Snark alert! If you are searching for a feel good story about rainbows and unicorns and a couple hand holding verses of
Kumbaya, look elsewhere. In fact, you'll never find that here so surely you're misdirected, misguided, or mistaken.
I happen to live in an area teeming with Stepford Moms. I bet they lurk where you live too. I have a hunch their uniforms are different in each locale. Surely the Stepford Moms inside the beltline of Raleigh don't look like the hipster chic moms of Santa Monica or the earthy bohemian moms of Portland. I'm talking about the women who have dogeared Lisa Birnbach's
Preppy Handbook and are on the perpetual hunt for the ideal bloody mary recipe. The prep school crowd, whether they went to one or not.
Full disclosure, I went to prep school and I live in the same zip code in the same coveted neighborhood as many of these moms. I am not, repeat
not, one of them. For starters, I am likely one of five brown people in my whole zip code. I've met one other brown person who happens to be a good friend (but not just because we're brown). The Stepford Moms are not brown, at least until August after three months of sunning themselves at the beach or the club. They don't grace the municipal city pools, no siree. I'm talking about my town's version of
Kate Middleton wannabes. A whole swarm of women
Holden Caulfield would loathe.
Allow me to illustrate my point. Here's what I just saw in a habitat known to be a common gathering ground for Stepford Moms, the public library, in said zip code.
It is fact that these women have fantastic taste and svelte pilateed bodies. Not a thigh touches or an ass sags, breasts are perky, natch (with the help of Doc Op or Wacoal). The majority of the Stepford Moms are blondes, approximately 2% of them are natural blondes. Not a soul has red hair and freckles. The typical outfit on a spring day consists of white designer jeans with a striped grosgrain belt (mostly I see
Paige,
J Brand,
Hudson, or
Citizens of Humanity: the Sevens are reserved for roughing it on the playground or for preschool volunteering),
Tory Burch flats in colors that are not practical in the least bit but nonetheless fabulous (lime green, orange, mustard yellow), Lily Pulitzer tunic or Trina Turk ruffled blouse, hobo or otherwise slouchy bag (lots of Kooba and Marc Jacobs), Nicole Richie-esque sunglasses bearing an obvious logo perefectly propped upon their heads (I'm guessing there are a lot of fake Chanels.), and something monogrammed, like a sunglass case, library tote bag, or water bottle koozie. And monogrammed children are a given. I could write a whole separate post on the culture of monogramming among this set. These are not women who buy clothes at Target, Old Navy, or god forbid, the thrift store or yard sales.
The Stepford Moms chatter about all of life's most important topics. When to go to the beach, what private racquet club has opened up the waiting list, tennis match pairings, nanny bargains, private school application pitfalls, sample sales and boutique party nights,
Bunco, diamond cleaning, interior decorating guffaws, and the latest fiasco involving the help (their word, not mine). From what I've overheard, the economy, health care, education, reproductive rights, civil liberties, civil unions, equal pay, planet earth, or CSAs do not creep into conversation, even in passing. I'm guessing these women are not Facebook fans of Rachel Maddow or NPR. But maybe I don't give them enough credit.
What strikes me is not just the apparent shallowness of this ilk; I am in awe of how they all look and talk and laugh and point and toss their hair in the exact same way. I swear if you put a Glamour magazine black bar across all their eyes you'd think you were looking at the same woman. Apparently individuality is not a core value among this set (my favorite quote ever about individuality is found in
this song).
They all try so hard to be the same, sound the same, think the same. It seems to me that they are afraid. Afraid to be themselves, to stray from the crowd, to think irreverent thoughts, to break the pink and green mold, to turn their paradigms sideways and backwards and upside down. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of not belonging. Afraid of being singled out. Afraid of being exposed. Afraid of being an individual.
What scares me is a flock of lemmings.
When I lived in Minnesota there was nothing better than downing a hot sake after a nipple numbing walk from the car to the restaurant. Now that spring is on my doorstep (I just know it is!), I want to find some new ways to enjoy sake, one of my faves from the days of yore.
When the simple syrup is cooled, put 5 slices of cucumber, lime juice, mint, and simple syrup to an old fashioned glass (also know as a lowball or rocks glass). Muddle it all together against the glass with the back of a spoon or muddler. Admittedly, the muddler resembles some sort of kitchen sex toy, but I digress. Now add a handful of ice to a cocktail shaker. Pour the sake and cucumber/lime/mint mixture over the ice. Shake until it's ice-fleck-Minnesota-nipple-freeze cold. Strain into a chilled wine glass. Garnish with a cucumber slice.
