Despite the fact that each issue annoys me more than the last, I remain a New York magazine subscriber. Mostly because I can usually find at least one story a week that cracks me up, at least a little.
This week, Amy Sohn's brilliant parody of a neurotic, narcissistic, self-obsessed Park Slope mom is what did it for me. Sohn writes what must surely be a fictional account of running into her ex-best friend at the kiddie playground. I generally don't think Sohn is particularly funny, but this line cracked me up: "I felt like I had nothing in life, as if she, not I, was the fulfilled
mother in the playground with her hot husband and cute daughter and I
was a spinster thirtysomething, trudging a walk of shame."
Heh. Wait, there's more. In this bit she channels Carrie Bradshaw, using questions to make her point: "And even if she wasn’t a mom, was her marriage better than mine? If she
didn’t have a kid, it had to be better. Were they living out the
newlywed honeymoon I had for only a year because I got knocked up? Was
she happy in a real way, or was that carefree, sunny face a cover?" Okay, that part didn't really ring true because nobody's really that neurotic. Right?
Another gem is when she forces her kid to breast feed—even though the kid isn't hungry—so she can show up her EBF (Amy luvs acronyms!) by whipping out an engorged boobie! Like anyone would do that IRL (hey, I can acronym too!).
The story gets even more hilarious when, a few days later, she runs into her VLG (which, contrary to what I originally thought, doesn't stand for "vaginal love god," but instead "very last guy") at Park Slope's mommy-infested Tea Lounge, while she's there having brekkie with her perfect child and even more perfect husband. That joker Amy says of her ex, "He had to be feeling like Carrie when she spots Aidan and then he turns
and he’s wearing a Baby Björn. I was the one who got away."
Bwah ha ha!!! Yeah, right! Because when a single guy runs into his mommy'ed-up ex, the first thing he feels is "damn, that coulda been mine!" The lactation-stained blouse, the snot-covered toddler. . . I'm sure that guy was kicking himself. Single men—especially the ones that fancy themselves brooding artist types—are always hellbent on getting married and reproducing!
Though that stuff is all rich, my favorite line would have to be this one: "[The ex] was a mopey narcissist with no acuity. How could we have had a future anyway?"
Because everyone knows, there's only room for one mopey narcissist in any relationship! Hooo boy! Funny stuff!
In a somewhat related note, the new issue of Bust, featuring my story on women who don't want babies, is on stands now!
This week's Seattle column is one I'm particularly fond of. If you skip ahead to the second question, you'll read a description of one of my favorite all-time pranks. I used to pull stuff like this on my one sister all the time. Once I gave her a spoonful of horseradish to taste, swearing that it was tapioca. Another time, I was taking her on her first parentally unsupervised trip into Manhattan from the Jerz and told her that the conductor would kick her off the train if she didn't ask for her ticket using the right lingo. I informed her she had to say "I'll have an RT to da NYC" or he'd have no idea what she wanted. She did it and the conductor looked at her like she was retarded, as I sat across from her, laughing my ass off. But the prank I write about in the column is way funnier. I swear. And my dad wonders why we don't talk anymore!
