There's a Hair in My Mole

If you read my first post, you already know that I am, kind of, looking for a job. Only kind of, because I really don’t want to work. But ever since I heard of this thing they do in the schools called “Career Day” I’ve felt that I couldn’t call myself a good mother if I didn’t do my best to get a god-damned career. It presents a problem, however, as I am an avid television viewer. If I had to get up and go to “work” instead of catching up on my shows, I would have to watch them after work. Who, then, would pick up, I mean make, dinner and do the housework? If I had to squeeze my tennis lessons into my lunch hour, I’d miss my liquid lunch with the girls. I would really just prefer to make some money, put on a pencil skirt and call myself an “Entrepreneur” or “Modern Business Woman.” Since I’m confident that my kids would be mortified if I ever showed up for Career Day, I’ve made it a priority to get there before they all graduate.

Towards this end I’ve come up with some great ideas. The first, and most obvious, would be to turn tricks on the corner. I haven’t done a lot of research, but to my knowledge there are no prostitutes in my neighborhood. It’s likely I’d have a pretty good shot at cornering the market, despite my obvious handicap in the boob department and my reluctance to perform certain acts. Dressing up every night would present a challenge, although I’m pretty sure my daughter would let me borrow her clothes for a small fee. But since prostitution doesn’t require any type of diploma, I’m not sure the schools are looking for representatives from that field. Also, I’d be running the risk of making the high school whores feel threatened, and I don’t want to get beat up.

I mentioned that I spend quite a bit of time playing tennis, so you’re probably thinking, “D. Parker, why not go pro?” Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But the truth is, Max is only 12, and he still likes me to drive him everyplace that’s not within a block of our house (and we both enjoy that “quality time” together), which would be hard to do being on the pro tour. However, I have contacted the USTA and offered my services as a spokesperson, my thoughts being that they should change the face of tennis to the Everywoman, kind of the way Dove Soap has changed theirs to homely girls and fat chicks.

My next idea was to score a ticket to Oprah’s Favorite Things show. True, this is not technically a “career,” but it takes almost as much time as one, and I would totally make all those kids jealous showing off my awesome prizes. Clearly the sand is almost out of the hourglass on this one, it being her last season and all, so hey Oprah, if you are reading this, set me up!

In terms of a flat-out business venture, my friend Andie and I had a great idea for a unique baby product. I’m not a huge fan of babies, but most people are, and it seems like new mothers will buy anything to mark the occasion of having their vagina ripped apart. I remember treating myself to a case of Veuve Cliquot, but the Earth Mother types might be interested something more personal, like a Placenta Teddy Bear. I had heard that there’s a new trend toward taking your placenta home and making a ceremony of burying it in your yard. I’m thinking, if you really feel attached to that placenta, why bother burying it at all? Have it made into a teddy bear keepsake! Not that I’ve ever seen a placenta (when my doctor told me to look up in the mirror to see my kid coming out, I told him to turn that mirror the other way or I’d kick him in the balls), but I figure it must be like an animal hide, that can be dried and tanned, and then cut and sewn. Kind of like a giant scab. Andie is a designer and she came up with a couple of different patterns: the traditional, old-fashioned Teddy bear with moveable limbs, and the more modern Build-A-Bear type. Clearly the latter would offer more personalization. Like a Build-A-Bear, you could put certain “things” inside before it was sewn closed: your waistline, your sex drive, and your last ounce of sanity for example. We were set to make our prototypes when we ran into trouble. Maverick, who is an obstetrician, and whom we were relying on to collect the placentas, flat-out refused. When I called him at work to ask him to bring home just ONE, he started screaming so loudly into the phone I had to put it down or risk the loss of yet another of my five senses. (I did manage to make out the words “Hippocratic Oath,” “lawsuit,” and “horrific stench.”) I dug in my heels and refused to be dissuaded from helping to fill what is clearly a void in the baby industry, but as it turns out, placentas are not as readily available on the Black Market as you might think.

My last and final idea is to be a Life Coach. The first time I heard about this “profession,” was from a sales person in a toy store. I’m not sure what it was that made her approach me to ask, “Would you be interested in getting a coach?” Perhaps it was the fact that I was using a diaper bag as a purse, that I hadn’t yet discovered lip liner or maybe it was that I had my toddler on a leash. But honest to god, I thought she was asking me if I wanted a Coach Handbag. So I say, “Sure!” ’cause I’m thinking she must have a bunch in the back room that “fell off the truck.” She replies that she can be my coach, and as I continue to wonder what about my appearance would make her think I’m an athlete, I make a vow to myself then and there, to never leave the house in Maverick’s sweat pants again. But this chick, who, I started to realize, looks a lot like Linda Hunt, is still talking about how she can help me change my life, and all I’m thinking is could Linda Hunt have fallen on such hard times that she’s trying to sell herself as a coach?  Anyway, she had a whole plan for me which involved cleaning out my closets and calling to talk to me everyday. I think anyone would agree I could totally be a Life Coach, but I would definitely change the name to something less confusing for Career Day.