a survival guide for the hCG-challenged. holy shit, I'M AT THAT AGE. you single broads know what age i'm talking about. the age where all of your late nights and drunken partying is dangerously toeing the line between "fabulous and exciting" and "sad as a motherfucker." the age at which the whores i used to drink too much and cry with are all dressed like moms, driving minivans, and having stable relationships with dudes who wear sensible shoes and make wise investments with their whiskey and taco money. goddamn it, is there anyone left who wants to be drunk at three in the afternoon and go get manicures?! i see you, gurl: banging dudes, drinking beers, and basically whiling away your early 30s pretending that your life is an extended episode of sex and the city when all of a sudden, BOOM. every vagina within a ten mile radius of yours is shitting out an eight-pound screaming red ball of BABY. and you're still eating cheese fries and jelly beans for dinner.i swear on infant jesus that just as i am now beginning to come to terms with being some sort of penis-repelling social pariah barely treading water while neck-deep in a frothy sea of wedding invitations being heaved at me by my so-called friends, others of them have come up with a whole new way to make me feel an emotionally-stunted teenage boy: THEY ARE HAVING CHILDREN. no big deal, right? oh, i know. everybody knows someone who was pushing a stroller to class in the seventh goddamned grade. but back then it was like, "too bad you have to take your baby to gym class, i'll just be over here wearing my velvet choker and eating jolly ranchers." now it's like, "omg, bitch, YOU'RE MAKING ME FEEL LIKE A LESSER HUMAN BEING." my dead parents aren't around to harp on me about my slow grandchild production, and while i am grateful for that little bit of orphan silver lining, no one told me that my early 30s were going to be the biggest imaginable assault on my goddamned self-esteem.
i was SO READY to be done with 29. seriously, my 20s were the absolute worst. and i fully bought into all of the shit that old bitches on tv talk to make themselves feel better, all that "i'm more settled into who i am" and "i get more confident with every wrinkle" horseshit. when i was 22 i had the confidence to take my pants off in a disco, and that is something i would never do at the ripe old age of 31. the clusters of purple spider veins on my legs notwithstanding, most things that require "confidence" just don't seem like something an adult-type person should find herself doing. so when does life get awesome for real? 40? 50?! or is there just no real relief other than death? because oprah promised me some fucking clarity to go along with these saddlebags and laugh lines, and i'm wondering where the hell that sonofabitch is hiding. because i'm not any smarter or feeling any more put together, and i can't set my goddamned bag down anywhere for fear of dropping it on one of the children you jerks insist on continuing to hatch at will. if "it gets better," imma need to know WHEN. i suppose i could just wait for your children to get hooked on meth and stab convenience store employees for a pack of starburst to feel haughty and superior about my choice to let everyone else do the breeding, but with my luck these little assholes are going to grow up to be pop stars and fed chairmen. and that's gross.
i'm lucky, because i still have a handful of hot broads who are dragging themselves into adulthood as slowly as i am, bitches who still pay rent and buy slutty shoes and smoke parliaments outside of bars at three in the morning. this is glamorous shit, people. but eventually i imagine they're going to toss out their yasmin and IUDs and attempt to propagate our species. and rather than try to convince a woman with raging hormones and a deafening biological clock to tie her tubes for me, although if you would i won't be mad at you, i figured i could write a survival guide for those of us who will be spending our foreseeable futures posted up awkwardly in a corner at a child's birthday party spiking a warm paper cup of orange Hi-C with gin and snarling at everyone who asks which kid gathered around the pinata belongs to us. good luck, girlz. at least there's consolation that your vagina hasn't been stretched out of proportion to accomodate a football. here goes.
