Mari Is Hungry

Chapter 1

MARI KICKED OFF HER HEELS AS SOON AS SHE STEPPED into her narrow entry, setting down the cellophane-wrapped basket laden with organic linen swaddles, glass baby bottles, and lavender goat milk soap. 

   Fucking apothecary hipster bullshit, she thought. And expensive too. In fact, Mari found that life as a woman in her mid-30s came with an additional thousand dollars-plus in monthly spending, often just related to baby showers, birthdays, and other social obligations. If it wasn’t a friend’s birthday, it was their kid’s birthday. 

   Mari noticed the extra expenses piling up on her meticulous monthly ledgers about two years ago, but as her friends kept breeding, her social obligations continued to grow more expensive by the month. Except for summertime. Most people she knew traveled during the summer. 

   She sighed and reflected on how easy it used to be, living in a small town. A fifty-dollar gift card to “Tar-zhayy” and a floral arrangement were fancy enough for the modest suburb she left eight years ago to move into the city. Now, she was lucky if she spent only a few hundred dollars per party. And it wasn’t just the money. It was the lack of consideration, of reciprocation, her friends showed her. But what did she have to celebrate?

        Baby Larsen,

        Tender wraps to hold you close,

        a bottle to fill your tummy

        Lavender to soothe your stress 

   Mari tapped her pen next to the “Welcome, Baby” card with Victorian stork illustrations as she tried to think of something to rhyme with “a bottle to fill your tummy” that wasn’t “your mommy is a dummy.” Of everyone in her circle of friends, Mindy Larsen was the most reproductively annoying. 

   Baby Larsen, sex unknown, was Mindy’s third baby in six years. It was like clockwork with that one; just as soon as one kid started to toddle about, she’d get pregnant again and then it was a maddening cycle of pregnancy reveal party, three showers — one for work, a second for Mindy’s friends, and a third for Mindy’s mother’s friends — a gender reveal party, and a post-delivery-welcome-home party, baby’s first birthday.

   Repeat, repeat. 

   And it wasn’t just the fact that her timing ensured constant waves of attention, it was also the guilt-tripping. A well-meaning friend once laughed and asked Mindy in a lighthearted way how she had the energy to do so much after one baby. Mindy had sniffed, and in an injured, pitiful tone said, “Why should I love my first child best? Why should I lower my standards after one baby?”

   What was that woman’s name again? wondered Mari. It didn’t matter; she was swiftly iced out from the friend group following a social media post by Mindy in which she lamented “toxic, fake feminist friends” who were judging her for having children. She was so upset, she had said in the post, that she nearly ended up in the ER for a panic attack. That was bullshit. 

   What had really happened was she called Mari and said, “I need a fucking drink, and I need to bitch about that cunt.” 

   She had shown up an hour later to Mari’s apartment, wine bottle in hand and said, “Don’t judge me for having a glass, because the doctor said a couple of glasses of wine is fine.” Mari didn’t judge. Well, she’d kept it to herself. 

   Tossing off her black silk blouse, and stepping out of her black pencil skirt, she stood in her custom walk-in closet she’d had built when she bought her apartment. It all glittered before her as she contemplated her choices. Four rows of designer shoes, two rows of hanging clothes, then twelve built-in drawers for jewelry and her more delicate pieces — her three Clio Peppiatt dresses with fine beading detail and four Marchesa evening gowns, for instance. She would, of course, go with something floral and pastel. A far cry from her office attire.

   Work had been so shitty today. She had gone into the pitch meeting leaving every shred of her femininity at the door. All black, undetectable makeup, hair slicked back into a severe bun. 

   Please take me seriously. No — you will take me seriously. 

   When it was her turn to pitch, she’d stuck to the market and scientific research, had been succinct, and delivered a very thoughtful pitch on a product that essentially promised an 80% net return and had a potential market of three million consumers annually across North America. Though, her aim for the breast pump that expressed milk in a quarter of the time other pumps did was for global distribution. Working mothers who wanted their babies to be fed breast milk now had extra hours in their days; Mari’s product could be a game changer.

   When she had finished her pitch, her supervisor Greg looked up from his phone, which he’d been on the whole time, and nodded at Kyle that it was his turn to pitch. 

