The REAL WORLD...

Last night I went to eat at The Olive Garden (horribly Americanized yet oh so delicious Italian food, mama mia!) with two of my good girlfriends... (because I only hang out with my bad girlfriends on Sunday.) It was a scary peek back into what I call the REAL WORLD: a suffocatingly overcrowded middle class restaurant with a 35-minute wait time for a table of 3. Did I just refer to THE OLIVE GARDEN as middle class? You have my permission to PLEASE JUST SHOOT ME NOW.

I was insanely hungry before we even arrived at the restaurant, so the 35-minute wait was excruciating for me- me, the breastfeeding mom of a 4 1/2 week old baby whose boobs only allow her to go out without child for a very short 3-hour window of time. It took us 30 minutes to get to the restaurant, which was really only 15 minutes away, thanks to Friday's after-work-it's-the-weekend-let's-party-learn-how-to-FUCKING-drive traffic. Don't you people know that my baby gives me a CURFEW? Move it along!

Anyway, we had a blast despite the fact that our waiter was either half retarded (in which case he was an excellent server!) or new, or perhaps a combination of both. My friends dicked him on the tip because he sucked so much ass, but I felt bad and gave him a handjob under the table while he cleared our plates. Heh. Kidding, kidding. I was wearing my favorite shoes and would never have risked getting goo on them just because I felt bad. Pshaw!

I have been hiding in my dark breastfeeding dungeon (which I happily share with Ellen, Oprah and Judge Hatchett) for so long now that the real world is kind of scary. Granted, the baby and I are venturing out together a little more now. I even took him to Target by myself in the middle of the day last week. And he only screamed his head off while we were in the dressing room, thankyouverymuch. (Note: nothing is worse than unsuccessfully trying to squeeze into your pre-pregnancy size while your little angel of love is screaming his bloody head off so violently that it makes you want to slit your wrists with a plastic hanger.)

ANYWAY, where was I? I've been at home caring for the wee one for a month now, and I feel like I'm losing touch with the rest of society AND I LIKE THAT FEELING. I do occasionally miss the freedom of being able to trot on over to the mall to browse the new spring line of flip flops and handbags or whatever, but only for a moment. Is it strange that I enjoy being tied down, a slave if you will, to a frumpy (and very often GRUMPY) little month-old baby boy who fills his diapers with such stink that it could bring the garbage man to his knees?

I love him sooooo much. He's got me wrapped around this little pinky finger. I think he knows this and is already using it to his advantage.