Who's Your Mommy?

As I exited from the subway this morning, I felt like a walking poster, advertising the modern, young, Working Girl of NY. A regular 2010 Melanie Griffith, minus the ferry from Staten Island and the white Reebok sneakers with socks. The sun was shining, Central Park was behind me, and my favorite "Casual Summer Fridays" work dress looked absolutely perfect with my new Manolo Blahnik sample sale heels (never mind the fact that they cross through the label with a fat black magic marker upon purchase, as if the discount means I am not entitled to full use of the name). I was nearly about to press play on my iPod, releasing Carly Simon's "Let The River Run" into my eardrums, thereby completing my "Working Girl" moment (if you haven't seen the movie, get thyself on your Netflix que now and pop that puppy to the top of the list), when - just before hitting play - I hear the following statement, complete with a thick Latin accent: "Hey, Mommy."

Now, I am a New Yorker. I live in such a state of sensory overload that I have, at times, found myself banging on doors labeled "PLEASE USE OTHER DOOR," my fist rhythmically pumping against the very sign itself, maybe 3 times before the words register. No, I am not slow (usually). I am not illiterate. I am a New York City resident, which means that I am inundated with messages, heralding from posters, hand outs, homeless people, et cetera. The sights, sounds, and smells of this City are overwhelming for some. For me, they blend into a sensory ambrosia that stirs me. Yet, as I have indicated - they muddle together, no one message standing out from the rest.

So, it is interesting that I not only registered this clearly sexual utterance, but I paused to consider both it and its source. The source was a dark, squat Latino male, sweating profusely as he smoked a cigarette and leered at me from his post on a doorway step. Hardly the Harrison Ford I needed to complete my cinematic moment. As I looked, he repeated himself, this time drawing out the syllables, as if I needed further clarification, "Heeeey, Mommyyyyyyyyy. Yeahhhhhhhh." I stared for a moment, befuddled, and he flashed me a smile containing about 50% of his not so pearly yellows. End Scene - Movie Buzz Killed.

I shook my head and continued to make my way to work. Yet, I couldn't shake this guy who looked and sounded as if he wanted to be my lover, but his words stated he wanted to be my son. WTF?! I had heard the expression before, yet it had never been directed toward me personally, so I suppose I never gave it a great deal of thought. I couldn't help but wonder - since when is it a sexual line to refer to someone as your mother? Am I supposed to be flattered? Maybe he should've shown me a picture of his mom first, before trying the name out on me. Judging by the son's appearance, I can't imagine Mom being a real looker, but you never know. If Mom is a total MILF, then maybe I should have said "thank you." But even still, I am confused how this should be an entree into sexual banter.

Listen, I went to college. I know all about Oedipus and Electra and Freud. I watched the Mel Gibson - Glenn Close version of Hamlet. I get that the whole Mommy Complex is like, a thing. But, to come out and SAY it? Ewe. This isn't a porno, and we certainly aren't behind closed bedroom doors. Really, who opens with "Mommy"?

Or, maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe I inferred sexual innuendo where there was none. Maybe my summer dress isn't all that flattering, and I look pregnant, and so my new possibly homeless friend was referring to my potentially swollen womb. Or, maybe "Mommyyyyyy" is Mexican slang for "hottie." The possibilities, I suppose, are endless...yet, they are also unlikely. I think I just got my first Oedipal cat call. And I feel dirty. I mean, you don't see me going up to guys at a bar and calling them "Daddy" do you? I am sure there are bars where that would work, but I am also pretty sure that those bars are filled with Megan's Law violators. (Note: I also never went through the Britney Spears "Hit Me Baby One More Time" Catholic School Slut phase. The only time I ever donned a pair of knee highs and a plaid skirt was to play field hockey.)

Don't get me wrong. I do want to be somebody's Mommy one day (hopefully someone who will have a full set of teeth at an adult age, and preferably not be homeless. Or a smoker). And, it would be nice if my son thinks his mother is attractive - in a very non-sexual, distant sort of way. But, never, under any circumstances, do I hope that my offspring uses me or my name as a way to bed chicks. End of story.