Pretty Woman in a Shoe

I'm downtown late one night, picking up a copy of USA Today, when Richard Gere drives up in a silver Lotus.  I am "workin' it," if I do say so myself, in a corduroy jumper, ribbed tights, and clogs.  Mr. Gere offers me $3,000.00 to spend the week with him.  "Mister Gere," I retort, "a Christian lady and a feminist such as I would never dream did you say three thousand dollars?  In light of a lack of child support and the lousy economy, I accept."  I call my mom to arrange child care and fall asleep before we even reach the hotel.  I wake up the next morning with my real hair color:  gray.  Crap!  I knew I should have scheduled that salon visit.

Later, Rich is amazed by my sexiness as I sing in the bathtub--or he would be, if I weren't cleaning it.  I forgot I'm no longer the resident maid service.

As we get to know each other better, we go step on dirt clods at a horse race and his friends decide I'm a slut.  I am having so much fun.  Hey, after my Shoeful of kids, anything is entertaining.  The hotel manager decides to take me under his wing and give me a little culture, because Rich is a really uptown, upscale, upwardly mobile, shoes-cost-more-than-my-van kind of dude.  One day while Rich is out working, the manager shows me the difference between different kinds of dinner forks.  I explain to him that each added fork on my dinner table increases the likelihood of sibling stabbings, and that plastic flatware at my domicile is de rigueur (one of the only French phrases I retained from high school, pronounced Dee Rigger).

Rich asks me to go shopping with his platinum card, and he doesn't need to ask me twice.  I whiz right past the high-rent district, hit the nearest Costco and fill our hotel suite to the ceiling with cases of paper towels, trash bags, and other luxury items that single moms cannot afford when their exes skip the child support.  I seduce old Rich that evening, clad in nothing but Ziploc bags.  Given the huge family that I have already mothered, I inform Rich that I'm a Safety Girl—I prefer my partner to be in a different room, if not on another continent.

For some reason, Jason Alexander drops by one afternoon and puts the moves on me.  I wallop him about the Head & Shoulders with a Costco half-gallon of same.  Rich returns and is appalled to find his lawyer lying prone on the floor.  I inform him that I didn't care for his lawyer's subpoenas.

To cheer me up after this upsetting scene, Rich whisks me off to the opera in a limo.  I am wearing my new Costco blue jeans.  Rich decides to skip the rented jewels, which means I don't have to hee-haw like a donkey when he slams my fingers in the box.  Instead, Rich springs for a nice pair of hoop earrings, which might even be genuine stainless steel that won't turn my ears green.  I am thrilled—but even more thrilled when I see my seat at the opera.  "Holy smokes!"  I say, causing heads to turn, "Are you sure this isn't the Phantom's box?  Wouldn't want to get hung from the rafters or anything, nyuck nyuck nyuck."

As the first heart-stirring strains of La Traviata fill the opera house, the kids start texting me.

"mom where are u we are out of milk get some pls"
"when will u be home i need help with homework"
"where is my shirt for work bring it to school tomorrow b4 3 ok"

Then my mom calls to say, "Look, I know it's Richard Gere and everything, but I have a life too." 

"Mom. . .but it's three grand. . .uh huh. . .uh huh. . .and three cases of Plushie Tushie toilet paper, and. . .what?  Oh, yeah, I got enough Fleishmann's yeast to bake for an ar. . ."

"SHHHHHHHHH!"

"Oh, sorry.  Operators, I am so sorry.  My bad.  Mom?  Call you back, okay?  Love you too.  'Bye."

Rich looks kinda miffed at me now, but it's not like he missed anything, just the same dame howling her head off for the past five minutes.  Since she appears to be just getting warmed up, I ask the usher to direct me to "la toillette."  Rich puts his face in his hands.  When I get back, I pat him companionably on the arm.  '''All in all, a pretty good night out on the town, eh, Richie?"  But he is in a quiet mood.

Best I can tell, the show is about some shameless whore who sells herself to a wealthy man.  I can't relate at all.

I would go home and take the kids off mom's hands, I honestly would, but Rich is having a midlife crisis and needs my input.  "So," I say to him, "you're rethinking your hostile takeover of a sweet old man's shipyard for $20 million which would put him and his cute grandson out of business?"  I ponder this, while filing my toenails and my taxes simultaneously.  I consider RIch's immortal soul and his heart's deepest longings.  "Are you sure, my liquidest, flushest, most divinely in-the-black darling, that you can't hostile-ly take over for $19 million?"

Unfortunately (except for my mom), Rich decides to break up the next day even though the hotel manager says Rich is giving up something rare and lovely, and I couldn't agree more.  It takes two moving vans to get my Costco purchases back to the Shoe.  My kids devour everything edible out of Van One before they finish unloading Van Two.  I'm thinking that of all my dates, this has been by far the most enriching—even if my daughter has already snatched the earrings—when suddenly, no doubt distraught without me, Rich reconsiders.

My Knight in Shining Armor comes to carry me out of the factory—nope, sorry, that was An Officer and a Gentleman--comes to swordfight evil Maligant and spring me from the cave—nope, sorry again, that was First Knight—clambers up the Shoe fire escape with an umbrella and a bouquet of roses.  My children stampede down the fire escape and trample poor Rich in his tracks.  The paramedics find him folded up in his umbrella, covered with rose petals.  I rush to his side and murmur lovingly in his ear, "And you said no one needs a 200-count box of Band-aids."