Modern Mommy Poker

Last week was a whirlwind of social gatherings for me, spanning three major arenas in my life.  I first had an in-laws family reunion in North Carolina Tuesday-Thursday (with no internet or phone reception, hence my inexplicated absence last Wednesday), followed by Aflakattack in D.C. on Thursday night-Friday morning, followed by my law firm offsite convention in Florida, Friday Evening-Sunday morning.

It was great seeing hundreds of people, over the course of the week, who I only get to see a couple times a year at most.  But there was one odd pattern that dominated all three engagements.  It was not who was there that resonated most with me, but who was missing, and why.  Two of Imaginary Husband’s cousins had to forgo the trip to N.C. because they had a new baby, and couldn’t bear a 7-hour car ride with him.  Then several of my former co-clerks had to decline the Court reception, again, due to new babies.  Same for several of my favorite colleagues at branch offices of my law firm, all new mommies.

At first, I was confused.  Isn’t having a new baby exactly when you would most want to get away for a few days?  Dump that shit on the grandparents and let’s get wasted!  And then have the best night’s sleep you will ever have again!  But, as a childless ignoramus, I forgot the defining feature of modern baby-mommas.  Nursing.  You can’t ditch the kid and get wasted with me when your boobs are totally monopolized.

So I was forced to hang out with the early 20-somethings who are single, or the aging Gen-X crowd whose kids are older.  Both fun demographics, but when the beach club started blasting Meghan Trainor on Saturday night, I no longer saw a bunch of overworked lawyers reliving their glory days.  All I could envision in the crowd were post-millennial infants, in their eco-friendly memory-foam diapers, twerking and shouting…

You know I’m all about that boob,
‘Bout that boob,
no bottle.
I’m all about that boob
‘Bout that boob,
no bottle.
I’m all about that boob
‘Bout that boob,
no bottle.
I’m all about that boob,
‘Bout that boob.

OBs are preaching hard, the science must be true.
Breastfeeding’s all the rage
It’s what you have to do.
Get used to ya nipples in front of strangers’ faces
Cuz I always get hungry in public places.

See Grandma nuking something, inside a plastic cup?
We know that shit ain’t real
She gotta give it up
I shun preservatives, go google that
’Cause every inch of me is natural
From the booties to the hat.

Yeah, my mama she read every book in the Kindle store
Now all I touch is sterile, organic, free-range, and pure.
You know I won’t drink no synthetic powdered formula now
I got my own personal 24-hour human dairy cow.

Because you know I’m
All about that boob
’Bout that boob,
no bottle.
I’m all about that boob
’Bout that boob,
no bottle.
I’m all about that boob
’Bout that boob,
no bottle
I’m all about that boob
’Bout that boob
Hey!

Poker will be at [————–], starting at 8pm, $10 buy-in cash game, RSVP.  Bring beer, wine, liquor, I don’t care.  Just don’t bring cans.  Cuz you know I’M all about that bottle.

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Wet Squirrel Poker

OK, this is absolutely the worst poker theme I have ever come up with.  I deeply apologize.  But I just can’t think about anything else right now.  I am in a state of panic.  The weather outside right now is crazy.  I actually ran down the hall to my coworker and asked if Chinatown was being attacked by the black smoke monster from “Lost.”  I believe the meteorological term is that it is Armageddoning.  Since mini-me took my old office, I moved into an office with a big window, and now I am just staring at rain and being very concerned for squirrels.  I know this is not a rational response to serious downpours and a tornado warning.  There could be cars on the road getting in accidents, or my house could be is definitely leaking, but my main concern is for the squirrel population.  Where do they go when it rains like this?  Are they just in trees?  That is not going to cut it.  There is a little black squirrel that eats my tomato plants and barks at the next-door neighbor’s cat, how do I find out if he is safe?  There is a pair of cardinals that lives in my mulberry tree, what happens to their family when their nest floods?

I have to go on a wildlife rescue mission.  I have a towel and a hair dryer plugged into a portable car battery.  I can do this.  Neal and Jen will host poker in my absence.  They live at [———-].  Start time 8pm.  Bring beer and hip waders.  RSVP.

UPDATE– since posting this, I discovered that xkcd actually ran a comic strip on this same day, with essentially the same theme, focused on where birds go when it rains.  According to Randall Munroe, the question “where do birds go when it rains” is the most frequently asked question in Google (or Ask.com or something, I didn’t read the research that closely).  Not only it is the question most commonly asked in English, but it is the most commonly asked question in all languages.  So there is this pervasive sentiment across all humanity, uniting us in our concern for birds when it rains.

So I Googled “where do squirrels go when it rains?”  Unlike the question “where do birds go when it rains” that returns hundreds of hits with fabulous in-depth articles about bird roosts and such, my question just takes you to an otherwise blank page that says “you’re an idiot.”  So it seems to me that not only has Google become sentient, but it is an asshole who doesn’t care about squirrels.

Poker Like an Adult

My current living situation is a strange amalgamation of adulthood and adolescence.  I’m married, and I own my house, which is very adult of me.  But I live with a bunch of roommates who keep me in a perpetual world of college-esque hijinx.

For example, this morning I came downstairs to feed my dog and go to work (adult of me) and found some random chick sitting in my kitchen (college-esque hijinx).  I was the last resident to leave the house this morning, so I didn’t expect to see anyone just hanging out.  “Hello?” I guessed.  “Oh, hello,” she replied, and shook my hand, “my name is Ling.”  So I continued, “my name is Kristina.  I live here. . . what about you?  Are you waiting for someone?”  “Nice to meet you,” she said.  And sat down.  And drank some tea at my kitchen table.  I couldn’t tell if she was being deliberately nonresponsive or if there was a language barrier, but I was running pretty late so I just rolled with it.  “So…I’m going to work now,”  I told her.  “Have a happy day,” she responded.

So I left her there.  She seemed less confused than I was, which somehow commanded deference.  As I was walking to work, I wondered if I just left a crazy person alone in my house, or if maybe I was going crazy.  At which point I got a text from one of the roommates: “hey roomies soooo sorry I forgot to mention this but we have a foreign exchange student staying for a while hope that’s ok.”  Ah.  There is a rational explanation for why sometimes there are strangers drinking tea in my house.  Well, rational in the world of college-esque hijinx.

But just to be safe, in case “foreign exchange student” is a clever cover for Chinese-intelligence-assassin, we should have poker somewhere more adult and less college-esque than my place.  Amazingly enough, that place somehow turned out to be Goodman’s.  I know, I just got that strange vertigo feeling too.  [———-].  Start time 8pm.  RSVP like an adult.  Bring some drink that adults drink, like a gin rickey, that’s what my grandmother used to drink.  Now I’m going to eat lunch at my desk like an adult.  What do adults eat?  Like, salad?