G-Watch Y2K

Yesterday, Peaches & Coconuts enjoyed the highest amount of traffic to date. It could be that word of my delightfully entertaining prose has spread across cyberspace. Or it could be that, as mentioned previously, the dire state of camel toe is reaching devastatingly dangerous levels, and our global community is researching the situation. (I use the word “situation” purposefully because a friend of ours and her entire family has always referred to lady bits as a “situation” making news broadcasts, classroom lessons and dinner party conversation much funnier given the wide usage of the term.) Or, as Gabriella more appropriately pointed out, “They clearly want to read about ME.” Me – meaning Gabriella. News of her unemployment is slowly spreading, and friends and loyal readers are tuning in to get the skinny.

G-WATCH Y2K. Gabriella seems to be holding up ok and has begun to assign herself projects around the house. Two days after lay-off, she has already painted a corner section of our bedroom ceiling that caved in while the roof was being replaced. She has also committed to fix our bed frame. Long story-not interesting. The short of it is that the day that we brought Levi home from the birth center, our globally cool but cheap wooden bed frame that we shipped from Bali to London and then to New Jersey fell apart. We had a metal bed frame in the attic, but one corner sticks out, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get speared in the leg when you’re running to the loo. Oh and by the way, she’s cleaning out the refrigerator while I write. It’s true that there has recently been a foul pong emanating from our refrigerator, and a good clean was in order.

Two days before Gabriella was laid-off, I joined a gym. I wasn’t even looking to join a gym. That’s not to say that I don’t need the exercise. Boy do I! I’m currently storing fat for the winter-eating everything in front of me and to the side of me and way over there trying to hide from me-including whatever is left of the meals I prepare for my children. The most exercise I get in a day is walking to and from the MV (mini van). Winter is not a good time for me to stay fit.

I don’t know how it happened. A friend joined this gym and proclaimed, “I have just joined Disneyland for grown-ups”. It’s a country-club without the golf course. I call it MOMMY HEAVEN. It’s open 24/7. There’s a child-minding activity center where I can drop off my kids, and they can play or do arts & crafts or use the computer lab. There are 2 outdoor pools; one shallow family pool with mushroom capped sprinkler fountains and one massive pool with colossal water slides. There’s an indoor lap pool and general family swimming pool along with 2 Jacuzzi pools. Inside the women’s locker room, there is a sauna and a eucalyptus infused steam room. There’s a rock climbing area where you can belay or rock climb and they offer lessons for kids who are 5 and older. Asher has been interested in rock climbing since visiting our friends in New Paltz. There’s a salon, a cafe with healthy meals for grown-ups and kids, all the classes you can imagine, I could go on. The pièce de resistance? The month-to-month contract! You’re not kicking yourself 2 months later when you’re sitting at home berating yourself for not going to the gym while said gym automatically sucks your bank account dry every month for a year. Bally’s it’s not.

Knowing all the features that awaited me, I knew that if made the journey, I would not be able to leave without signing on the dotted line. I was torn. I’m a stay-at-home-mother. Total output. It’s difficult, nay impossible, for me to justify spending money on myself alone. My plan was to start working out again when both boys were in school full-time so that I could at least take classes without having to pay a baby-sitter. And that would happen in about, um, 4 years. That was until I became the Meat Lady at our synagogue. Though it’s not something I plan to put on my resume, I am now earning a small stipend for my efforts to help peddle meat. It just so happens that the money I earn from hawking ethical, kosher meat is exactly the monthly fee for MOMMY HEAVEN. Maybe it’s a reward from God for supporting sustainable farming. No, I’m not serious. I call Gabriella-who is still at work and still employed that day-and I tell her about MOMMY HEAVEN and that I can cover the cost of the gym with my Meat Lady money. She says, “It’s your money, honey. If that’s what you want to do with it, join the gym.” “But, why is your money our money, and why is my money my money?” “Join the gym, Deborah.” “I’ll think about it.” I got in the car. I turned the key in the ignition, and that’s when I knew I was toast.

Now, Gabriella has no job. Oh, pickles! What to do? We’re floating on a package for the next few months, but a fiscally responsible person would save every penny for the unlikely instance that we might both end up unemployed and earning no income. Of course, I could always get a job. I might not earn as much as Gabriella given my 5 year absence from paid employment, but we’d downsize...take in laundry...sell an organ or two. Now I can realize the dream that I’ve always had. I can open a brothel! My business acumen could finally be put to good use-"where it's always a business doing pleasure with you". I have always felt that I was destined to be a Madame but silly things have stood in the way of my dream – like the social stigma and the law. I could be a bra-fitter at a fancy department store, or with a little training I’d be happy to do bikini waxing. Gabriella is not impressed with any of these options. So, I’m going to keep my gym membership and see if she’s not singing a different tune in a few months. In the meantime, I’ll be gathering names of my mommy friends who’d like to earn a few bucks on the side should my dream come true.

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas


And for my gay homosexual boys: