If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it does it make a sound? If a mom loses a part-time job does anyone care? Not sure about the first but I definitely don’t have to meditate on the second; the answer is a resounding NO.

Recently, I lost my job (the biz went under). Now, I wasn’t making tons of money but it added a decent amount to our monthly budget. Or so I thought. Being the good Facebooker that I am I kept everyone up to date about my lost income stream. Now, normally, when I post a status I’ll get a few comments but this time…crickets. Other friends had posted about being laid off and even their 5th grade Science teacher, Mr. Harris, offered condolences. So it seems that there must be some sort of monetary or hourly threshold that must be crossed in order for the word employment to be fully applicable. And guess what ladies, it ain’t the part-time gig!

Hey, I wanted to say, it’s not like that was my crack money! I’m not saying I didn’t use some of it to purchase a few much-needed Margaritas, but still, we did use it to pay some bills. And, also, this may come as a shock to some of those folks, but I LIKED it! I miss it! I’m not saying I expected singing telegrams, flower bouquets or hot casseroles but a little “wow, you must be really sad, what are you going to do?” would have been nice. I do think my cat feels bad for me though; she now looks at me with sad eyes. But then I’m home a lot more now and I think I’m sitting in her spot.

Television now controls my self worth in ways it never did before. These days I’m convinced that as I walk down the street with my toddler in hand – dressed in my favorite “mommy” (read: it doesn’t matter how many times ketchup gets spilled on them) jeans, boots impervious to stains, and my usual go-to comfy thermal top – I will be kidnapped. Nabbed right off my block by Oprah and those two crazy cohorts on TLC, forced into a van with a bag over my head and dumped out in front of some chic Soho boutique where every salesperson is a size 00 and their makeup is photo shoot ready. They would then demand that I confront my sad sack of a self in front of that god-awful 3-sided mirror of death while yelling simultaneously: “Mommy Makeover Time!”

Sure, I would protest. I would try and explain that I do like fashion and, in fact, had quite the sense for it back in the day. But they wouldn’t listen, They’d just shove me into a tiny pencil skirt (with a pair of spanx – “make sure not to breath too much,” they would advise), a frilly blouse which would show peekaboo bits of my bra, and a serious pair of Christain Louboutin heels. All the while I would still try and explain: I do know what’s hip, hot and sexy! It’s just it can’t also seem to be functional. They would gasp and hiss at that word “functional” – Oprah would pass out, later being carried out by Gayle and fanned with $100 bills by Steadman. Still though, even Oprah-less, they wouldn’t cave: I need a Mommy Makeover, they’d say.

And, of course, after all that peer pressure I would go teetering off to the playground after my toddler as he screamed “C’mon Mommy!” And I would follow him up the jungle gym, ripping that pencil skirt so that my old cotton undies and their flyaway threads are now flapping in the wind, that super cute blouse now covered in sand and graham cracker fingerprints and finally, those expensive high heels caught in the metal ladder sending me straight to the ground and off to the ER with a concussion. All the while hearing Tim Gunn mutter: “Make it work.” Which, is precisely what I was trying to do in the first place with my old biker boots, stretched out jeans and lumberjack top.

So here I sit getting cookie crumbs on a shirt already covered in glue and glitter. And I want to know how does Gwen Stefani dress for a REAL day with her kids?