The Where Are They Now File:

Kendra and I = A momz and a momz to be? The times they have a cha-changed, boy.

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbors Stroller

The eleventh commandment may have been omitted from the original list (of eleven, twelve, twenty commandments?) but hey, Moses was a man, and a stroller would have been hard to push up all that rocky terrain.

Any newish parent knows (even the self-proclaimed low-maintenance momz) the many a strollers out there, what they cost and what it means to push each particular model/brand/style around the block.

GGC readers may or may not know that I was not planning on getting pregnant. No sirree. Me and the old man were dating about five months when my eighth pregnancy test agreed with my seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth.... etc. Four months later, the old man and I married in Vegas and three months after that, Archer was born! GGC readers may or may not also know that I am the only person I am friends with (Yes, I am friends with myself) that has a child. There were those two friends who got knocked up in high school but we kinda lost touch over the years.

Needless to say, between unplanned parenthood and no mommy friends I wasn't exactly paying attention to strollers, station wagons, and other baby products/accessories. Diaper Bags? Huh? Strollers? "It's just a friggin thing to push your baby around in, right?"

Wrong.

The other day, we were at breakfast with some friends when the neighborhood stroller derby walked by.

Stroller Derby: N; A group of four or more moneybags mammas pushing their Kate Spade Maclarens, Bugaboos, Stokkes, clad in Juicy Couture (so three years ago) Ugg boots (we will not go there) and J-LOesque sunglasses (barf).

I watched them pass my Graco carseat two-piece thingy. I lowered my sunglasses. They gave me the once over, one by one and looked away. Bitches. Poseurs. Yuppie-ass Yoga Rat Bitch Fuck Bitches.

Minutes later over breakfast, my friend Jackson asked if there was such thing as a "cool stroller." I said, "yes." He asked if I had a "cool stroller." I crossed my fingers under the table. "Totally."

I was first introduced to the stroller class system at the mall. I was four months pregnant and we ran into a Jappy chick pushing around her Sjklajldsa stroller with her prepped-out husband in tow.

"What is that?" My old man asked. "That's cool."
"Its the blkjskadls. I like it better than the bugaboo."
"Oh, right. The bugaboo."
I didn't know what the hell the bugaboo was but I googled it as soon as I got home. 850 fucking dollars for that dinky little post-modern, cold, ten-speed looking stroller? And so I wanted one. Bad.

Being that we were still barely dating, trying to get the money together to move in together, literally counting pennies for things like, oh, gas money to Vegas for our shotgun wedding and, oh yeah, food. The Bugaboo was totally out of our price range and there was no way in hell I was going to add that to my baby registry so I secretly pined and embraced my Graco with open arms.

"Thank you, Nana!"

Women in Los Angeles do not procreate unless they are rich and very old. (I didn't meet one women younger than 45 in my OB's office.) By Los Angeles standards, we are poor and very young. In the old neighborhood, it didn't matter. Our hood was home to young couples, pro skateboarders and single out-of-work actors; all as oblivious as I was pre-baby of status strollers. It was liberating and especially easy to be a practical mom with little or no stroller envy. The new neighborhood is somewhat of a different story. Being that I am the only mom in the greater Hancock Park/Paramount area that doesn't have at least one Spanish speaking caretaker, not to mention the fact that I have not seen a single Graco stroller while I have lived here. In fact, I have only seen Bugaboos. ONLY. Around here, Chameleons wander the streets, NOT exactly blending in with their surroundings.

The truth is that my stroller is so not cool. Please note that I am not complaining. It's a perfectly wonderful stroller. It has a cute blue plaid design and folds easily. It's practical. Alas, I am not known for being practical. I have never thought of myself as practical. My taste has always been expensive. I have been known to drop an entire month's rent on one pair of Gucci shoes*, or a YSL dress that I will wear maybe once. I have gotten into a lot of trouble overspending, living beyond my means, etc. Practicality is soooooo not in my nature. UNTIL NOW!

I have spoiled myself over the years and am sick and tired of my petty ways. Hence, my induced stroller pride. I try to block out the shmancy local strollers and instead admire the baby inside. Archer could care less, so why should I? After all it his ride. Strollin down the street, speaking baby-o, sipping on form-u-la. With my mind on my diapers and my diapers on my mind...


Easy. Now I simply peak into every expensive stroller I pass and make fun of how ugly the baby is inside. Mean? Not really. I smile. Once in a while I'll say something like, "Awww, look at those eyes!" Don't worry. It's totally okay. I live in Los Angeles. This is how we do things here, trust me. And who knows, maybe with kid #4 the fam will be able to afford, justify, buy the coveted stroller. As for now, The Stroller Derby wanders by, pushing their trolls down the boulevard, adjusting their color-coordinated diaper bags, the butt of all my jokes. Bitches.

Sorry, Moses. You shoulda made it eleven.

GGC

*My shoes grew since birthing a child, so if anyone wears a 9.5 narrow, call me. I have a closet full of fabulous shoes and they do not fit.

Back Atcha With XXXtra Room

We are all moved in. Minus a couch and a few chairs we are set! Archer has his own room, complete with curtains and alligator throw rug and a crib! Finally we were able to take the crib out of the box, stashed in my parents garage. Our house is so friggin huge I even bought a baby monitor today. I know. Imagine!!! The one-room palace had nothing on the new digs.

Our Move: In Summary

-Four exhausted lovers quarrels, one resulting in tears.
-Four kiss and makeout sessions.
-Two out of three of us came down with some kind of "Moving on up" sickness. (Me and the Archer were snotting and sneezing the whole weekend long.)
-I pulled my arm out of its socket. (I am pretty sure.) My old man fucked up his shoulder and between the two of us, we managed to collect two dozen bruises. (Seriously, we counted.)
-Got in a fight with the manager at Best Buy.
- Moved a giant television in and out of my car twice. Dropped it. Broke it. Made up excuse for its behavioral problems and managed a new one (with a fight, hence above.)
- Gave away couch before we found a new one. I had no idea the wait for couches is 10-20 weeks on average, except of course if you would like to purchase the couch in the stock fabric which is always tacky. (Why the hell is that, btw? How hard is it to make a stock fabric that isn't repulsive? )
-Ran into Punky Brewster at the local baby boutique and those two witches from Sabrina the Teenage Witch.
- Got one parking ticket.
- Survived move with sicky five month old, sicky momz and overworked popz.
-Decided that the next time we move will be when we leave Los Angeles...


GGC