink” or “Pink University.” I wondered why they don’t capitalize on the mom set and start some new sayings like, “Pink Playdates” or “Drink Pink Wine” or “Not So Pink Anymore.”

Lost in my reverie and piles of Cheeky underwear, I slowly realized the other women where nudging each other and giggling at something over my shoulder. Of course, I initially thought they were laughing at me, because I’m a self-absorbed neurotic who thinks the whole world is out to get me. Then I realized they were looking past me, at something closer to the floor.

And so it was that I turned and saw Kate in the midst of a very funny, albeit oddly sexual dance. Her brown bobbed hair pulled back in a tiny flower barrette, her eyes filled with confidence and her lips pressed into a saucy pout, she ran her little hands down her Hello Kitty t-shirt and onto her denim mini. With her right hip jutting out, she moved her leg to the beat of the erotic-sounding music – was that breathy a French woman singing or just Luann from Real Housewives? Kate’s arms slowly rose back above her head and she launched into a spicy little pirouette before starting her spontaneous set of moves again.

Gwen and I looked at one another and tried not to laugh. Clearly, Kate was serious about the artistic nature of her dance. To interrupt with laughter could only serve to squelch a future career in dance. Besides, all it generally takes to stop a three-year-old from a public display of lewd talent is to say, “Wow, Kate that is a beautiful dance!”

So I let her go for a few seconds and pondered whether or not I had time to whip out my cell phone and record a video. I couldn’t. I was too entertained to break the spell. Kate was lost in a sensual dance of self-expression. A slightly alarming dance for a three year old and one that nearly called for a pole and some singles, but a dance nonetheless.

Finally, she snapped back to present and noticed the gaggle of women who’d stopped to watch the show. Rather than running off to hide, Kate stood her ground and cast a hairy eyeball upon her audience. She placed her hands on her hips, one still jutting out at a dangerous angle while her leg kept the beat of the music. I was reminded of Jodi Foster’s character in The Accused, so I promptly said, “Nice dance, Kate. Let’s go pay,” and ushered her toward the counter.

So it seems that VS is already grooming my little girls. On Monday, we walked in and each one scanned the interior with sparkling eyes and a slackened jaw. It really is a little girl’s dream. Pink walls, oodles of makeup, perfume, and “pretty clothes.” I was forced to take a step back and have a look through their eyes. Then I vowed to never bring them back to that place again. From now on, I will make a show of purchasing my underwear from Target. The ones that are white and cotton and come neatly rolled up in a transparent plastic bag. Functional and decidedly un-sexy. Plus, no stripper dances are required to purchase.

I Heart Freebies. Or do I?

Every once in awhile I remember to check Narragansett No. 7’s in-box. Recently, most of the messages have been from people who want me to post a link to their company or provide me with free products in exchange for a blog post about how wonderful said product is. I have politely declined all offers and explained that I just don’t do giveaways or product reviews. Why? Well, I’m too honest. What if I got the product, tried it out and hated it? 

Mostly, the freebies are for things I’d never in a million years use. I have no need to lock my children’s chairs to the table and then rave about how well the shackling worked out at meal time. Sure, they fall off a chair once per year or so, but you know what? So did I and I’m (relatively) normal. We all bump our noggins at some stage of the game and frankly, a tumble from the kitchen chair to the floor isn’t high on my list of worries when things like this are going on…

Recently, Chili’s offered me a $20 gift card to go gorge on some new menu items and then snap some photos of us all stuffing our faces. I was further instructed to declare whether or not we preferred our food to be “Wild or Mild”. This winter’s incessant blogging has chunked me up enough without adding a deep fried feast from Chili’s to the mix. Though, if that e-mail’s arrival had coincided with rampant PMS cravings, this post could have gone in a completely different direction. I’d be blathering on about how much we simply adored those ‘wild’ jalapeno poppers and look at how deeeeee-lish this food is! Now run, run all of you and eat at Chili’s!

In reality our fake photos would have shown me feigning delight, but if you had looked closely you would have seen crying children in the background. Or maybe a child standing in the middle of the table while the other two engaged in a corn dog sword fight complete with french fry bombs. Thanks for the offer Chili’s, but no thanks.

I lost one of my diamond earrings a few months ago, so when a company offering me a pair of pearl earrings in exchange for a review of their pearls I was very tempted. Honestly, unless they melted or something, I don’t think I could have written anything but raves. Plus, the woman who contacted me was really nice. Then someone asked if I’d review a CD by a children’s artist covering Wilco and Bob Dylan. Again, I was intrigued. Yet, I held onto my personal rule that dictates that I won’t do giveaways and drafted a few more politely worded e-mails declining participation. *sigh*

On the other hand, my twisted sense of humor wonders what would happen if I accepted various offers and then told the truth. I mean, how funny would it be to show my children screaming to be released from their ‘chair lock’ prisons. The whole post could center around me holding them hostage and,”look! I got this thing for free! You too can shackle your child to the table, just leave a comment about how much you love me and why you’d like to lock your child to the chair and you’ll be entered in my giveaway.”

What if we accepted the Chili’s promotion then put on ragged, dirty clothes, stringy wigs and blacked out our front teeth? We could snap photos of us pretending to do shots of Wild Turkey and eating baby back ribs while our dirty children sit in the background wailing. That would be an interesting endorsement, wouldn’t it? “Boy howdy! We sure liked those jalapeno poppers, but when Buford got home he sure did get a bad case of the runs! I think from now on we’re going to stick to the’Mild’ menu!” or, “DANG! When we seen those wild wings we just about fell on the floor. First off, for twenty bucks, you think they’d give us more than 12 wings. We got a family of 5 to feed! This picture is when Buford Jr. choked on his popper. We’re real lucky that the waitress knew how to do the Heimlich.”

Call me strange, but I think that would be fun.

This morning the mother of all e-mails sat in the Narragansett No. 7 in-box. It was from a casting agency seeking female writers, storytellers and bloggers for a documentary series. I’m sure several of my blogging friends received this “media alert”, but I’m not biting. I can only imagine that a television show starring me and my family would be the biggest snooze-fest ever. Besides, I think I’m exploiting my children enough right here at Narragansett No. 7.

Well, I’d love to stay and chat for a while longer but there are some giveaways I want to go enter. In the meantime, I love beer, fine wine, Manolo Blahnik shoes, designer clothing, luxury automobiles, tropical vacations and private schools. Contact me if you need a product review of any of those items and are willing to hand out freebies.

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