Friday, February 1, 2008
Welcome to Misfitsville, Population: 1.
I'm not much of a mommy-type. I work a lot and I have no plans to stay home to wipe a butt, slice oranges and host playdates. Not that there is ANYTHING wrong with staying at home, it's just not the sort of life that appeals to me. Then again, neither does festering away in a cube, eyes running red before my computer as I slowly and methodically climb the ladder to the corner office. But I digress.
So I'm trying to get in touch with the mommy in me, in the only way I know how. This weekend I'm upgrading our vehicular transport to something that will accomodate a baby seat. This endeavor has progressed from researching a very reliable and responsible Toyota, to deciding that we SIMPLY MUST HAVE a V-6 with headlamps, just because how cool would it be to pull our little rocker baby out of a big black monster truck?
And besides, maybe I'll quit my job and race dirt bikes or perhaps become a living rock legend, and in either case the pimped out truck will be a necessary evil.
Not that it is really a monster truck. But it does have headlamps. And, by the way, it is RADICAL.
Anyway, we'll see which one we come home with this weekend. The car hunt has taken on a deeper meaning for me, obviously.
So lately the pressure is on to momify myself, and it's irritating as shit.
For example, I don't do babyshowers.
I never have. They are perhaps the most unappealing of all events that end in "shower." I've never been a fan of purse-related games, tea parties, or wearing a pacifier as an adult. I'm not generally even sociable at 11 AM on a Saturday, much less a willing participant in a retarded game involving a diaper and teams of three.
If I were to attend a baby shower, I'd be the hungover one who has slunk outside for a cigarette after downing my and my neighbor's mimosa. And no one wants that girl at her shower. They want fresh-faced, sundress clad marys at their baby shower. Girls who can't wait for babies of their own, with smiles that stretch their faces as they watch mommy-to-be claw open her gifts.
So baby showers aren't my style, BFD. All my gorgeous friends who love me enough to tolerate this aspect of my personality don't heckle me about it. But now that E is the one with the showering, I'm getting seven kinds of shit for not being in attendance. (And not from E - she loves me despite it all, oh, despite it all).
The crushing injustice! Were I a man, would I get the heckling? The evil-eye? The shrill demands that I simply must attend? No. Because men aren't expected to partake in any baby shower action. And I envy them that.
So I say to these hecklers, put your make believe hat on and pretend I'm her husband. And by the way, I will catch your ass later, because I'm going to the monster truck rally.