Mayhem in the A.M.
I love bakeries on Saturday mornings.
I love the way they smell. I like getting up early. I like being one of the first people on the streets. I like doughnuts. But I frankly show up for the pathetic parade of humanity one encounters there, seeking sugar and solace.
Theres no substitute for the air there redolent with recrimination and regret. This past Saturday, the line was out the door by the time I showed up.
Half of which was comprised of sheepish looking adults who were embarrassed to be seen in the light of day, and the other half comprised of parents with children who behaved so wretchedly that I virtually wept tears of gratitude that my doctor had given me a cautionary reminder the day before that the antibiotics youre taking can impair the effectiveness of birth control pills. (Reminder? Hell, I have that cross-stitched on a pillow.)
NEVER have I been so glad to dodge THAT particular bullet as I was when confronted with these miserable little tykes.
I suspect theyd been gnawing on Rite Aids chocolate valentine hearts in the car, all the way over. Probably chasing them with Mountain Dew, Ale 8s, and Red Bulls.
I think Ive adapted well to my role as Bitter Aunt Rhonda (Ive been known to hold out my hand as a repository for used chewing gum, for example), but it must be said that the children of MY friends do NOT behave this way (or if they do, theyre sequestered during itpart of the fiendish plot to turn the rest of us into parents, I suspect).
One of the kids was head-butting his extremely pregnant mother in the stomach, for example. She seemed oblivious, but I was horrifiednot necessarily in fear for her health (though I figure that couldnt be good for her), but wondering if perhaps she simply wasnt aware of what CAUSES babies. (Obviously, any sane woman wouldve opted for tubal ligation once shed seen how this one turned out.)
The juxtaposition of that other half of the line was what was especially funnythe usual weekend morning parade of new couples (using the term loosely) whove just awakened and removed their beer goggles.
They can barely look at each other. They never take off their sunglasses. United only in their hangover hunger, you can tell that their union will last no further than the precise amount of time it takes to satisfy their mutual craving for sugar and caffeinewhich, by now, theyve realized, is the ONLY thing they have in common.
They will quickly separate after this unholy post-alcoholic alliance, never to see each other again, if theyre lucky.
Even an 8-year old could figure out what was going on, as the assembled kids tugged on their mothers clothing and asked loudly, Mommy, why is his shirt inside out?!!!
In all fairness, I should admit that I looked like the wrath of God myselfmaybe Debbie Harry on a three-day bender, in my oversized Spanish Heiress Ray-Bans, a scarf, and no makeup. But at least I had the decency to show up alone (having graciously left my own coyote slumbering back at the Ranch... whereif he were so inclinedhe could wake up; gnaw his leg off with quiet dignity; and make a break for freedom in peace and solitude, unencumbered by any regrets my presence might provoke).
I was more than a little sensitive to the subject of morning-afters, having spent the evening before with a group of my buddies, who lent me endless male insights that I couldve comfortably gone the rest of my life without knowing....
I felt like I was in the movie Swingers, only I had been included as ONE of the guys, and I was getting first-hand news from the frontas they discussed every possible permutation in the dating landscape.
How many days do they wait to call? Well, Satish thinks six is perfectly acceptableand thats business days (holidays and legal holidays are exempt from his designated six).
In response to my assertion that intelligence and humor were wasted on younger guys, they defeated my argument with one sentence, You cant teach big tits, accompanied by the universal symbol for big tits, open palms toward the chest, fingers spread, approximately 11 inches from said chest (as in, you cant teach heighta basketball reference, they explained).
But they were all especially (and scarily) knowledgeable about the subject of how to escape the Morning After.
One member of the pack offered this advice, My personal favorite for getting rid of a regrettable hookup is the run and hide. Wake up earlier than your companion and discreetly excuse yourself from the bed. If you accidentally wake her, simply explain that natures calling. Quietly shut the door ...and run. Prepare scouts to notify you when/if she departs (*note: If youre leaving your own dwelling, you may not be able to return for several days [weeks]; prepare accordingly).
Thank God he got engaged....otherwise I couldve envisioned him permanently locked out of his domicile while a harem of chicks ate all his food, drank all his beer, and lived rent-free for months on end.
Another responded, remind me to tell you the story about the time I faked going to work so a girl would leave. (It should be noted hed have first had to fake actually having a job.)
Personally, I thought my own method of dealing with unwanted guests was actually far superior. Somewhere around 2 a.m., I just take on the persona of the annoying bartender who announces Last Call. I flip on some fluorescent lights, begin stacking chairs on top of the dining room table, and LOUDLY announce, CLOSIN TIME folks!! Ya dont have to go HOME, but ya CANT stay HERE!!
Reprinted Ace 2001 n