Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Back to School Rant

Ok so last week we went to the “Meet the Teacher/Ice Cream Social” (aka "Reality Slap/Check-Writing Event) at my son’s school.  One of my favorite homegirls was saying she couldn’t wait for school to start, as she didn’t work this summer and her kids were getting on her last nerve.  Gurrrrrl, that’s exactly what you get when you get fooled into thinking that Staying at Home means Quality Bonding with the Children. 

I, for one, am dreading the kid going back to school.  If my kid has to up his game, so do I. 

On the Suck list: 

1.       Bedtimes—in the summer, crash when you want.  I'm lucky if I make it past 930 on most nights, anyway.  Just keep it down up there, willya?

2.      Daily dress code—I appreciate the consistency of the kid having to wear a uniform every day.  But the nightly digging through the clean laundry pile for the uniform shirt and shorts gets tiresome.  But what true AWM hasn’t dressed your youngster in a “gently worn” albeit not freshly laundered outfit if the situation calls for it?  Smell it, shake it, wear it!

3.      Robo-calls from the school district--like I have time for that shit!  I am busy fielding calls from Purple Heart Clothing Drive and Governor Rick Perry and the collection agencies calling for some poor sap named “Abraham Maldanado.”

4.      Money shake-downs—yearbook, spirit shirts, coupon books, cookie dough, popcorn!  Yeah at first I petitioned my dearest friends to buy enough wrapping paper so my kid could win a “sales prize” aka a neon Slinky.  My shameless begging was reciprocated by other beleaguered, guilty, yet competitive AWM’s.  I soon realized this was an economic shell game that could only be deciphered by SEC investigators:  I use my money to buy their kids’ overpriced shit.  They use their money to buy my kids’ overpriced shit.   Why not keep the money in the same funnel of overpriced shit?    Now I just do what every card-carrying AWM does, and write a check and be done with it. Neon Slinky, my ass!   

5.      Germ Factory—My kids are always the sickest within the first month of school.  It’s a fact.  (I am actually editing this 3 days into the new school year, and have already taken one kid to the doctor.  I know what the hell I’m talking about.).

6.      Homework—this one needs to be first.  Like you don’t have enough going on between the hours of 5 p.m. and 9 p.m.!  Who has the time to decipher “which train gets to Akron the fastest” or to help find “all of the right angles in the house.”  And who wants to be the Reading Bully?  Bully this!  Can’t the kid just read (and sign) the Refusal of Free or Reduced Lunch paperwork while you wash the dishes? 

7.      Frenemies--Every year there seems to be a re-aligning of who’s your buddy and who’s not, especially at free time, i.e., recess and Afterschool.  What do you do when somebody is being a jerk to your precious angel?  Tell your kid to ignore the jerk, he’ll be fat and bald in about 20 years anyway?  Get out of the car and give the little jerk the AWM ojo?  Encourage WWF at the Elementary School?  Regardless, you will feel like shit for not producing the most likable kid on Earth.  And for putting your kid in an Afterschool Program full of jerks.

8.      Lice—Sons of Bitches!

9.      Lunch Box Rodeo—I don’t know about you, but the over-under on when the brand new lunch box gets lost is about 3-5 weeks in my house.  One day it's an insulated, color-coordinated soft-sided cooler, the next day it’s a plastic Kroger bag.  The hoopty lunch box is MIA and I sure ain’t digging through that frightening heap in the Lost and Found.  Kroger lunch bag = Shame Sentencing.

10.  Extracurriculars—soccer, baseball, basketball, football, scouts, Odyssey of the Mind, guitar, piano, yeah yeah yeah.  Of course I want my little angels to be well rounded and stimulated.  But let’s face it--an AWM has to draw the line somewhere.  I surreptitiously Seek and Destroy some of the extracurricular handouts that get sent home on occasion.  Excellency and diversity are so overrated, especially when they involve more than two practices a week.  Or a blazing hot outdoor venue.  What the hell is wrong with plain old sufficiency? In my house we have a family motto: 


One hundred and eighty required days of instruction, minus how many so far? Sigh. 