   “Okay, so you know how, like, babies like to be held?" Kyle said. "And when they’re not being held, they throw tantrums and stuff? What if we designed a wrap that made them feel like they were being held, but so mothers could still work around the house?” 

   Mari’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t help but interject, “You mean like, a Solly wrap? Or a BabyBjörn?”

   “Kinda, but different!” Kyle smiled back in all his average glory. 

   Mari was about to ask how it would be different when Greg slammed his notebook shut and said, “I like it! Let’s have production mock something up. And let’s also work out the finances on Tom’s pitch on those balancing toddler sneakers. Good meeting, everyone.” 

   When everyone cleared out of the conference room, Mari stayed behind. She thrust her fingers into her jaw, willing her teeth to unclench. What the fucking fuck, she thought. Why did Greg hate her? She had proven herself time and time again with the bare minimum she’d been given in her five years with the brand. Had he wanted to sleep with her, but she’d shown him no interest? Why take the next step with Kyle and Tom’s ideas when they were such money-wasters?    

   The company, Baby Blu, had been a promising startup when it launched six years ago. But they hadn’t gained a mainstream foothold and none of their products had been standouts. There was so much competition, and Mari had been hired by Baby Blu’s founder, Alicia Horton, for her portfolio of innovative ideas. None of which had made it past pitch meetings after Alicia left on maternity leave and never returned.  

   So, Mari had been left managing others’ ideas, refining products that were often poorly conceptualized by the Kyles of corporate America. 

   “Can we have a chat?” Mari peered into Greg’s corner office. 

   “Have a seat,” he said with a gesture. 

   She took in the college football memorabilia and framed posters. Tacky, racist mascot art in custom African blackwood frames wreathed the wall behind Greg in a halo of white, male predictability. Her stomach pitched in nausea as she realized she couldn’t say what she wanted to say without him thinking she was insane. 

   She sat. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

   “I was hoping for a little feedback on my idea. I was wondering why we haven’t moved forward with anything I’ve pitched in the last several months. If there’s something I’m not articulating well enough, I’d like to adjust my approach.”

   Greg leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “It’s just too expensive to enter into a prototype and testing phase with something like that right now. Hope you understand.”

   She took a deep breath. “As I outlined in my presentation, the profit margins would be well worth taking the next step. In fact,” she said, pulling out a loose page from her binder and sliding it towards him across the desk, “I’ve already found a fair trade facility to produce the mock-ups for us, and there are mom groups across the city who could do the product testing for us in exchange for some of our retail items. I really have considered the costs.”

   The corners of Greg’s mouth lifted, opera curtains drawn by stagehands. He stood and walked behind Mari to close his office door, then returned to his seat, leaning forward in mock intimacy. 

   “Are you happy here, Mari?”

   Her mouth flew open. What the hell was this? Before she could formulate a response, he continued. 

   “Our team is comprised mostly of finance guys and mothers. The finance guys are looking at the long term growth of this company; we trust them with the numbers and what makes sense…logistically. We need to trust them to make quick decisions in the pitch room.” He looked at her sympathetically, then continued, “Then we have mothers. True feminists balancing their lives to have it all. Their, more practical, feedback has served us well in the grand scheme of our ideas. They can tell us what might work — or not work — before a product even gets to the prototype stage.”

   Where was he even going with this? What did motherhood have to do with “true” feminism? 

   “And then,” he said, looking at her with what she could only surmise was pity. “There’s you. We really value the passion you bring to this company. You’ve helped execute some ideas beautifully. For example, the temperature sensors on our PK4000 car seat — that was good work.” It was also three fucking years ago, she thought grimly. 

   “However,” he shifted back in his seat, “we want to foster a sense of growth here. I see you as needing a bit more mentorship; I’d hate to see you waste your talents on half-baked ideas that don’t necessarily align with company goals. So, starting next week, I’ll be partnering you with Jenn in Target Audience to . . . recalibrate some of your thinking and skills. Sound good? I think you’ll find it helpful.” 

   He jumped up and opened his office door with a wide grin, this one almost reaching his eyes. Too stunned to speak, Mari stood and showed herself out. 

I’ll be working from home the rest of the afternoon, she emailed her team.