Even babies love Hermes

I know this is a dating/relationships/singleton blog, but we singletons love nothing if not our chick-lit, and lately my life has been a Devil Wears Prada/The Nanny Diaries hybrid, only without the Harvard Hottie or the Adrian Grenier boyfriend. *sigh* That and the fact that my love life is still in winter hibernation mode, so I don't really have anything else to write about. Although even if I did, this story still needs to be shared with the world.

I was watching Eloise last Friday, as usual, when Ms. X (Eloise's mother) asked me to run an errand for her, as I also function as her personal assistant. She asked me to run to Hermes, to pick up a gift she had on hold for a friend's baby while Eloise was at her guitar lesson (like any normal 5-year-old). Very Devil Wears Prada. My first thought was: Hermes? For a baby? What are they going to do, diaper the kid with a $500 scarf? What on earth would you get a child, let alone a baby, at Hermes?

I pulled into the parking lot- I declined the complimentary valet parking, thank you very much- and immediately knew I didn't belong. My yellow ford focus didn't exactly fit in with the black Mercedes and Audis that were already there. Not to mention the fact that I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, and this was a store with a guard at the door, and sales people who wear immaculate designer suits that cost more than my car. I was expecting a scene straight out of Pretty Woman, where the employees look at me with disdain because I wasn't dressed properly, and kind of wished I was wearing thigh-high boots and a halter top in the hopes that I would meet a Richard Gere-type sugar daddy.

Fortunately, the sales clerk was much nicer to me than the people of Beverly Hills were to Julia Roberts, and was very helpful and friendly, despite my attire. When I told him who I was picking up for, he thought for a moment, and said, "Oh yes, it was a bookmark!"

A bookmark? For a baby? He came back with what appeared to be a small, purple hippopotamus. Surely I could buy that at Barnes and Noble? I whipped out Ms. X's credit card, as he said, "That will be $178.60."

178 what? Dollars? Surely, he must have meant rupees? Or pesos? Or soles? But no, he meant one-hundred and seventy-eight American dollars.

For a bookmark? For a baby? Who can't even read? I don't spend any money on bookmarks. I use an old receipt. Or a brochure I don't need. Or a wad of paper I found lying on the ground. Or, if I'm feeling really fancy, I use a free bookmark from the check-out desk at the library.

A hundred and seventy-eight dollars? Good grief.

As soon as I got into the car, I called Grayer. Like I said, this is something that needs to be shared with the world. I mean, how many people know that $178 bookmarks exist? Because I sure as hell didn't.

First of all, if this woman can spend this much money on something that will probably never be used for a kid that isn't hers, then I am clearly underpaid. That's almost as much as I get paid for watching Eloise in a week. Depending on the week, it could be more. She just spent more on a
bookmark than she spends on a week of childcare. There is something fundamentally wrong with that. Second, if anyone gave my offspring a gift like that, I would return it to the sophisticated boutique from which it came, and use that money for something useful. Like starting a college fund.

$178. For a bookmark. For a baby. I will never, ever get over this.