BABY BOOM IN BOURGELANDIA

A conversation overheard at the cafe I frequent: one new mom holds her son on her lap and bitches about how, post-pregnancy, she can't wear any of her great skinny clothes anymore. "I've never been fat before," she says. "I guess I never appreciated being skinny." Please note that this woman is not fat. She probably has a pretty healthy BMI, certainly nothing over the limit. I mean, I'm fat. She always compliments me on how "flattering" my clothes are, how much they camoflage my stomach. Which makes me kind of hate her. I mean, why would you say that to somebody else? Maybe I'm a little sensitive (maybe I'm always a little sensitive, yes) because I've recently been giving the working out thing another go. Anyway, this woman is also an interrupter, and if you know me at all, you probably know how much I loathe interruptors. (I'm sure she's a perfectly nice person, but I don't write entries in my blog about how everybody must be nice people deep deep inside. Because that would be boring.)

Anyway, here's the chestnut: a man and woman walking out of the restaurant next door walk by and start some baby chat. All of these people are well-heeled and everything, the kind of parents who have the energy and resources to raise their bilingual children and shop at heinously expensive baby stores, and they have the baby name discussion. And their babies' names? Mossimo and Achilles. I mean, ACHILLES???? Of the tendon? Imagine being a kindergarten teacher calling roll at a fancy private school: "Mossimo? Achilles? Datsun? Georgic? Asiago? Euripides? Sappho? Evangelist? Darlington? Lysander? Porphyry? Dada? Good, we're all here."

If I had to guess what percentage of the crankiness in this entry is inspired by the bourge parents and which by my dismay that I must, must, must finish a story for Monday, I would guess it's 30/70. In case you were curious.

P.S. RIP Kurt Vonnegut.