Scarlett Shrugs

I am beguiled by this shop of vintage clothes:

Don put on his jacket; “Come on, I’m taking you to lunch.”  You didn’t say no to him.  Scarlett hesitated, though, eyebrows raised.  “C’mon,” gruffly.

Scarlett pushed out from behind her manual typewriter and shrugged on her light coat, angry pumps clickety clacking behind him down the corridor.  She didn’t speak; she dared not unleash the torrent of her words and her irritation at constantly ruffled feathers from Don’s brusque machismo.  All these years of it.

Really, best vintage clothes ever:

In the elevator he glimpsed her anger:  “We have been over this.  I will NOT be spoken to as though I were your possession.  We have had the vote for some years now.  Women are their own citizens now.”  Icily.

“Got an offer for you.”

“You’d better.”


Clickety clack, clickety clack.   Finally the cafeteria where they always ate.

Very clever laptop, pad, and phone images here:

“I know you and your spinster friends are thinking about buying a little place in the city.  You know I don’t want you to quit the publishing house.  Stay on part time.  You could keep regular abbreviated hours and maybe even keep your own place here, then high-tail it out to your little commune for 3-day weekends.  Sounds like a win-win situation, right?”

Scarlett shrugged.

“Full pay?”

About AngelaLTodd

I am queen of the helicopter parents. But there are enough of us that we are becoming a social problem. Here’s my story. Thing 1 was coming, they couldn’t stop him, it was only 24 weeks and 3 days. Someone asked: should we try to save him? Well, yes. Yes! Ten days later, a team of doctors closed the door behind us to explain brain bleeds, sepsis, meningitis. Shall we pull the plug? Well, no. No! Babydaddy laid hands on him every day, massaged him when he was ready. For the three months he was in intensive care, and the three weeks at an intermediate hospital, I would get up in the night and pump breast milk, thinking about my baby across town. Babydaddy delivered it every morning, earning the name “milkman.” It was funny. We had every therapy going for as long as possible: early intervention, the intermediate unit, private therapies. Terms multiplied: sensory processing dysfunction, sensory integration problems, orally defensive, auditory sensitivities, comprehensive developmental delay, cognitive function impairment, retinopathy of prematurity. He did occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, play therapy; we consulted with a neurologist, school psychologist, wraparound service provider, developmental specialist. He worked with an occupational therapist for a year and a half to tolerate teeth and hair brushing. Not surprisingly, parenting didn’t feel natural. I learned to read to my baby watching Phyllis, our physical therapist. Voices, commentary, labeling colors, counting… she was very good! Merging professional research skills with my genetic propensity for silliness (mom was class clown, dad’s distantly related to Lucille Ball), my mothering style came together. Eventually. But I still channel Phyllis on occasion. Thing 2 was full term. They are complete opposites; she is a sensory seeker with a wild sense of adventure and an inventive sense of fashion. Keeping them both busy and happy is an exasperating and sweet challenge. I still believe that every day can be fun and educational while reinforcing kids' boundaries. I’m on a mission to save us helicopter parents from ourselves. No more bubble wrapped kids and guilty parents. Let’s teach them coping skills. Let’s get fun.
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