No Naughty Sirens Allowed

True ethnic coffee used to be an exclusive preserve of the bohemian classes. When Starbucks was first getting started in 1971, there were only two kinds of coffee in the mainstream world - regular and decaffeinated. Half and half was the only creamer and white processed sugar sweetened the deal. People didn't go out for coffee alone nor define their identity by the beverage they brewed, or that was brewed for them. Things used to be different, including Starbucks where the Siren was a true image of feminine identity.

Now, as Dennis Miller would say, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but I will.

I read an article the other day in my six dollar New York Times Sunday newspaper about the Starbucks Siren - apparently she lost her nipples and belly button as a sacrifice for our proclivity to politeness. Back in the 70s, Miss Starbucks was voluptuous and genuine. Today, with our penchant for mass-marketed uniqueness, our lovely naked woman is seen as an irreverent display of the female nude.

I am not a caustic raging bra burner. I like men. I like working with men and for men. Men are not the problem, in this case. Most women have their thumbs firmly over their man's head. Actually, I would argue it was probably not a male who decided to pull the nipples and belly button and replace them with the oh-so-civilized suggestive curves. Most men would find this idea outrageous and so do I.

What is wrong with an alluring female goddess on the front of our 10% post-consumer recycled fiber, made-in-the-good-ole-us-of-a tall latte cup? She is as seductive as caffeine is on a soggy wet morning when you just don't feel like clambering out of bed.

Our litigiously frightened and religiously stifled society (whoa, now there’s a provocative statement for a church-going-girl) is so afraid to offend that we have even changed our coffee cups.

We yearn to be different, as long as everyone is different with us.

All bums are not equal

DH and I are shopping for new furniture for our formal living room. Well, to be honest, he does not yet know that we are shopping for furniture, but we are.

This process has left me with just one question:

Why is it that a single chair costs $799; a loveseat, in the same fabric, costs $879; and a full on three bum sofa costs $899?

I want four chairs and I am outraged that furniture stores can't seem to work out an appropriate bum-to-cost ratio.

Now I no longer wonder why I have to fight people for the only solo squishy chair in Starbucks. Starbucks is clearly pissed off about this situation too and refuses to buy more.

Can we start a revolt?

Baby sale!

It is much easier to eavesdrop on conversations if you sit outside at Starbucks. Inside, the hurried fury of blenders crushing icy frappacinos makes the ear drums strain a little too hard. Outside, the only distraction is the gentle rumble of luxury SUV engines emerging from the drive through. For this reason, I was glad I sat outside on this particular day.

A thirty-something woman in white short shorts and a modest black t-shirt plopped down at the table beside me, placing her shiny black folio next to her iced coffee. Everybody at Starbucks carries a shiny black folio - they transport important documents and empty note pads. Oddly, people rarely refer to the documents or write on the notepads. I think they are the adult form of a security blanket.

I digress.

She was a solid tall woman with blonde hair tied back in a sensible ponytail. Her skin was freckled and pink and the cellulite on the backs of her legs was inoffensive. Just an average person and I thought little of her.

A young woman bounced across the road on the balls of her feet. She was definitely noteworthy. It is odd to see skinny people in America, these days, and she was skinny. Her breasts defied her slim body and so, of course, being female, I immediately presumed surgery had been involved. What other way do we justify these anomalies to ourselves?

She approached the very average woman and they shook hands. Skinny girl, who did not have a shiny black folio, sat down at the table not bothering with a beverage and seemed eager to get down to business. I was not anticipating listening to their conversation but it was unavoidable as only a foot of space separated their private conversation and my curious ears. The average woman began...

"So, I guess my first question is whether or not you have any serious illness in your family history?"

"Umm...no, not that I know of. I don't know much about my father but I can put down everything I know about my mother's side."

"That will be fine. Here is the paperwork to complete. Just put down what you know."

The young woman then asked "So, how does this all work? When are they likely to find a match?"

"Sometimes it can take up to a year, but, with your qualities, I think we can match you pretty quickly. It just depends on what people are looking for. Some don't mind as long as the donor is healthy and not unattractive, some want them to be 5ft 10, blonde hair, blue eyes and a 4.0 GPA. Once we do match you, we begin the injectable hormones to hyper stimulate your ovaries. You can inject yourself or I can show you how to do it. I am not qualified or anything, but I have done it before."

I almost blew my cover at this point with the incredulous stare I shot in their direction. Feigning a cough, I focussed my eyes back on Chapter IV.

"So, when do I get paid? If I do the injectables and they don't end up using the eggs, do I still get my money?"

"You get paid $1000 once you begin the injectables. You receive the remaining $4500 once they extract your eggs. If they don't extract any, you will not get paid the remaining amount, but you will still receive $1000 and of course all the medical bills are paid. Here is all the legal paperwork. It's pretty boring but just read through it when you get a chance and ask me if you have any questions. Also, you will undergo a psychological evaluation. You seem pretty normal, though, so everything should be fine. Just try to think of it like you are donating blood. It is almost the same thing."

"Oh yeah. That is a good way of thinking about it."

"Ok. Well, if you don't have any other questions, we're done. Just fill out the medical history and fax it back to me. I'll call you when we get a match. In the meantime begin taking prenatal vitamins because it helps with egg development. OK?"

The young woman nodded, exchanged a few more words of small talk, collected the paperwork and left. The average woman also gathered her shiny black folio and walked away in the opposite direction. The whole transaction took less than ten minutes.

Thinking this poor young woman must be desperate, I tried to rationalize what I had just witnessed. She must have recently lost her job, had a variable rate mortgage, gone into foreclosure and was raised an orphan. Skinny woman is a downtrodden member of society - somebody that certainly does not need my judgment. Selling her eggs is her last resort, surely.

Slinging the Coach tote across her sinewy arm, she reached into the side pocket for her car keys. The 2004 Hummer with sparkling chrome rims was not what I had expected.

I have never thought about the egg/sperm donation process. I didn’t know the world had these “match makers” that paired desperate couples with young women (or men) in “need” of cash. I suppose I thought these undertakings occurred amid hushed whispers in quiet medical buildings.

I don't want to judge this woman or imagine that I know her circumstances, even with the car she drove and the breasts she flaunted. I have no idea what in her life brought her to this point. It just made me sad.

The Fall magazines have started appearing on the shelves this month - even though it is only August. Flipping through one of them I noticed a beautiful taupe cashmere cardigan by Loro Piano. The price tag was $5550.