I believe you and I were discussing Thoreau? When someone stuffed a buck into my thong? No?

Why did I not look like this when I was pregnant? Why have I not looked like this ever? Why did it take Charles Baxter’s amazing A Feast of Love to bring out my inner blonde beret-rockin’ knocked-up soulful love-wise barista grrl?

Our book club had a holiday party earlier this month at a local bar. It was just us, one confused bartender, and a crackling fire. Each bibliophile was required to come dressed as a memorable character from the year’s selections, and to bring a white elephant gift—the more atrocious, the better.

In attendance were a geisha, a Merry Maid (Nickled and Dimed), a doomed young woman disguised as a soldier (The Girl Who Played Go), Clare from The Time Traveler’s Wife, a duo in burkhas (Reading Lolita in Tehran), a ghostly 1800s bride (Rebecca, still fitting in her gorgeous wedding dress after two kids) from a book I can’t think of, and numerous other characters, all swilling chocolate martinis and eating cheeseburgers and shrimp rolls. A perfectly lovely evening. I went as Feast of Love‘s Chloe (Chlo-AY), whose heartbreaking, street-smart wisdom just knocked me out. Read the book. Oh, do.

When the white elephant gifts started flying back and forth, it was like Vegas in New England, people. Vegas in New England. Of course I’ve never been to Vegas, but I picture a lot of thongs. Not flip-flops. Thongs. I scored a very nice trio myself, all with Chlo-AY’s favorite T-shirt slogan emblazoned on the, er, front. At least I think it was the front. Lauren tells me I had it on backwards, but I think that was just an optical illusion because I gots a lot of junk in my trunk. Raging hormones, read my thongs. (Thank you, Rachel!)

The problem is, I can’t wear thongs. My mother told me the foot-variety thong, the common flip-flop, would CAUSE A TUMOR TO GROW IN BETWEEN MY TOES WHERE THE THINGIE RUBBED. She denies it to this day, but you can imagine my consternation about the lingerie version.

So I practiced safe thonging. And was amply rewarded. (And, as you can see, I was amply rewarded by a Higher Being before the money started rolling in.)

And now I very badly want to cut off my hair and bleach it until it crunches and get a barbed wire tattoo and get knocked up in a careless and inopportune moment. I mean, seriously. Would I have time for all the tedious melancholy and schlumpy soul-searching in 2007 if I rocked a fabulous smoky eye and cheap black beret and chopped platinum locks like THIS every day? Noooooooooooo.

RockStar Mommy would be all like, Hey, gabba gabba, Jenn, let’s jam together! And I’d be all like, Yeah, hot blonde friend! [Doing the goat horn hand thing, but executing it reeeeally well for a change] Yeah! I’d say. What should I play today? Bass? Drums? Tongue piercings against metal boiler room pipes? And she’d be all like, Man, you are AWESOME! And I’d be like, No, YOU’RE AWESOME! EVERYBODY AND EVERYTHING IS FRICKIN’ AWESOME AND I AM SO BLONDE AND KNOCKED UP AND PIERCED AND TATTOOED AND HOT I CAN’T EVEN STAND IT! AND I EVEN KNOW WHERE MY KIDS ARE!

I believe this is what is known as Blonde Ambition. Or Early Midlife Crisis, Female Version.