As I write this, a baby is screaming in my ear. I am covered in peanut butter. My eyelids are heavy half-moons that turn black when I blink. There are raisins on my floor. My preschooler has flung herself into a nap after an exhausting afternoon of things in this order: Battle Over Pants! Playgroup! Playground! Not the right banana! Mad! Wants TV! Not Dora! JUICE! Pee! More juice! More pee! Still mad! ANGRY! Rage! Collapse. I got up at 5:25 this morning and have cooked three meals, none of which are entirely not on the floor with the raisins. Am I telling you this so you feel sorry for me? No. I’m trying to send a subliminal message to the mystery guests Niko surprised me with this morning. It appears I’m supposed to find a sitter with three hours notice, gussy myself supreme and “meet for cocktails” with some friend of his and his perky-breasted* girlfriend. I hate single people.
It’s not that I hate their singleness. Or their peopleness. We’re just not all in the same place at the same time and the place they are is all exciting professionals and waltzing into bars and shops any damn time they feel like it. The expectation from single people that I can just whip together a monumental effort in no time, or that I want to, for the meager payoff of a drink I can just as well enjoy at home? Astonishing.
Look, I don’t want to go anywhere. I go enough places. The Architecture and Design Film Festival at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unity Temple in Oak Park last week, for example (which I never got around to blogging about because I am tired. Just trust that I was there and it was interesting, then we went home.) I go to play dates with other moms. Occasionally regular dates with Mr. High Gloss. Once a year I leave the kids with Niko and actually go out for a girls night, which is really an afternoon and amounts to a group of moms waxing with astonishment “look! I don’t have my kids with me! Isn’t this great! No baby! So what is your baby doing these days . . .?”
And of course there are a few of my real friends who happen to not have kids, but since they’ve known me for longer than I’ve been a mom, I can trust them. They know I wasn’t always a disheveled short-order cook. They know I used to be a disheveled hot piece with an apartment that was messy because I put the peanut butter there.
But new single people? How do these people even enter our web? Don’t they want to hang out with more charismatic people than a play group mom who will yarn about compression yoga pants vs. regular yoga pants? (For the record, compression yoga pants all the way.)
UPDATE. During the course my writing this the single friends dropped dead. No. They’re still alive, but they canceled because they had to meet someone else. Flimsy noodles! Can you imagine if I had come through with the babysitter, sat my kids in front of The Bubble Guppies on loop and taken the hurcluean effort it requires to lift my breasts into a push-up bra (I WILL NOT BE OUTDONE!) and actually made the plan for tonight – and then been ditched? Oh, you single people. Floating with the wind. Going with the flow. Casually strolling in and out of loose plans with the cavalier attitude of someone not tethered to people who can’t wipe their own snot.
Okay, I’m jealous. Single people, take me with you! I pack snacks in my purse**!!
*In my imagination, a place where she also slept till noon, has time for teeth bleach and still wears five inch heels because she doesn’t carry 50 pounds of children with her wherever she goes.
Filed under: Field Trips