Painful

Painful.

That’s the only word that can describe the office baby shower thrown at 3pm on a Thursday afternoon. There’s nothing worse than standing awkwardly as the chubby pregnant chick unwraps a gift box filled with stuffed toy animals and a mini baby food maker. Hungry? Grab a baby carrot or a mini-peanut butter and jelly sandwich without crusts. Get it?

Man chicks are stupid. No, you know what? Chicks aren’t stupid for throwing baby showers. They’re stupid for making guys go to baby showers. I don’t know what it is, a different chromosome, a crossed wire, whatever…but guys DO NOT want to go to baby showers. For all you ladies out there (all the single ladies, all the single ladies….sorry, can’t help it. I secretly want to shake my ass when that song comes on. Who’s the chick now?) For all you ladies out there…don’t make your husband or your boyfriend or your brother go to your baby shower. Please. Let them golf. Let them watch TV. Let them be free for the day.

But not at work. Nope. Forced fun I call it. It’s like in Office Space when everyone gathers to sing someone else happy birthday. Fucking painful. Small talk is hard enough with people you work with. Now imagine small talk surrounded by pastel streamers and balloons. And it’s not like its 5pm and you’re nursing a cocktail at a nearby bar on the company’s dime. No. It’s 3pm and you’re checking your blackberry. Praying that an urgent email will come through. But it didn’t. I had to stick around. I had to participate in the games.

Then it was time for the t-shirt making contest. I shit you not. We had a t-shirt contest complete with puff paint. Go on, read that sentence again. Yep, puff paint. There weren’t any guidelines. Just design a tiny little t-shirt for the yet-to-be-born baby using the provided puff paint. My mind ran wild. At first I wanted to write in big block letters “SHOW ME YOUR TIT”. Get it? Not tits plural. Singular. Fuck I crack myself up sometimes. Then I thought maybe I’d draw a big open baby mouth and have an arrow pointing in it that read ‘Insert Nipple Here’. But then I thought it would be hard to properly portray an open baby’s mouth using only puff paint. My last idea was to cut out a picture of myself, paste it in the middle, and write ‘Who’s Your Daddy?’. I’d never met her husband. He couldn’t be all that tough…could he?

I settled on a fire engine. Damn I can be such a chick sometimes.




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