Friday, July 20, 2012


I know I have been MIA for a few months, call it writer’s block, call it neglect, call Miss Cleo for an answer.  It’s all about the Present, Ladies.  For today, I experienced an untamed, yet oft-repeated fury.  I am talking veins-stand-out-in-forehead fury.  Dear-God-don’t-let-there-be-hidden-video cameras-fury.  What invokes such, you ask? 


In what language does, “Come brush your teeth,” translate into “Run like hell up the stairs???”  “Put your shoes on” means “Stare blankly at the television, mouth agape?”  “Come get in the car” translates into “Dive under the sofa cushions?”  And this, my friends, includes my 9 year old!  What gives???  Oh man, by the time I have everyone herded in, I have grown fangs, claws, and speak in howls rather than the King’s English.  Animal Control showed up at my house this morning.  It’s starting to wear on a Sister. 

I searched for suggestions online to decrease the stress of the morning hassle: 

*Let your child know there will be consequences.  The consequence is my head exploding off of my body. 
*Wake up earlier. That's just more time for me to be pissed off.
* Speak in a calm and firm voice.  I do that.  The first 15 times. 
*Get more organized.  Organizing isn’t loud enough.
*Lower your expectations.  Well expect my ass to be using tear gas next time I get resistance.

Now did that put the ANGRY back in Angry Working Mother???

It looks like I am back. Stay tuned.  
(N.B.--There are recent studies that shows a certain amount of anxiety is actually desirable, as it ups your performance.  Based on the levels I reach every single morning, my "performance" should be of Olympic caliber. If chasing your child with a toothbrush, while wearing a robe and trying not to flash the neighbors is an Olympic event, I'm primed for Gold.  Hmmm...if my Olympic prowess gets me to London to view the likes of that hot swimmer-boy Ryan Lochte, I might be onto something.  I am all about suffering for my country).

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


Let’s just say you woke up a little early today to make yourself some lunch to take to work, as you knew you’d be extra busy during your usual lunch hour(s).  And you create a sandwich masterpiece, with your own specs:  toasted bread, lettuce on both sides, hummus between the lettuce and the turkey, so it doesn’t get too soggy.  And Baby Girl sees this little act of domesticity, and of course sniffs out the food, so she wants to “help.”  “I wanna put the cheese on it!” type of thing.  So despite the fact that your ass, as usual, is running late, and you really don’t like other people touching your food (SOMETHING has to be fondled by your hands alone), you let Baby Girl help out.  And then she says, “You will share it with me, mommy.”  Ugh.  Naw, girl, this is mine-all-mine, and we gotta get on the road.  So when you turn around to put the condiments in the refrigerator, she announces, “I licked it!”  WHAAAAA??? Licked what?  My lunchus magnum opus???

Hence, decision time.  Would you:

A)     Throw that thing out, yuk!  Grab a yogurt and a granola bar and sulk all day.
B)     Feverishly wipe the exposed areas with a paper towel and eat it anyway
C)    Spray it down with Lysol and eat it anyway
D)    Spray her mouth with Lysol and eat it anyway. 

Dang.  I love my kids dearly, but the littlest ones are Germ Industrial Units and Sharing Ain’t Always Caring in my house.  I don’t drink after them, I don’t eat their leftovers, and I don’t kiss them on the mouth.  Sorry, they can report that to their therapist, along with the other multitude of wrongs they have suffered at my hands. 

But it really was a good-looking sandwich.

NB—I have been MIA lately.  Plenty of excuses, none of them good.  I have a HIGH-larious post brewing in my tiny squirrel brain, but this should keep you mildly entertained til then. 