1 always bring your own drinks. I'M NOT KIDDING. i carry a ridiculously large bag around with me at all times, because heaven forbid i be alone with my thoughts for more than ten seconds. i need two ipods, a kindle, three magazines (you know, in case i've neglected to charge the kindle), a stick of deodorant, 17 expired transit cards, a flat screen television, two satellite phones, and a complete stereo system with me at all times to keep from ever being bored, even for a second. but when i know i'm going to hang with one of my kidfriends, i have to pack that shit like i'm going to a goddamned desert island. because when you get thirsty is baby town, your choices are usually limited to: juice, juice, water, whole milk, juicebox, soymilk, water, juicy juice, enfamil. and if you get hungry there's: cheerios, baby carrots, triscuits, animal crackers, and fruit snacks. um, delicious.
you can't tell by looking, but i was a nanny for a while in high school through my early twenties. it was like "the help" with liberal white guilt and land rovers instead of jim crow and cotton gins. anyway, the kitchens in these houses all mirrored one another: individual packages of graham crackers, applesauce cups, frozen tortellini, BLARF. i would always wonder what the adults in the house would eat, and after a few times of staying over for dinner i realized that they just ate what their babies did, because they were either 1 too goddamned tired to cook food that actually needed to be cut and chewed or 2 babies rule shit with an iron fist and are like, "if i have to eat smushed peas, then bitch SO DO YOU." i went to senam's house for lunch last week and, as i sat at the table with her two-year-old twins and her kindergartener, i was served the same meal the kids were: spaghetti and tomato sauce with cut up hot dogs and some orange wedges. AND APPLE JUICE. "can i have a diet coke?" i scoffed when she was handing out disney cups. "or a vodka soda?" "listen SAMANTHA, you can have WATER, JUICE, or MILK," she sighed exasperatedly, re-listing my options in her mom voice, and i sulked and pointed to the juice. when i gave my paper plate some shade she was like, "look asshole, I HAVE THREE KIDS. eat what i put in front of you or you're going to be very sorry when daddy gets home from work." so i shut up and ate my hot dogs, because she had granola bars for dessert and she promised me that if i was a good girl and ate all of my lunch i could have one after i woke up from my nap. JAM.
2 boxed macaroni and cheese parents vs organic kale with flaxseed oil parents. figure out which kind your friends are, and figure that shit out EARLY. don't be fooled by who that girl was before she got knocked up, some asshole who used to do topless keg stands with you isn't necessarily the kind of chick that would allow you to give her young, impressionable child an earth-killing satan-filled oreo cookie harbinger of DEATH. macaroni moms are the easiest to be around, obviously. because, DUH, you can totally let their kids watch tv and order a pizza when you are babysitting them, and that is totally fucking necessary. i can't be bothered with my no-television-in-the-house flaxseed friends. for real, man, i can't be having your kid in our adult conversation because you don't want him to get high on sesame street and fruit roll-ups. GO AWAY, BABY. and i'm not going to be tearing my hair out in the kid aisle at whole foods trying to find the gluten-free carob-sweetened agave soy organic vegan oxygen wheatgrass bits or whatever so it has something to snack on while hanging in my apartment. really dudes, I'M NOT DOING THAT. i might put my knives away and hide the porn, but holistic building blocks and woven hemp burp cloths are not within my fucking purview.
you need to know this, of course, because some bitches will FLIP OUT on you if they catch you pouring anything other than evian into their child's bath water, and i want to make sure you keep all of your limbs intact. yes, that same broad who pulled a filthy dollar bill from between a stripper's ass cheeks with her TEETH while on spring break with you ten years ago will break your fucking jaw for serving her precious child some chicken that wasn't raised on a sun-bathed island near the south of france. i can only hang with kids who eat mcdonald's and have baby carpal tunnel from too much mario kart. if i can't bully a child into submission using a candy bar and remote control, then i want absolutely no part of that. and i've changed plenty of cloth diapers in my day, so i know what the hell i'm talking about. there's only so much reading and interacting i can do, parents! at some point i need that kid to stop beating me at trivial pursuit and go learn about blowjobs from jersey shore.
3 get tattoos and drink beer. the only leverage you can get on a goddamned kid is doing something that he's too young to do, and since ten-year-olds these days are already refinancing their second mortgages and have a better 401k than you do, the best way to stay ahead of the game is to do shit they're legally restricted from, like going under the needle and drinking high life for breakfast. you have to find a way in with kids and, especially if they're old enough to figure out what a total loser you are, you have to do it IMMEDIATELY. at brunch with akilah last sunday her ten year old son could have cared less that i was sitting across from him, until he saw that i have a grim reaper shooting a smoking pistol on the side of my forearm. then i wasn't just one of his mom's asshole friends gossiping about facebook bitches over waffles, i was his mom's COOL FRIEND WITH THE SCARY TATTOOS.
