I know Dave Lieberman and I would get along well, and by get along well, I mean, if ever we met and Mike said, “It’s okay honey, you already told me that he’s on your list,” and then Dave agreed to meet me at room 121 at the Marco Polo Inn on Aurora Avenue (classy!), let’s just say I’ll give him a good deal. Wow, that didn’t take long for me to get all hookerfied.
Dave Lieberman shares the last name with the anesthesiologist who injected that
sweet love juice epidural into my veins, made me forget about the Pitocin-induced belly trauma and did it all in 12 minutes. Few men have made that kind of lasting impression on me in such record time (unless you’re the fang-toothed kid I was stuck with during Seven Minutes in Heaven. *shudder*) And Dave only takes 30 minutes to share in my love of good deals. He’s one of the few on the Food Network I hope never catches a bullet with his teeth. He never says “yum-o,” or “sammiches,” or “My name is Rachel Ray and my breasts look like I’m smuggling peas in my shirt.” And he’s a Lieberman, too! That’s a good sign, right? Aren’t all Liebermans related?
I’ve been seeing a lot of new mothers at Target recently, the ones who ferry their hand-sized infants in monstrous travel systems. It feels like I’m looking at myself a few months ago, when I took three-day-old Nathan to Target for the first time in his own monster-stroller. Everytime I took him out, I could hear a voice in my head go, “Sunday-Sunday-Sunday!”
I can tell they are new moms not from the solar eclipse caused by their gigundo stroller combos or the dark circles under their eyes, but because most of them spend thirty goddamn minutes comparing the Target brand of lavender baby wash to the Gerber lavender baby wash. I haven’t had that kind of furrowed brow since I took the SAT or since I was 18 and had to buy ground beef for the first time and realized I didn’t know how to buy red meat (it doesn’t just appear in my freezer like it did at home? Say what?) Can I tell you new moms right now to get the Target brand because they’re the same effing deal and Target costs a dollar less?
That whole post-partum idealistic, “I may be cheap, but I won’t be cheap for my son!” mantra I held steadfast didn’t last very long and I’m a sliver away from scrounging through the Goodwill donation bin for clothes to shimmy over my son whose protruding belly does not fit the 6-12 month clothing even though he is NOT 12 MONTHS YET. WTF, Carters? Why can’t you use a small, medium, large, very large (that’s me! ding ding!) system instead of something as deceptive as, “Here is a jumper that fits infants who are less than a year old,” because those clothes do not fit my child’s Sputnik head or his body that weighs about 1/4th of an elderly Chinese woman.
When Mike and I went to dinner the other night, I spotted a new mother and father hurriedly eating their food and checking their baby. The infant seat was faced away from me and I just had to see the mysterious squirmy baby, like it was the glowing briefcase in Pulp Fiction. As we headed out, I stopped by their table.
“You have a new baby!” I said. They nodded in appreciation and I took this as a signal that it was okay to look inside.
To say the newborn was squishy looking would be a very kind statement about a baby who really looked like an old Mexican man had been shrunk down to baby-size and shoved into a pink dress. I know this sounds horrible for a mother to say about someone else’s baby, because all babies are beautiful, right? But not this one. That’s not to say that she’ll never grow out of it and be doomed to a life of Cheech and Chong references. But still. That face was almost haunting.
“Your baby’s so… alert!” Good save, Mona. Smooth move there with the general statement about babies. Of course she was alert. Her eyes were open. Now that I think about it, that’s what a lot of people said about Nathan when he was a newborn, but as squishy and scrunched up as he was, he did not look like Cheech Marin in a dress.