I have mixed feelings when my old-school party girls suddenly cash in their whore wings and become breeders. Sure, I’m happy for them, but shit can get awkward on Sunday afternoons by the hotel pool.
I’m nursing a hangover with a bloody mary and a half-pack of parliaments, and this perky bitch rolls up with a stroller and a mimosa like she’s ready to get her brunch on.
First of all, anyone who’s lived in this town longer than a hot minute knows there are certain pools where you just don’t bring your fucking kids on a Sunday afternoon (The Roosy, The Mondrian, or — god forbid — The Downtown Standard.) It’s roughly the equivalent of ordering bottle service at a club and then requesting a hi-chair.
I know you’re one of the cool moms, but we used to talk endless shit about the trophy wives who’d show up to the pool with champagne and splash-happy toddlers. So now you squirt out a gremlin and suddenly the rules don’t apply? As an old pro, you should’ve damn well known better.
Second of all — and I mean this with all love and respect — no, I do not want to hold your little bundle of joy. Why? Because it’s bald, screaming, and strapped to a sack of its own shit, and I’m still drunk from the night before.
Besides, you know I don’t do baby talk. What am I supposed to say to the little squirmer? “Your mommy and I used to take turns blowing coke up each other’s buttholes through a straw, and I bet your Daddy doesn’t know about the night I helped her fuck three guys at the same time.”
Sorry, not interested. Plus, if you knew where my hands had been you’d make me boil them before touching your offspring.
It’s not like I don’t want to hang out, but you don’t see me doing lines in the bathroom at Chuck E. Cheese, do you?
I don’t know, isn’t there a country club you can join or something?