Friday, September 16, 2011


The weekday hours of 630 a.m.- 830 a.m. are truly the most terrifying of my day.  During this fateful stretch, I attempt to cajole, bribe, threaten, bully, manipulate and shame my kids to getupgopeegetdressedeatbreakfastbrushhairbrushteethputonshoesgetyourgearandyourarseinthecarnow!!!!  I tell you what, my neighbor will make a killing if he ever videotapes me in high heels and a pencil skirt chasing my kids all over the driveway and putting them in the car, while containing my force to non-prosecutable levels.  He could post that video on YouTube and  pitch it as advertising footage.  For antidepressants. 

Now when I first started driving the littlest Rugrats to school (the husband drives the elementary-age kid, solo, to school, what’s up with that???), I thought the way to achieve a peaceful and enriching drive was to keep them entertained.  NOT by any singing or rhyming or "I Spy" on my part.  That's my time to slug coffee, gossip with my sister on speaker phone, and listen to news radio.  Instead, I made sure I had an abundance of stuffed animals, books, action figures…hell, I even bought two of those portable AquaDoodle boards for them, figuring they could create little toddler masterpieces.  Perfect. 

Oh, bullshit.  No matter the abundance, they fought over everything.  Or they dropped the toy on the floor and I’d channel freakin Elastigirl to reach it, while trying to avoid a rear-end collision.  And AquaDoodle, SchmaquaDoodle!  One kid chewed the end of the Aqua pen to an unrecognizable mass, the other kept pouring the water out of the pen on her leg.  Passenger enrichment, my ass.

So my next plan was to cleanse the back seat--NO toys at all.  Hey kids!  Look out the window!  Sing with the radio! The news station has a catchy jingle right before the traffic report!  Oh, but I have spawned some expert shoplifters.  They slink out of the house with toys and trinkets concealed in their tiny cargo shorts and smock dresses.  En route, I realize that a Barbie or a Transformer or a spatula has made it into the back seat.  I let it slide, usually.  Have you tried one-armed wrestling over a Power Ranger while driving in rush hour traffic?  Try to demand, “Hand it over,” and high-pitched wailing ensues.  Surrender, Dorothy. 

But oh, did we reach a new level today.  Somehow, a new creature, and I do mean creature, was smuggled into our midst.  You see, yesterday, my baby girl pilfered a rubber snake from the house, and it made the jolly ride to school with us.  Now this snake is gnarly.  Brown, sticky, stretchy.  Kinda funny if it is hidden under someone’s pillow or in the shower, like the faux fecal matter that was once in our possession. But that, my friend, is another story for another day.  But really the snake is kind of a nasty toy. Of course the twins LOVE it.  And they particularly love to swing that bastard Yippee-Yi-Ayy style in the confines of the back seat and smack their sibling with it.  And that stretchy thing HURTS.  So it happened twice yesterday and I said, “NO MORE SNAKE!”

And of course it was back in the car today. And of course somebody got smacked with it.  And this AWM made good on her promise and removed the snake.  I am talking permanently.  I gained inspiration from my sister, a glorious AWM in her own right.  On a particularly testy day, her toddler son cracked her shin with a toy dust pan.  She promptly removed the toy from his grasp to put the toy in “time out.”  Now she could have put it on top of the refrigerator or in the back of the coat closet. But oh hale no! That shin-smack hurt like the dickens so she marched out the back door and threw that SOB in the lake behind her house.  Finis. 

Along those lines, I promptly discarded El Snake out of the window, smack in the middle of Interstate 45, Southbound, Houston, Texas, during peak rush hour.

Sorry for any traffic slow-downs or near-misses in the area, but an Angry Working Mother has gotta do what she’s gotta do. 

Thursday, August 11, 2011











How do men get through the day?  No self-respecting man I know would dare carry a Man-Bag with these items.  So what the hell? Certainly they don’t try to get this done after Standard Work Hours.  Do they just overdraw, squint, and scratch?  I reckon.  Huh. 

Monday, May 23, 2011


I swear I saw this:  I am driving home from 9 hours at the office.  Skirt tighter, face shinier, kids grumpier, car hotter.  And who are all of these idiots leaving the same time I am? 

