The can at the chic Hotel San José on trendy South Congress Ave: where edgy, creative people with sculpted bed-head go to pee. It’s unisex!
Once again spinster auntly pursuits interfere with today’s blaming schedule; I must take charge of my 3-year-old niece Rotel. She telephoned yesterday to inform me — in the background I heard her mother’s muffled but unmistakable chortle — that I was inviting her over for an indefinite period.
Rotel was explicit about her expectations regarding such endeavors as we might undertake, expectations which, I don’t mind telling you, seem somewhat far-fetched when you consider that extended interims in the company of 3-year-olds are not quite your line. For example, it appears I will have to forego my customary afternoon sacrament of pâté, vodka martinis, and a bracing 95-mile-an-hour drive in the country with the top down, in favor of “jumping on the big bed.” Also, the kid has ordered mac-and-cheese in a box and no carrots for dinner.
In a box! The skin crawls. Would that I were not in direct competition with my sister Tidy’s in-laws for the title of Favorite Aunt. Yes, I currently hold the lead by many furlongs (my winning strategy is this: give in to all demands for ice cream), but nothing is certain.
Blood, I suppose, is thicker than powdered cheese in a foil packet. But, damn.
Well. Since I can offer no improvement, cute kid story-wise, over the excellence routinely displayed by professional mommybloggers, I will leave it at that. Or rather, I will leave you with a link to this acrid essay on the supposed stupidity of parturient people who disdain to be medicalized, written by a surpassingly arrogant 30-something male MD who fancies himself a “compassionate person by nature” and is morbidly in love with his
male privilege penis white coat.
Needless to say, if you don’t hear from me in 48 hours, start calling hospitals and police stations.