"dangerous" and "illicit" are the currency of youth, and the less like their responsible, bill-paying parents you seem, the better you'll get along with your surrogate children. that's why when auntie sam comes over to babysit she brings dirty heroin needles and a commonwealth edison disconnect notice in her purse; they're putty in my hands after i tell them what it's like to run out of toilet paper and how to disguise your voice when a collections agent is on the phone. the fact that you live somewhere else and aren't yelling at them to clean up their legos is usually enough to hit the cool points jackpot, but if you need a boost, tell them about the one time you got into a bar brawl. or that time you got shot. or mention the motorcycle sitting in your garage. none of it has to be true, you just have to convincingly lie to a preteen, AND THAT IS TOTALLY EASY. just make sure you don't wear any loafers or polo shirts. they're a dead giveaway that the stint in jail you mentioned might have been a figment of your imagination. or something you saw on barney and friends.
4 learn baby talk. not "goo goo, gah gah," you asshole, you need to learn what the fuck montessori means. seriously, you better verse yourself in homebirthing and organic diaper creams, because gone are the days when that bitch has time to listen to you whine about that one dude with the nice car who never called you again after he teabagged you in the parking lot behind a bowling alley or whatever. you are going to be talking about baby shit. all the time. its smell, consistency, color, length, taste, whatever. prepare to let your life be taken over by BABY POOP. and while we're at it, you better get accustomed to looking at some titties, because your breastfeeding friends will have zero qualms about unhooking their flesh-colored front-loading bras right in the middle of your dinner. and don't worry about being a pervert for staring, because it might be the least sexual event you will ever see IN YOUR LIFE. anna was in town this weekend with her six week old twins and spent half the time i was with her partially naked. but you can't even care, because every thirty seconds a tiny little alien was screaming its little blonde head off demanding food or a cuddle or a burp or a diaper, and all you want is for her to get her boobs out and shut that noise up.
it would also be handy for you to stop cursing so goddamned much. because some of your parentfriends will be like, "oh shit, the fucking formula is too hot!" but most of them will be all, "golly gee, sweetums, i burned the flippin' formula!" i nearly bite my sailor tongue clean off every time i'm around a little person, and it's cool to drop a few F-bombs when a baby has no cognitive ability, but if you don't start training yourself early before you know it that little motherfucker is going to say, "hey mom, get the fucking fish sticks out of the freezer. i'm hungry, BITCH," and every eye in the room is going to slowly turn around to YOU.
5 ask for a goddamned raise. omg, THE MONEY. you thought what you had to spend when the parents got married was bad? well hold on to your prepaid visa card, sister, because that was only the fucking beginning. at least weddings only happen ONE TIME. babies have birthdays EVERY MOTHERFUCKING YEAR. three times a month i'm standing in target squinting to read the instructions on some goddamned toy or another, trying to figure out whether or not it makes too much of a racket or requires too much skill or comes equipped with too many parts a little kid could choke on and die from. only to then fuck up the wrapping paper and spill whiskey on the card the kid CAN'T EVEN READ when i get home or whatever. you will need to take out a monster loan when your friends start having babies. or, if your credit is fucked up, you better start waiting tables on the side or prostitution or some shit. it's CRAY.
you won't mind, because your exhausted BFF will smile so hard and be so grateful that you picked up a pack of onesies on your way over to regale her with stories from your super-exciting, AIDS-dodging single girl life, but by the end of the month you will be seriously considering applying for a babies 'r' us card. because baby shit is cute, and seeing a little diarrhea-soaked human being dressed in a perfectly matched outfit that you bought for him is an incredible feeling, especially if he is too young to tell you how much he hates it and how all the other kids at school get their bibs from gucci. you don't need that shit. but still, you won't be able to walk by a pastel display at wal-mart without dumping half of it into your goddamned cart. you'll coo at little cows and bears and marvel at the tiny-ness of little socks, spending your way to eviction because the asshole you sat next to in US history couldn't figure out how to properly use a condom, AND YOU WILL LOVE IT. and by all means, if you feel like a sucker, wield the power of the almighty dollar to exact revenge on these bitches for being more grown up than you and BUY NOISY TOYS THAT WILL KEEP THEM UP ALL GODDAMNED NIGHT. you know how many baby boom boxes there are on the market?! literally hundreds. and they won't cost you a million dollars, either. i bought naima a yo gabba gabba turntable a couple years ago, and when maya gave me the side-eye i was like, "that's what you get for being younger than me with a husband and a child and an apartment that's nicer than mine. good luck prying that out of her graham cracker clutches." she probably still hates me. mwahahahaha.