So I stop at a stop light, glance in the rearview mirror behind me.  I see a SUV.   A fly, tricked out SUV.  High-end model.  The female driver must be a working gal, as what fool would willingly travel on Shepherd and I-10 at 5:45 p.m. unless she was coming home from work?  Or a gun was pointed at her head?  And her hair, her hair!  It sure as hell wasn’t in an end-of-the-day-why-didn’t-my-$13.00-volumizer-keep-working-no-mirror-keeps-getting-lower-and-looser-as-it-hits-the-headrest ponytail.  We are talking expensive highlights.  Groomed within an inch.  (Chicks notice these things).  No sunglasses-with-straight-pin-in-the-arm-scratches-and-toddler-lick-marks-on-the-lens like mine. We are talking Prada, Gucci, Bulgari. The driver, the blonde female, comes to a stop behind me, and with God as my witness puts her thumb in her mouth and starts sucking it. Did I really see this?  Just to be sure, I pulled up alongside her at the next stoplight, and I’m telling ya, Girlfriend was full-on sucking it!

What in the hell brought this on?  Deadline missed?  Out of chicken nuggets?  Painful Kegels?  Shit-fire, this woman has got it BAD. 

But wait!  Maybe Sister Girl is on to something.  Clearly she is making somebody happy.  Her clients, her boss, her husband, her sugar daddy, somebody ponied up the flow for her trimmings.  Maybe she arrives home in a state of almost narcotic bliss after rush-hour thumb sucking.  Does it release endorphins?  Does she revert to a harmonious child-like state?   Is it dipped in vodka? Maybe she doesn’t crank the car radio up to 1,000 decibels of “Brass Monkey” to drown out her kids’ complaints!  Maybe she doesn’t unleash bitter rantings at the recorded phone calls from HISD/Olan Mills/Purple Heart!  Maybe she doesn’t wildly kick the throw-rug when it bunches up under her feet!   Maybe she doesn’t accidently pitch her kid’s homework in the recycling bin!  Maybe she actually remembers her children’s true names!  Maybe, just maybe, she is actually a reasonable and rational human being while trying to make dinner and field questions and help with homework and take a business call and find lunch money and sign a release form!   Could this be the answer?  Would all AWM’s be kinder, gentler humans after a commute full of le thumbe de suc? 

Ok, so I threw this at the Old Man.  He said in order to be True to My Art, I have to actually try it.  You know, suck my own thumb on the way home and see if it works.    

It was…salty.  And I felt far from tranquil on my arrival home.  Next time I'll try the vodka. 

Monday, May 9, 2011


Last week a study came out which showed that working moms have sicker kids than stay-at-home moms. Almost immediately, the stay-at-home moms turned the study into a 500-page scrapbook project which they used to pummel working moms with. Then working moms retaliated by sending their secretaries out to staple all of the stay-at-home moms' nostrils shut. Or at least, I suspect that’s the kind of “mommy-war” bullshit that the media probably expected would happen.
In real life, however, almost everyone ignored the study because both the stay-at-home moms and the working moms were too damn busy to waste their time criticizing the personal decisions of fellow mothers. In fact, pretty much the only people who paid attention to this at all were the mothers-who-are-way-too-concerned-about-what-everyone-else-is-doing-because-it-distracts-them-from-all-the-shit-they’re-personally-failing-at. 
Still, there are some new mothers who have fallen for the ridiculous idea that mothers are at war with each other, and who feel conflicted about making the decision to go back to work or to stay at home after having children, so I’m going to give you the lowdown of both options so you can decide for yourself.
The PROS of being a stay-at-home mom: You don’t have to shower until noon. If your child is under 6 months old, you can watch zombie movies and The Big Lebowski all day and they totally won’t care. Pajamas are your new uniform. You’re always home to sign for packages. You get to see all the cool things your kid does all day. Your kid isn’t exposed to the petri-dish of germs that is daycare. You feel like Donna Reed. You don’t have to deal with that bitch at work anymore. Your partner thinks you’re amazing. You have the quiet satisfaction of doing what’s right for your children.
The CONS of being a stay-at-home mom: You don’t have time to shower ever. If your child is over 6 months old, you have to watch really shitty kids TV all the time and you have weird sex dreams about Thomas the Train. All of your pajamas have bodily fluids on them. And not the good kind. You accidentally show your boobs to the mailman/cable guy/next door neighbor. You realize that your kid is boring and/or an asshole and you can never escape from them. You want to knife Donna Reed for making it look so easy. You irrationally shout, “STAY-AT-HOME MOMS ARE WORKING MOMS” every time you read an article like this and then you shake your head and wonder how you got like this. You feel so lonely that you actually start to miss that bitch at work. Your partner wants to rest after a long day of work and they don’t understand that you need to rest too and they say something like, “Why? What did you do all day? This house is a wreck” and then you have to go to jail for stabbing them in the shoulder. You find that prison is a pleasant break from being a stay-at-home mom. You secretly worry that you’re making the wrong decision.

