by Christy Effinger
I didn’t mean to get drunk at the baby shower, honest, but I couldn’t find a shot glass in Haley’s kitchen, so I had to pour the rum straight into my punch. What kind of housewife doesn’t keep a shot glass in her kitchen? I have five or six squirreled away in mine. So while the other women played some game that involved sniffing at melted candy bars in diapers — no, really — I downed two glasses of spiked punch; then, while they played a game trying to guess the width of Melissa’s girth, I downed two more. I wandered into the living room just as the women passed around the ultrasound picture. “It’s precious,” I cried, “just precious,” and then someone told me I was holding it upside down.
Christy Effinger is no longer invited to baby showers. She blogs sporadically here.