I don't really like Motherhood Maternity. Nothing fits quite right, and their return policy is bullshit (no returns! Not one). Alas, their clothes are cheap and their stores plentiful so I find myself there.
(I'd still never buy this seasonal nightmare. I may be pregnant but I'm not interested in looking like a heinous red snowball, thank you.)
The last time I shopped there, I needed clothes for work. Desperately. I spent about $200. To my sheer delight, the cashier told me I qualified for a free gift from Heidi Klum.
Even though some of Klum's clothing line for Motherhood Maternity is downright fugly—I love the pregnant streetwalker look
—I was still excited. I heart me some free shit. And from Heidi Klum nonetheless. The fashionista. The woman whose maternity tunics fetch $130 a pop at Pea in the Overpriced Pod. One of the richest models ever. What delights awaited me?
I rushed home, greedily opened my bag and found this, a clear plastic "Loved" bag emblazened with ladybugs and stuffed with tissue paper.
Disappointing, yes. Hearts and ladybugs stopped being cute about the time I started menstruating. But maybe inside. Maybe there was an autographed bra she'd worn on the runway or a never-before-seen picture of her with Tim Gunn or one of Willy Wonka's golden tickets or one of Klum's skin care products or some of her queer clover-shaped jewelry (Jesus, this woman knows how to market herself) or...
...no. Inside was a dumb little ladybug compact with a funhouse mirror (I can see myself better in my bathroom faucet fixtures) and a mini notebook with a pleather cover for recording all my special thoughts.
In essence, more useless junk from China that will look lovely in my garbage can. Kind of like the plastic crap that comes with Happy Meals. You know, the stuff you wouldn't let your dog chew on? (Or poop on, it's that chintzy.)
It set me off, Ms. Klum's "generous" gift. Granted, she's never named the planet as one of her causes, but couldn't she have done a little better? Haven't we got enough plastic chotchkies in our landfills? When do we get to turn off the machines and give the planet a break?
Maybe I should lighten up. I mean, I did find a use for the notebook:
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.