The PROS of being a working mom: You get to escape from the insanity of motherhood for 8 hours a day. You have more disposable income that you can spend on family vacations and classes. You can afford to put your child in a Portuguese-immersion daycare that will give him a huge advantage in school. You have an experienced nanny/child-care provider to give you advice and help raise your child. You can belt out that “I can bring home the bacon” song and totally mean it. You are able to keep up an active social life, which makes you a happier, more focused mom when you're home. You have the quiet satisfaction of having both a successful career and family. 
The CONS of being a working mom: You miss eight hours a day of your child’s life. You spend your entire paycheck on concerts to see The Wiggles. Your child is fluent in a language you can’t even speak. You have a nanny/childcare provider who is constantly telling you how to raise your child and occasionally your child calls her “mommy.” When “Cat’s in the Cradle” comes on the radio, you fall to pieces and everyone in your office hears you crying the ugly cry. Your kid is sick every other week from all the germs at daycare and your boss makes you feel like shit for missing work to take care of her. You end up using all your vacation days getting thrown up on in the pediatrician’s office. Everyone in your house gets lice. Twice. You’re so exhausted that you can’t accomplish anything and you feel like you’re failing as a parent and as an employee. You secretly worry that you’re making the wrong decision.
In the end, only one universal truth remains: You’re going to doubt yourself no matter what you do, but whatever decision you make is probably the best one for your particular family. Also, eventually everyone gets lice. That’s another universal truth but not necessarily one anyone ever talks about.
PS: If you’re a working mom still pissed off about the sick-kid study, then you need to take a deep breath and calm the hell down. Yes, the study implies that children of working moms are four times more likely to be poisoned but that doesn’t mean you’re the one poisoning them. Honestly, who has the time? I barely have time to cook dinner at night, much less plan a poisoning. My guess is that your children are being poisoned by stay-at-home moms who are retaliating after having discovered that you are secretly encouraging your sick children to lick all the playground equipment just to level the sick-kid playing field. Honestly, I can’t say I blame them.
PPS: Dear media: The paragraph right above this one? That’s how you start a mommy-war. Fucking amateurs.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


I haven’t posted in a while, been in trial out of county.  And, you see, THERE IS NOBODY BUSIER THAN ME.  NOBODY.  I fall flat on my sagging ass in most of my endeavors, so I have to feel superior about something.  In the World Series of Busy AWM Poker, I’ve got the Royal Flush.

