Gap, On Sale

Every once in awhile I'm reminded how undeniably glamorous Los Angeles really is. You know, compared to the rest of the United States. Yeah, New York has its thing going on, but it's subtle, understated sophistication. L.A. isn't sophisticated - nor does it aim to be. It's actually anything but subtle or understated. L.A. style, rather, is about in-your-face beauty, the kind of physical perfection usually reserved for the silver screen, that's a daily reality on the streets of these here parts. The kind that is very expensive to obtain, and, I'll bet, about as exhausting to maintain.

I've been here for two years, and I'm not even close to used to its ubiquity.

I'm only occasionally reminded, because, frankly, I don't do a lot of shopping anymore, nor do I hang out in restaurants and coffee shops for longer than it takes to get a half-caff latte to go. And the pretty people? They're shopping. And eating (tofu). I think they do it for a living. [note: The park and playground crowd looks pretty much like the kind you see everywhere else. Phew.]

Today was The Middle of Week Two of Being Home With Both Kids Throughout August With Nothing Official To Do. I've done my best to keep things organized around here, to prevent the boys from quite literally biting each other's heads off, to take them to the park and allow them to search, endlessly, for bugs to torture. I've spent hours each day applying sunscreen, removing dirt and grime from various crevices in their bodies, and trying not to pass out from claustrophobia.

On this day, The Middle of Week Two of Being Home With Both Kids Throughout August With Nothing Official To Do, I had to get out of the Valley. It's ten degrees hotter here than anywhere else in the city, so escaping the heat was my final motivation. I called one of my best friends, a fellow Chicagoan with whom I grew up, who also married a guy from here and lives in Beverly Hills. She's AMAZING with my kids, never makes me feel like they are a burden, and fully understands that they usually come with the territory of spending time with me. Love her.

We decided to meet at The Grove, after a quick stopover for a kiss at Y's office nearby. The Grove is one of the best malls I've ever been to. It's outdoors, not too big, and has all the right stores (like Apple!) to browse without necessarily buying anything. They also have live music and Haagen Daz, which, to me, is pretty much the equation for perfection. What can I tell you? I'm a sucker for cross-sensory stimulation.

The Grove also has the most glamorous, youthful clientele of any actual mall in the surrounding area. You always see somebody "in the business" over there, at least once per visit. Today's specials included cameos by Tyra Banks (shooting a segment mimicking a Beyonce video for her talk show) and Nicole Richie (hitting a movie, yes, in that headband and ugly, oversize shades). My friend saw both of them, a minute before I arrived, frenzied by paparazzi. I only got to see the guy who played Marissa's bad-boy boyfriend on the last season of The O.C. (cuter in person!). Less exciting.

But nearly everybody there looked famous. Everyone was dressed well, sunglassed to the nines. And I had one of those moments where I went, what is this place? Am I in an alternate universe? After all, I'd just been in Chicago, and the contrast was heavy. Growing up in the Midwest, the girls who represented the ultimate in chic wore full-price J. Crew or Banana Republic rather than The Gap, on sale. For me, it was the $156, steel-toe, Doc Marten combat boots I somehow convinced my mother I couldn't survive another day without (I know, Mom, "don't say I never bought you anything!").

Nowadays, in case you're wondering, I'd choose the J. Crew.

Anyway, when presented with so much eye-candy, you can't help but become acutely aware of how you measure up. And I probably needn't state that as a mother of male-variety toddlers, my life is hardly glamorous. Unless you count cleaning up the results of Ariel's post-canyon-in-the-Taurus car sickness upon arrival at Y's office, which was part of my day, or emptying a sippy cup filled with OJ on the parking garage floor, under the car (discreet!) to refill it with, you guessed it, the juice of apples. Or squatting on the floor of Barnes and Noble to sort and put away the entire stuffed animals inventory, which my boys had thoughtfully redistributed throughout the children's section. Or being force-spooned unwanted, melted, vanilla ice cream with rainbow sprinkles by Ariel, who can't fully enjoy a meal unless he's sharing it with me, too.

We picked up Y from work on the way home, this evening, and I sent the kids in his car so he could bond with them and I could hear myself think for 45 minutes straight. Instead, we played games the entire way home, rolling down the windows and calling to each other at the tops of our lungs, waving as we sped past each other, the kids clearly thrilled at the sight of me in the car next to theirs. It was good, old, slightly-dangerous fun, and when we got home, both boys bear-hugged me, laughing, as though we'd been apart for days.

And I thought, who the hell needs glamour. My boys don't care what I look like nor compared to whom, they just like a girl who can be silly and have fun with them and still wipe their behinds, as needed. And these are the kinds of people who matter in my life. A nice, relaxing feeling.

We came into the apartment, shutting the door behind us, and I kicked off my shoes, pulled my sweater over my head, revealing the cuter, but more, well, revealing, little top I'd been wearing underneath. I don't show very much skin at all when we're out and about, so I guess that's why Elan's head turned, his eyes wide. And he said, "Wow, Mommy, you look so beautiful! I love that nice shirt, how it goes with your hair and every'hing."

So there you have it: Men.

Regardless of age, they're almost all the same. Up the glamour-quotient a notch, and suddenly "silly and fun and baby-wipe-bearing" are about as sufficient as a trip to The Beverly Center.