Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Do or Don't?

Despite my trepidation about Crocs, I'm strangely attracted to these shoes. There's a part of my brain that thinks these could be super comfy and look kind of "euro" therefore unfrumpy. But there's another part that thinks they look like a swimcap that's been fashioned into footwear. What do you think? I need some guidance, fellow moms. 

UPDATE:
Thank you thank you thank you! Your collective unfrumpiness saved me from making a grave error in judgement. That and the fact that they didn't have my size. Phew. That was close.  

Friday, June 20, 2008

The Sad Truth

In honor of Father's Day, I have been pondering the existence (or rather the lack of) Dad frump. Why is it that so many women fall headlong into the deep end of the frump pool after becoming parents and so few men even get their feet wet? Yes, yes, I realize that it falls to us to stretch our bodies into unrecognizable shapes in order to have said children, and that plays a large part. But it doesn't fully explain the sudden hair disasters, the tragic footwear choices and the fondness for wearing scrubs in public. Men don't lose their sense of style once they have kids. They don't stop shaving or bathing. If anything, they get a little more relaxed, toss out those few suspect items of clothing that were still around from their single days, and, let's face it, start to look even hotter. This is NEVER SAID of women. In fact, the whole term "MILF" stems from the idea that there are so few Ms anyone would like to F. Even when dads gain a little post-kid weight, it's usually kind of cute and, more importantly, spread around their bodies instead of throwing a party right around their midsection with a little after-party on the behind/lower back. Well Dads, Happy Father's Day to you... even if I have to hate you just a little bit. 

Monday, June 9, 2008

The Frumparchy

I have decided that there is a distinct hierarchy when it comes to frump, largely dependent upon a mom's circumstances. Here is my attempt at organizing this observation into some sort of chart-like, pyramid-shaped thingamajig:

The highest level of unfrumpiness (thus the least frumpy) is reserved for working moms (WMs). I know this from experience. Whether we like it or not, WMs are guaranteed at least 20 childless hours a week, out in public, where people wear clothes that need to be dry cleaned once in awhile. WMs actually spend time in the morning considering their general appearance and aroma. This very fact alone makes WMs the very picture of unfrumpiness. (I'm not, by the way, advocating that all moms be WMs. I would much rather getting my frump on at home with my baby girl than out teetering around in heels, smelling of tuberose. But hey, I gotta feel good about something.) 

The next rung down the ladder belongs to stay at home moms with help (SAHMsWH). This category rivals WMs for the title of least frumpy, depending upon the amount of help. Unlike WMs, many SAHMsWH  often find time to regularly work out and get manicures, in which case they rise to the top of the list. At the very least, they can carve out a little time to stand in front of a mirror. Unlike the next category. 

Our third group on the frump totem pole is stay at home moms (SAHMs). I get to be one of these every Friday and ay carumba, what a difference a day makes. There is really no time (or really, reason) to spend any time at all on outward appearance. My daughter loves me no matter how much underarm hair I have, what I smell like, or what is splattered all over my comfy, comfy sweat pants. I try not to leave the house without some basic maintenance, just in case I run into an ex-boyfriend. But the temptation to just "run out" while looking like a cross between sporty spice and roseanne is fierce, I tell you. 

Finally, the frumpiest level of them all is saved for stay at home working moms (SAHWMs). Again, I'm speaking from experience. On the days I work from home while also tending to my child, frump isn't a possibility, it's an inevitability. Without a doubt, my husband will come home at night to a wife that's unwashed, in pajamas, and sitting amidst piles of toys and dirty laundry. On these occasions, I spare everyone in the outside world from my frumpfest. I mean, I won't even open the door for the UPS guy. Unless he's delivering wine, of course.