Four kids, full-time job, what husband?  EMBA.  My turn.  Date night?  Lonely bed.  Who’re you?  Wall Street Journal.  Study Team.  Skype.  Lock-down.  Isolation chamber.  Noise canceling.  Cold food.  Loud shoes.  Light OFF!  China trip.  TEN days???  Too tired.  Try tomorrow.  It happens.   Senior year. Cap & gown. Invitations.  Applications.   1040.  W-2.  Another check?  Tickets. Limo. Tuxedo.  Curfew.  Debate.  No later.  Prom date. Condoms?  Denial?  Who’s there, what did you do? College apps.  FAFSA!   On time!    Toddler twins.   Potty training.  Mystery puddle.  Germ factory.  Fecal matter.  Temper tantrum.  Nanny!  Pull-ups.  Come here!  Did you wipe?  Wash your hands.  Not now! Mine!  Please share!  Don’t hit!  I’m wet!  Eat that.  Not that!  Get in! Get out! Persistent whimpering.  Bedtime schizophrenia.  Rock me!  Melatonin.  Public meltdown.  Whose kid? Nap time.  Little Einstein.  Crapapalooza.  No wipes. Skid mark.  Stain remover.   No dessert! Where’s your fork?  Don’t throw!  Backpack. Dance class.  Dry clothes.  Show & Tell.  I forgot.  Dang!  Grab something.  Anything!  Croup.  Xoponex.  Dope up.  Big Boy!  Big Girl!  99.5??? No way.  Waiting room.  Cooties.  Co-pay!
Second grade.  Conduct sheet.  “Satisfactory?”  Pull a card.  Reading log.  Fund raiser.  Paper towel tubes.  Field Day.  Integers.  Less than. Lunch money.  Mystery  Reader.  Class snack.  First Communion.  Blue blazer. Bring your book.  I don’t know why. Trust me. Finish that.  Take a shower.  Brush your teeth.  No homework? Recorder squeeeek!  Protective cup.  Uniform.  It’s clean.  Get a ride.  Field trip.  I can’t.  Next time.  Sending check.  Snack Mom.  Kroger! What are you doing?  Brush your TEETH!  Oil change. Late ass.  Senseless crying.  High heels.  Milk stain. No lipstick.  Coffee, coffee!  Pantyhose? Out the door:  purse, breakfast, lunch, jacket, files, backpacks, extra milk, wipes, keys, phone, alarm ON! Trial suit, Trial wig.  My Fit.  Shaun T.  Housekeeper pregnant.  No milk.  Tide Pen!  Deadline. Cross exam.  Exhibit sticker.  I’m ready.  Traffic!  Politicking.  Rear-ended.  Air bag.  How much? Discover points? Deductible.  Rental car.  Dodge Neon!  Sunday Mass.  RCIA.   Ceiling hole.  No phone.  No internet.  Leaking faucet.  Service call.  Bonus?  529? 401k? SEP?  Shooting.  Call-outs.  I’m awake.  Don’t say anything.  I’m coming.  What street?  What time?  Who’s this? 

So keep trying, fellow AWM’s, but you will never be busier than me.  No one.  No way.  Can’t be.  Nuh-uh. Get lost.    Eff you.  Ain’t happening.  Keep dreaming.  You wish.  Poser.  My ass.  No day.  Nice try.  Keep talking.  HA!  Bitch, pleeez.  Aim high.  Don’t even.  Not likely.  For real.  Shut up!  So lame.  All mine.   You jest. B-team. Move on.  Take a hike.  No game.  Ahhh ya mama.  Likely story.  Dream on.  Just wrong.  No pity.  U crizazy.  Cheap talk.  Bite me.  Bullshit.  You lie.  Ridiculous.  You can’t.  Pure fiction.  Sez who?  No kidding.  As if! Clue in.  Oh hale no!  What?  Eh?  I win.  You lose.

Friday, March 11, 2011


Well that is what my sister, the nurse practitioner, says.  Ibuprofen + Benadryl + saline drops + breathing treatment, no problem!  What the hell else am I to do when my kid has a nonstop four-pack-a-day smoker’s cough? Per my sister, dope your seal-child with minimal guilt. 

As of late, my Rugrats have been sick with You Name It.  Influenza A, despite the getting the flu vaccine.  Croup, ear infection, fever, cough.  Yes, your heart should pain when one of your precious angels is not feeling well, but this blog is about YOU, my dear AWM, and your raggedy-ass feelings, OK?


