Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Baby Mama Drama

Just about anyone who's spent more than five minutes with me in a public setting knows (and has come to love, I'm sure) That Look I get when there's a baby in the vicinity. That Look is not the stereotypical girly misty-eyed omigod I want one of those looks you're thinking of, those of you who haven't spent more than five minutes with me in a public setting. It's quite the opposite, I can assure you. That Look is a sneery, bottom lip jutted, shoulder cocked, chin pulled-in look that any other girl would use to convey "oh she did not show up carrying my Louie."

Rest assured, though: I'm working on it. Or, at least I'm working on not being so obvious about it. (It has come to my attention that most mothers love love love their babies and aren't at all appreciative of the occasional "Man, don't babies suck?" look I toss out. I thought for awhile there that I had some special, sympathetic insight, and I guess I always kind of expect a mom to be like, "THANK you! Sometimes babies do suck, even this one! I'm glad to see someone understands!")

Normally I wouldn't hide my disdain at all (I don't censor my facial expressions for non-moms. What? They expect me to ignore that merciless wailing and conceal my utter disdain?) but now I'm on a mission. That mission? Get on the list.

From a seemingly-casual conversation I had with Fernando the other day:

"I can never drink that much again, or I'm gonna be off some peoples' lists."
"What lists?"
"You know. Lists. Like 'Potential Baby Daddy' lists. You're a single girl; you've got to have a list."
"No. No, I don't think I know about that. People have lists?"
"Yeah. I have a list. There's like, three people on it. I mean, what if I really want kids someday, and I'm alone? What if you really want kids someday and you're alone?"
"I won't want kids someday and... wait, what do you mean 'if I'm alone?!' Who's on this list?"
"Just these people. People I know. Who have good genes."
"I have good genes. Good genes and high SAT scores. And! I'm a natural blonde. Everyone wants a smart blonde baby. Blondes with high SAT scores are in high demand, you know, in that baby harvesting market."
"You do have good genes."
"So, I'm on the list?"
"You don't want babies."
"Minor detail. I'm on the list, right?"
"I haven't known you long enough. And you don't want babies."
"Well! You're on my list."
"You don't have a list. You didn't even know about the list."
"I have a list. What if I someday, miraculously, against all odds, wake up and need to have a baby? And [inevitably] I'm alone? You ARE my list. You can't take yourself off my list. It's my list. And, I think it's only fair that because you're on my list, I should be on your list. We can have babies. Not now, but someday. Babies!"
"You hate babies, and you hate moms, and you don't have a list. And there's already people on my list, people I've talked to, people who will definitely, eventually want babies."

So there you have it: not only do I need to a.) start liking babies and b.) get on the list, I must also c.) beat out three other professed baby-lovers to get to the top of the list. I would never settle for fourth best, after all.

So riddle me this: am I really the only single girl in the world who hasn't been furtively auditioning every man in her life for the role of potential, somewhere-along-the-line sperm donor? Am I being furtively auditioned by every guy I meet? Are they sizing up my egg-harvesting potential and making mental tics in the minus column every time I order another beer? Does everyone really have a list? Do I need to get on this, like, yesterday? Gah!

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Redemption is a dish best served with a pomegranate martini

Or, in my case, six. Six pomegranate martinis.

So, remember the Chipotlame incident, the one that marked the official advent of the Total Erin Spazzfest™? I thought I'd never get over the shame. OK, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but I did think, "Whelp. There goes my one chance to dazzle a former* reality show star."

Lucky for me, though, that thought involved concepts related to impressing boys and having some degree of Game, so, naturally, I was wrong.

I scored an invite (via my freelancing job) to my first Swanky Chicago Party, hosted by this webzine to celebrate the launch of this T.V. show. Given the proximity to work and the lure of free drinks, I couldn't not go, so I put on my Trixie boots and clip-clopped my way to Salthaus. It's one of those restaurants with floor-to-ceiling windows and lots of little furniture and little tealight candles and little hors d'oeuvres served on little minimalist white plates. It was very hip, and everyone there was very shiny** and I felt very much like Carrie Effing Bradshaw, except with cheaper shoes and a cuter Stanford.

The Brunette Ryan Seacrest was there, as were some other Important Chicago People, whom my much-more-in-the-know date recognized imediately and whom I had never heard of. Apparently, Real World Jamie is considered a Marginally Important Chicago Person, so he too was invited to this Swanky Chicago Party.

After seeing him near the stairs, I did some quick social math: Real World Jamie + free pomegranate martinis ÷ Trixie boots = Second Chance to make a First Impression!

I was nervous, of course; I wasn't the only girl there in sequins and Trixie boots, after all. But my date scored me the perfect talking-to-Jamie wingman: Nick had a very European, bangs-involved haircut, some well-placed bling, and a curiosity about the whereabouts of New Orleans castmate Danny.***

We were very not-obvious about making eye contact, and eventually Jamie came over to talk to us. Even after Nick got the Danny report and dropped out, I was doing really well: we talked about Chicago and Northwestern, and our jobs ("jobs," since he "just wrapped filming on The Gauntlet 2 and is now marketing something called the UberTap that has to do with beer.) I found out he reads my magazine and thinks it's great, which rocks because either a.) he reads my magazine and thinks it's great or b.) he's never heard of my magazine but wants me to think he thinks it's great. I think. We talked about The Gauntlet, and I'm pretty sure he told me the outcome, even though there are still new episodes coming out. He brought me another (!) drink, and we talked about the Windy City Rollers, and I think I must have made some cute-dumb comment about how I'd actually really like to wear a plaid skirt and ripped fishnets and roller skates and kick other chicks' asses in the Derby ring, because at the end of the night, Jamie came back over to me and said, "You know, you really should try out for the Windy City Rollers." Um... thanks?

Anyway, aside from that potential debacle that didn't actually backfire, I was golden. I even resisted the urge to be all, "HEY! Remember that time I totally lost my shit at Chipotle and threw a hissy right in front of you? You don't remember? Oh, well, I guess it was just a big deal to me and all the people who read my blog, then." I'm pretty proud of that little fact.

* I suppose a better word would be "occasional."
** Chicago shiny is very different from Dallas shiny, I've decided.
*** I, too, wouldn't have minded more of a Danny update. There's always been something a little Timberlakian about him.