How to Party With an Infant Read Online Free Page A

she’ll begin her new venture. Georgia, Henry, Barrett, and Annie will each have a turn to tell her a story.

Renee—I am very sympathetic to your desires to keep your child safe. Safety is nonnegotiable. I understand that you are outraged, but your insinuations are inappropriate, bigoted, insensitive, and racist. Please don’t mistake concern for your child for bigotry against other ethnic groups. If you believe calling USCIS will “solve” your problem, then the real problem is much larger than this discussion forum. Best of luck.
—Beth Nelson
I can’t imagine having an affair. That would mean having to have sex with two people!
—Overheard at Quince restaurant

CARVING A WIFE
    H er friends have taken over the back corner table at the Panhandle playground. They’re all drinking a cheap Shiraz from red plastic cups and watching Gabe, Georgia’s almost three-year-old son, sitting in the sandbox, swatting his tongue, and screaming. Today Georgia looks like one of those women in Theraflu commercials, yet without the luxury of being in bed under clean, cool sheets. Zoë, her newborn mistake, is sucking on her left boob.
    “You better win this thing,” Annie says. “It better not be that woman who’s always posting links to her cupcakes. Aren’t people sick of crazy cupcakes? Red Velvet Pudding Pop with Grenache, Quinoa, and Pop Rocks.”
    It’s funny being sandwiched by these ladies: Annie on her right, the ends of her blond hair dyed blue, a Batman tattoo on her left shoulder; Barrett on her left, her blond hair in a stringent bob. As a parent you’re friends with people you never thought you’d be friends with.
    “What is it you’re doing again?” Henry asks.
    He’s the only man in the group. He’s a forty-five-year-old retiree (he sold his company to Microsoft) who owns a beautiful home in Pacific Heights but avoids playgrounds in that area because hesees those people enough as it is and he likes to slum it whenever possible.
    “The moms only talk about fund-raisers and redecorating, the men all talk about investments and who’s ‘killing it,’ ” he has said to Mele.
    His wife is the daughter of a prominent family, who actually refer to themselves as scions of San Francisco.
    “Old money,” he told her. “They’re even weirder. Her mom has a wall made out of peacocks.”
    Mele doesn’t think he’s very happy.
    Sometimes Henry meets the group here without his four-year-old even though there’s a sign on the front gate that says, ADULTS MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY CHILDREN.
    “I’m entering the cookbook competition,” Mele says with a flourish to disguise embarrassment. It’s always a tad humiliating to admit you’re trying to accomplish something, and a mother’s club competition sounds like such hogwash. What is hogwash anyway? She imagines little piggies getting scrubbed down with a loofah, their tiny tails in erect spirals.
    “What you’ll do is tell me some kind of anecdote, something personal.” She says in a lowered voice to the ladies: “Remember when I told you I turned my Brazilian wax into Thai food?”
    “Has it grown back yet?” Barrett asks.
    Mele wiggles on the bench as her answer.
    Barrett gets up, most likely to tell her daughter, who’s in a face-off by the tire swing, that hands are not for hitting.
    “What are you guys talking about?” Henry asks, moving down the bench toward Mele.
    “Nothing,” Georgia says.
    “Mele’s going to take your despair and turn it into cupcakes,” Annie says.
    He glances at Mele, and she looks down. She’s always a little shy around him. They have this innocent flirtation going on, but now that he’s having marital problems, the innocence isn’t stained necessarily, but is taking on a different hue.
    “Despair into cupcakes,” he says.
    He seems off today, sullen and pensive, like he’s deciding on whom to fire.
    “You’ll tell me a story,” Mele says, “and I’ll create a suitable recipe. If that makes any