try not to feel too salty when going through your bank statements, though. just keep in mind that eventually those kids will be old enough to drive you around and send you cards and look after your cats while you're in florida for the winter. and couplefriends with babyfriends are the BEST, because they always have extra shit just lying around for your pitiful single ass to mooch off them. ain't no single bitches going to SAM'S CLUB; that's why i keep smug marrieds around! i haven't bought my own toilet paper in three goddamned years. i just wait until one of them is like, "come eat dinner with us, you lonely piece of shit!" and while the macaroni and cheese is cooking mom and dad are busy packing me suitcases full of two-ply extra-strong kid-proof toilet paper and economy-sized bags of almonds. and the ones with deep freezers and large pantries are EVEN BETTER, because you can walk out of there with nineteen individually-wrapped chicken breasts, four bottles of toilet bowl cleaner, 1000-count boxes of swiffer cloths, a ten pound bag of frozen shrimp, and six pints of strawberries. who needs peapod? people with kids are so fucking exhausted they don't have time to notice that one of the forty-six boxes of kleenex they just purchased is missing. they literally have NO IDEA what is in their house at any given moment, and if something is gone or broken they'll just assume one of the kids did it. you think i'm kidding, but the last time i bought ziploc bags, tupperware containers, handi-wipes, sponges, dish towels, and q-tips was NEVER. that's what (baby)friends are for.
6 be the old bitch in the crew. there's nothing wrong with being the samantha of your friend group. i know everyone wants to be carrie, but her not having a child always seemed like circumstance, while sam's ho ass was old and childless BY CHOICE. and yes, i understand that having young friends is totally fucking weird, but what other option do you have? eating chicken tenders at chili's three times a week?! you can't do that, and you know it. so you better hang around some college campuses or befriend the younger siblings of your babyfriends (hey, zoe!), because there is only so much time an adorable single gal like yourself can spend pushing a doll in a stroller around the playroom at leona's.
yes, i'm threatened by youth and beauty, too. which is why i always make sure i'm carrying something by dosteoevsky when i'm out with them at the bar. you know, a little prop that says, "yeah dude, i'm old enough to have given birth to the miniskirt standing to my left, but i'm not going to force you to watch me try on clothes at forever 21." for real, bitches, cut all of the talbot's tags off your going out shirts and put some arch supports in your stilettos, then drag your ass out to the club and act like you're not self-conscious being out of your house after 2am and try to bang some college dudes. and that's lame, I KNOW, but the alternative is talking in a hushed voice at six in the evening because your homeboy is on diaper duty and doesn't want to piss of his colicky newborn. at least if you get started now, you'll be totally used to it by the time your babyfriends are old enough to get drunk in public, then you're all set to jump in your hoveround and hit the town with them.
7 stay up super late and sleep as much as you possibly can. the only recourse you have against feeling like a huge gaping asshole when all of your friends are having babies and you're still trying to snag your first real boyfriend is doing all of the things those pregnant and new mommy jerks can't do anymore: curse at the top of your lungs! eat pizza for breakfast! take seven long, luxurious showers every day! turn your phone off! watch rated R movies! shit with the door open! buy unpasteurized cheese! and pointy furniture! leave your vibrator in the kitchen! never watch public television! but also never turn the television OFF! get some mercury-laden sushi! chain smoke at nine in the morning! spend an entire day reading under the covers! go out for drinks! bang dudes off craigslist! throw away all of your bite-sized foods! make sand castles in the cat litter box! don't eat any fruit! use your outside voice inside! take a bunch of tylenol! and a bunch of advil! DRINK A SHITLOAD OF COLD MEDICINE!
you is kind, you is smart,
and you is important.
and you is important.
