Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Make Room For Daddy (or "Mama, A Homo")

In the checkout line at Duane Reade this morning, an adorable little black girl in pigtails pointed right to me as she tugged on her mother’s skirt and cried delightedly, “Look, Mommy! It’s Beyonce!”

[That did not actually happen. But it should have.]

Moving on...

One of my goals for 2010 is to clean up my personal cyber space by consolidating my hundreds of online social networks, and deleting any profiles I no longer need/want/use. Because honestly… What am I hanging on to that fakakte MySpace page for? My grandchildren? I’m cutting the cord and cleaning house.

And Friendster!! Remember her?? She was popular sometime between the Eisenhower administration and legwarmers. She’s pretty much extinct. (I don’t know why I’m suddenly doing that gay feminizing-all-my-pronouns thing and referring to Friendster as "her", but I guess I’m just trying to make a point.) I actually signed into Friendster yesterday, just for shits. There were dust and cobwebs everywhere, the linoleum was all warped and coming up at the corners, and everyone was wearing pompadours and poodle skirts in their profile pictures. And all my black friends’ profiles were separated from my white friends’ profiles. It was totally offensive. Anyway… DELETE, DELETE, DELETE!

Speaking of online social networking… The state of my Facebook has got me in a tizzy; specifically, the “live news feed”; and more specifically, my old-ass friends. They keep posting pictures of their newborns and small children, and their status updates are suddenly all about potty-training and breastfeeding. When did this happen? I’m too young for all my friends to be parents, right??? (That was rhetorical, Rose.) It also makes me feel like an asshole, because here I am still posting pictures of my cat, and still potty-training myself not to wet the bed after a late night of drinking. And the only breastfeeding I’m doing is… (actually, I don’t have an analogy for that one… I don’t go near the things.) The point is, my friends' shameless flaunting of their children is making me feel like an old spinster, and I'd prefer the little shits darlings be kept well-hidden until Auntie Randy comes to terms with reality.

I make myself feel better by reminding myself that children are just not in the cards for me. It's not my thing. I don't want children... (do I??)

Every once in a while, I'm caught off-guard and find myself second-guessing my personal "no children" policy. Like on my walk to work this morning, when I spotted a man about half a block away, pushing a stroller in my direction. The man seemed so incredibly joyful, stopping helplessly every few steps to lean down and sing to the baby or tickle it a little. His smile could not have been broader, and he seemed completely unaffected by the crazed street crowd surrounding him, fighting and pushing and cursing its way down Lexington Avenue. It was clear that for this man, the only two people who existed on the planet at this particular time were himself and his precious child; this tiny little extension of his own heart. Even in the frigid cold, I felt a sudden warmth from within myself. It is times like these that the love between father and child overwhelms me so that I begin questioning if perhaps this miraculous blessing is one I too would one day like to experience.

As the proud father came closer to pass me, I noticed that he was actually a really dirty homeless man, and the contents of the stroller he pushed were not a baby at all, but in fact a six-pack of beer and a few stray rolls of toilet paper, covered by a smelly old coat with holes in it.

Oh, well. My "no children" policy is thankfully still firmly intact, but I'm definitely gonna have a couple of beers after work.

OH! And I have to remember to buy toilet paper before I go home tonight...

toilet paper, toilet paper, toilet paper, toilet paper, toilet paper

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