It may come as a shock to you that I have very few real-life mommy friends. The friends that I do have don’t have children, and the very few mommies I know live so far away, that between nap times and travel distances, play dates are more trouble than they’re worth.
The town that we live in is fairly affluent, which effectively means that the women who have children of comparable ages are much older. It’s not a problem for me as age don’t mean shit to me, motherfucker, but it puts a yawning chasm between our experiences. This, coupled with my penchant for being incredibly obnoxious (true story: this weekend I have decided that my favorite insult is “crotch”) has made the acquisition of new mommy friends exceedingly difficult.
A couple of weeks ago, having been suitably underwhelmed by the choices on daytime TV (paternity tests AGAIN on Maury?) and tired of staring at the walls in my house, I packed Alex up and trundled off to the nearby mall. We poked around aimlessly, stopping for lunch at McDonalds (Alex loves his cheeseburgers, which makes him 100% my child). While we sat in the food court, I was approached by a slightly older toddler girl and her father (who was obviously gay). The girl toddled over to me, and I greeted her with a “What’s up, dude?” when it dawned on me that I had the perfect solution smacking me upside the face.
I’ve always gotten along far better with men, in general, until I reached the age where all of my (male) friends got girlfriends who decided that I was very much a threat (I can assure you that I was not. Ever. A. Threat.), which, like it or not, eventually made hanging out a little more awkward. Befriending gay men got to be a better option, as I was clearly not a threat to their lovers (what with the Fish Taco), and being snarky and judgemental is a favorite past-time for me.
So, I thought to myself, who better to befriend than a guy with a kid? I imagined a future of bitchiness, snark, and hilarious discussions of our lovers privates and sexcapades (this would be more of a fanciful recollection for me). We’d have lunch! Dinner! Nap time imposed Happy Hours with fancy (and froofy) martinis! I went so far as to imagine that his name was “Nick” or possibly “Charlie.”
Tactically, however, I made several grave errors in judgment beforehand. First, and less importantly, I called his daughter “dude” or “man,” which was only because I am more accustomed to calling children this (seems more prudent than “princess” or “darling” considering I have two boys, eh?). Strike One. Becky: 0 for 1.
My second error, the one that nailed my coffin tightly shut was the fact that I had not bother to put on real pants when I left the house (I was wearing stained yoga pants. It was sexxy), as I had mistakenly assumed I would only run into mall-walkers on my journey. The final score was Becky: 0 for 2.
I talked to his daughter for awhile, she oogled the baby, and then we parted ways amicably enough (he did, I will tell you here and now, look me up and down disgustedly. I must have been very frumpy that day). As they walked away, like my frumpyness was catchy, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for myself for blowing the one shot I had at making a parental friend that I stood a chance of getting along with.
So explain to your Aunt Becky how (mostly) normal people do this. How does someone make new friends with kids? (or without. The kids are not part of the Requirements to Hang. Only being gainfully unemployed during the day is a prerequisite) Apparently, I’ve missed the memo that explained this in graphic detail, and I’m telling you, for my sanity, I NEED to have someone to talk to during the day besides Alex (at 9 months, he’s not much of a conversationalist.) and the UPS guy, who, I fear is learning to dread coming to my house to deliver packages.