I would keep that in mind if I didn't think you were crazy...

I can't believe it's been so long since I wrote. I have serious writer's block. I never did manage to write up those last few Bachelor episodes. It's so after the fact at this point that it hardly seems relevant (not that it was ever relevant, but that wasn't the point, was it?).

Don't worry - motherhood hasn't cured me of my love for vapid, trashy TV. In fact, I have been watching The Bachelorette, although, its utter lack of catty psycho drama makes it a much more boring version of this genre. For example, a would-be husband recently told DeAnna that he wanted her to know he was "very engaged in this process." This as opposed to that crazy pyscho Kelly who revealed her feelings for Matt The Bach by flashing him Mardi Gras style. I ask you, which is more entertaining?

Anyway, I think I can attribute my lack of writing inspiration to living the tedious life of a new mother. I don't think posting the fact that my kid pooped two more times today than he did yesterday would be interesting to anyone. Not even to me. But I've got nothing else goin' on. Hence, the writer's block.

The only remotely noteworthy interaction I've had occurred recently in, where else, a Starbucks. I was confronted with the reminder that New Yorkers will butt into anyone's business. I usually appreciate the bluntness and interpret it as a form of affection - just imparting friendly advice. This time, I was less than receptive.

Random woman in Starbucks upon peering into Brendan's stroller: "When was he born?"

Feeling like a proud momma: "Six weeks ago."

With an air of certainty: "Oh. He was premature."

Not appreciating the woman's know-it-all tone: "No, he wasn't."

Condescendingly: "Well, he's very tiny..." [no, actually, he's completely within normal parameters according to my pediatrician's ridiculously detailed growth charts.] I see a raised eyebrow cast my way and I know this conversation is about to take an even more unwelcome turn. "...Are you breastfeeding?"

How did this conversation devolve so quickly? Is this even remotely her business? Grande iced latte now in hand, I quickly start to wheel toward the door. As I retreat, I smile and cheerily reply, "Yes I am. Have a good day!"

Not willing to let me off the hook, the random woman actually attempted to summon me back: "Come here. I want to tell you something."

Is she kidding? I cut this off at the pass and bolted: "No, thanks. I'm good. Enjoy the afternoon."

Can't a girl just get a latte in peace?

Preggers can't be choosers

At not quite 7 months pregnant, I am suffering from fashion famine. I keep wearing the same five outfits over and over. And with all the cute Spring lines in the stores, I just feel more huge than ever.

So I think it must have been the fact that the 19 year old part time worker behind the Starbucks counter couldn't see my belly - it being obscured by the register - that made this conversation possible. But since it's been at least 6 months since I've felt even remotely cute, I'll take what I can get...

"Yo, that haircut is hot."
"Thank you."
"Seriously. I don't think I've ever seen that hair on a real girl before."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it looks like a picture you'd see, you know, like on a model, but I've never seen it in real life."
"Oh. Thanks."
"You should always keep it like that. I hope your boyfriend likes that hairstyle."
"Well, yes, my husband likes it."
"Oh. That's cool."

I think I was very close to free lattes for at least the rest of February and possibly one dutch movie date before I mentioned the husband. Who's in Argentina for two weeks, by the way. So maybe I'll hang around Starbucks tomorrow for fun...

I'm back

Guess what was at the register when I got to the front of the line at Starbucks this morning? A grande latte. MY grande latte.

I said to the cashier with a hint of astonishment, "Is that mine?" He replied, "Yes. I think someone back there knows you."

I felt so smug as I sailed by the caffeine junkies gathered around the pick-up bar waiting for their fix. Amateurs.