*The kid doesn’t have fever, just worked up from the 30 minute crying jag.
*This thermometer has got to be broken.
*Maybe a little Motrin to take the edge off.
*Let’s see how he feels in the morning. 
*Maybe a little more Motrin while I drop you off at school and cut to this meeting.
*I can’t miss work! 
*Can’t he stay at school until the after-hours clinic is open?
*Why don’t they serve cocktails at the after-hours clinic?
**Why can’t that woman at least dress presentably at the clinic?  Her ass wasn’t at work all day.
**Why does she have to bring two other kids with her who are obviously not sick? 
*Why don’t they serve snacks at the after-hours clinic?
*Can’t I just get a hot doctor?  Is that too much to ask? 
*Just HOW contagious is this?
*Can’t you just give him a shot?  I can’t keep up with 10 days worth of medication. 
*When can he go back to school? 
*How many bottles Children’s Motrin do I have to guzzle to get a buzz? 
*Really, he’s not afraid of needles.  Just give him a shot.  
*Do you have any snacks in here?  No, for me. 
*Do you have any medication samples?  I don’t want to go to the pharmacy. 
*When can he go back to school, again? 

It ain’t right, it’s just the truth.  Now I have a cough, congestion, aches.  I guess it is my payback.    

**IN YO’ FACE:  Oh sure, in my bitterness I have scowled at parents who showed up at the dr. office looking like they just rolled out of bed.  I’m here in heels and a suit, after working all day, can't you at least groom?  And this place is packed, why bring the rest of your tribe?  Until…I had to bring one kid in for a quick procedure while I was on maternity leave.  Oh, I paid mightily.  I had drag my two other kids along (“Don’t touch anything!!!”).  I wore baggy ass maternity sweatpants and a no-wash ponytail. The doctor was a grouchy and indifferent substitute.    All I can say is, grab the Miracle Whip, as you soon will be eating most of your bitchy AWM observations. 

Monday, February 28, 2011

An Open Letter to Ann Taylor

Dearest Ann,

I realize you are a fashion monolith in New York City, and probably have little time for me, a loyal customer.  Yet my hurt is too great to bear.  After all we have been through together!

I tolerated your Ruffle Phase, your Faux Diamond Tire Chain Phase, the Sorbet-Hued Phase, Ribbon-ated Everything Phase.  You lure me with the bad-ass slasher sales, and the discounts from a certain store manager because we have the same middle name.  You know I am powerless when your underage garment workers know they get an extra millet for lunch if they tailor the clothes to measure about 4 sizes larger than the standard, putting me in a size negative 11.  And despite the fact that I have four beaks to feed, I still find ways to rationalize every A.T. purchase.  The right ruched turtleneck is a business expense (read: tax deduction), so bite me, IRS.  Sadly, your betrayal goes beyond any commitment I may have to you.  And I think you know exactly what I am talking about:

Allowing a certain Zombie-tologist to be your New Face of Ann Taylor???  Seriously???  A Vicodin-esque blank stare, a half-smile engineered by her Evil Puppeteer Thetan-Husband, and a desire to gain spiritual Nirvana thru a cult whose leader’s name sounds like “Miscarriage?”  What the hell is up with that?  She is supposed to inspire Fashion Greatness?  Give me a break.  You might as well have scoured the morgue and propped up the most recent overdose victim in a scarf and sensible pumps. 

"I've been a fan of Ann Taylor since I was a young girl -- I grew up loving the clothes," quotes the New Face.  WHAA?   Didn’t she have a Fonzie t-shirt from Sears Junior Bazaar?  Or a pair of piped terry cloth shorts?  “Loving the clothes” as a “young girl,” is more effed up than believing that Thomas Cruise Mapother IV will transport her to Mystical Destiny in a spaceship.  (Oh wait, she already does believe that).  Consider your buying public.  If she ends up on a billboard, it will be like a Stepford Wife IMAX feature. 

You have time to make this right and mend our relationship.  Remove the Fem-bot and replace her with someone acceptable, someone with a pulse.

It’s either Katie Holmes or me, Bitches.  You pick.