last night, i joined friends sarah (the twin of my twice-removed ex), “money,” and others for a beer at the ol’ rusty nail in clifton park. i hurried home after work, because i know those peeps tend to eat early, and i hate to leave them waiting AND hungry. after searching for a parking space for what seemed like forever (no more than 2 whole minutes, i’m sure), i finally found a tight spot between a crooked SUV and a sedan of forgettable color, form and shape. showcasing my reverse skillz, i backed into the spot with the confidence of those type of goobs who ALWAYS back into spaces (you know the kind), then walked into the restaurant with a bit of a prideful strut after backing into said parking space. there waiting with the ladies was a bowl of medium (or were those hot?) wings (drumsticks, please) and a plate of quesadillas. naturally, i waste no time ordering a beer (didn’t you know? all i like to do is go to bars. yeah — i’m just immature like that.*) and diving into the wings. i see green onions in the quesadillas (or are those scallions? no matter. they’re one in the same.), and thus steer clear of those puppies. picky, picky. yeah, yeah. whatever. suck it.
after a bit of table conversation, it’s clear sarah and i are ready to leave. sarah needs firewood — she’s forgotten it already. i just need more booze and am dying to share my newest news (oxymoron. yes, i know.) confirming what i already thought about my narcissistic, cowardly liar of a recent ex. btw: those firewood bags at the p-chop are H-E-A-V-Y.
the rest of the night goes like this, in sequential order, as far as i can remember: sarah and i walk in with h-e-a-v-y firewood. slather ava in big hugs and kisses. kevin (sarah’s doting husband) lights the fire. take suggestions for which 1 of the 4 bottles of wine to pour. sit down in front of the fire only to move in less than 30 minutes (my elbow’s a-burnin!). ava runs back and forth. i make a mental note that nothing is as perfect as a child’s hug. (then i gag a little for saying such sentimental things, even to myself.) coo at sophie (“so-so,” according to ava). chat with kevi’s cousin and hubby. watch, involuntarily, the NY yankees and NY rangers trot up and down the field and skate around the arena. kevi strokes the fire and we all discuss the pros and cons of gas vs wood fireplaces. pour another glass. turn on the light for ava — she can’t quite reach. (surprised i can.) cousin and hubby leave. sarah shrieks, “OK! i need to hear this news! i’ve been waiting for this.” i spill the beans. we lament about the similarities of mine and money’s situation and declare us “break-up buddies.” we agree, the recent ex sucks. listen to a song. cuddle so-so. pour another glass. kevi presses play on stepbrothers, much to sarah’s and my vehement detest, “we wanted coyote ugly!” (and she doesn’t even like women. well, not quite like i do.)
within seconds, sarah is out (a little cat nap does the body good, she says). not 10 minutes later, down goes frazier — kevi’s out, too. ava’s in the other room snoozing her little tiny face off and money’s outside on the phone. it’s just me and the beautiful babe, so-so. (although rather grainy, the moment is captured on camera and sent to hizzle, but i shan’t post it here, for fear of sarah will hate it.) after minutes of bobbing so-so up and down in her little massager/chair/thing-a-ma-jig and attempting the pacifier maneuver, she calls it quits. it’s tear time, and thus go time. i cradle her in my arms and think i’ve almost succeeded in soothing her to sleep, until it dawns on me: my left shoulder is soaked. this nugget is so hungry, she’s suckling cotton out of my shirt. i try, to no avail, to wake up a passed out kevi (i thought he was taking the late feeding!) and refuse to wake up sarah. she’s up and down all day with those girls. i’m giving her a break, damn it.
i begin to panic. how will i figure out how to feed her? how much do i give her? where are the bottles? what’s this tubey thing? should i make it with or without it in the bottle? why is feeding a baby now so complicated? relax, murphy. you got this.
money’s back inside. THANK JEEBUS. help, please. she gives me the basics: 6 oz, that piece keeps her from getting gas (i could probably use that piece. i’m just sayin’ is all.) and “i think sarah microwaves it for 15 seconds.” sold. i can do this. wait, crap. the formula only gives measurements for 2 oz, 4 oz and 8 oz. great — now i have to do math. money holds onto the babe, while my “mothering mode” (who knew i had one?!) takes over. water is poured, scoops are measured, bottle is shaken and warmed, and so-so is ecstatic (as ecstatic as a 3.5-month-old can be).
although sarah woke up shortly after, took over and made us look like nimwits, i’m proud of us, money. we managed without real instructions. crisis averted.
now, who needs a baby sitter? we’re forming a club.
*oops. that was me being whiny and catty thanks to that biotche i call my recent ex. hoomans = stoopid. (wait. 2 exes in one year. crikey! maybe it’s me.)