My (brief) life as a single mother

Happy Mother's Day! And a very special shout out to all of the single mothers out there, my own mom included.

Okay, I have spent the last 48 hours as a single mom of a 4 year-old, so bear with me.

My sister went into labor Friday afternoon. I missed seeing my nephew born by approximately 15 minutes. But just in time for the afterbirth. Yay! Baby and mom are all well. We'll call him ET, and he is a cutie. Mom, Dad and baby had to stay in the hospital for 2 nights, so that meant Auntie Fortune was taking care of MadDog for the weekend.

It was a lot of work taking care of a kid. Lots of attention (I didn't want her getting hurt on MY watch) and activity, including a 4 year-old birthday party. Picture about 20 little kids dressed up as pirates and princesses running around for 2.5 hours. Especially after a huge piece of birthday cake, ice cream and candy from a pinata. It couldn't have been more insane if they were handing out speed. Although MadDog is a good girl and I adore her, I was most relieved when her parents walked through the door this afternoon. Nearly as happy as MadDog was, if not more.

People, I'm exhausted. I can only imagine what a full-time mom feels like. This is why moms totally ROCK!

Um, could I get a little mojito with my sugar?

Happy hour was rather uneventful last night. We went back to the sangria place in El Barrio. Live music came on. Good music, but so loud I think I now know what a dog feels like when someone blows one of those whistles that no human can hear. Terrible, I say. We had to move onto another bar down the street. After a very inconspicious "walk-by" to make sure we wouldn't totally get our asses kicked if we went in there. The waitress was quite nice and gave us our third round free. (For the record, I didn't have a third round.)

Now, for those of you who know me, I have no problem traveling around the city to meet up. South Williamsburg for Cinco de Mayo? Si. Beer garden in Astoria for Dirty's Thirty? For real. South Bronx for a bbq? Yo. LES for a white russian? Need you ask?

El Barrio for sangria? Hell yeah...Although, actually, perhaps not.

I have developed a beef with East Harlem: for one of the least gentrified 'hoods in Manhattan, why the hell are the drinks so freakin' expensive!? I mean, $8 for a mojito is a lot for E.116th and First Avenue. And there was so much sugar in that baby, I woke up this morning with a stomach ache. Seriously. Am I paying for the street cred or something? Because, quite frankly, I am perfectly happy being a West Side girl who drinks practically free walking distance from home.

"We're friends. I like you. Now go away."

Little MadDog is growing up fast. At parent-teacher conferences this week, MadDog's teachers told them she was doing very well in school and got along well with all the kids. She is the most popular girl in her class. Apparently when she walks in to class, everyone gets up and yells "MadDog's here!!!" That's my girl.

There is one boy in particular, Alex, who loves MadDog more than a 4 year-old boy should. He gets in her face a lot and cries when they walk home together and it's time for them to go their separate ways. Her teachers said that during one of these instances, MadDog told him "Alex, we're friends. I like you. Now go away." Ah, the delicacy of a diplomat.

This kid is going to rule the world, I tell you.

I am feeling cranky and under the weather this week, so I am nursing my bad mood with some milk and cookies. I have been on a bit of a social sabbatical the past few days, so I don't have any good stories to tell. Perhaps Thursday will bring new blog fodder, as it usually does...

Your friends and neighbors

I have a knack for forming personal relationships with the people around me. My gynecologist is really great. Anne knows me even though I only see her once a year and is always happy to see me. She's nice to the friends I refer to her. We talk a lot about public health and such. She tells me that she wishes we could hang out longer, but she has like 5 patients who have been waiting for hours to see her. She also hugs and kisses me on the cheek goodbye. Some find this weird, but let's think about this: if someone is spending time with my privates, I should be getting a kiss good-bye rather than just a note (or prescription, in this case) slipped under the door, right?

Maybe that was an overshare.

I also have a relationship with my hair stylist, Stacie. We are the same age and turned 30 a few months apart. That was a strong bond between us. Plus, she gives me good haircuts. I brought her back a small birthday present from Prague. She also hugs and kisses me goodbye. Granted, I also tip her well, but we have a connection.

And then there is BFF Bartender, but you've already heard about him previously. Ditto on the kiss goodbye. (I have a special way with bartenders in general and am known for getting free drinks frequently. I just wish I had this special way with bakery or Haagen Daaz employees instead. Or even donut cart people.)

So, I think I have made progress in forming a relationship with my ConEd man. Wait, let me preface this with the fact that he is a nice, attractive, young man. Not some old creepy dude. Anyway, it's been a much longer process developing a relationship. The man reads my gas meter every month. (Although it's been more of an every other month schedule.) This takes about 2 minutes. Nothing so involved as poking around my privates annually, cutting my hair every 3-4 months, or serving me numerous drinks every Wednesday night. But we chat, and say "I haven't seen you in a while. Where've you been? How's it going?" and he'll tell me he was on vacation, but working his second job. Or I'll tell him that I was on vacation (but without mentioning I was on my Eastern European Trifecta tour, because that sounds so bourgeois). We'll discuss the weather and things like that. And that's it. But this morning, I got a handshake goodbye. I was touched. Now, I don't need a hug and kiss goodbye from the ConEd man. That would be weird. But I like to think that I am one of his favorite meters to read in the building. And no euphemisms there, kids.

Eightball in the pocket

I try not to participate in height inflation. The measuring stick tells me I am 5'7", but other women my height say they are 5'8''. Which means that in man-height, I am about 5'10''. Last night I went out with some Brooklyn girls, and for the first time ever, I was the shortest one. It was definitely weird, and I can't say I liked it one bit.

The lovely ladies: Murphy (pool name: Jackhammer), Wick (pool name: Petri Dish), Zube (pool name: Wall. Or was it Flower?), and myself (pool name: Flower. Or maybe Wall. I can't remember).

We had a few drinks and went to play some pool. (Note: I do not play pool, but am always a willing observer. Dirty will back me up here.) We came across two gentlemen to play pool with. Both were from Indiana. Both were essentially married. Both seemed psyched to hang out with four lovely birds that weren't their wives. The first guy, Married (pool name: The Anvil, partner: Jackhammer) seriously had the weirdest twang. Definitely not how anyone I know from Indiana talked. Almost like that big rooster in those Looney Toons cartoons (Foghorn Leghorn). He also had the most ridiculous chuckle. Egads. He laughed a lot. He also wore pleated khakis.

The other dude, Almost Married (pool name: Bacteria, partner: Petri Dish), loved Wisconsin (Zube was from there) and would not stop talking about how great people from Wisconsin were. Now, that's all fine and dandy, but Wisconsin is also my home state's rival. Crikey, it's not THAT great of a state (Cheeseheads, please don't hate). At least MN has Prince, bless his purple-loving soul.

All in all, pool was played, the reigning pool sharks were usurped (props to Bacteria & Petri Dish), stories were told, and bedtime was late. Good times.