The Over-Educated Nympho

My stomach surged as I turned the corner. I can’t believe I have to do this, I muttered in my head.

The first aisle was full of nothing but diapers. Red, teal, yellow packages every which way I looked. A confetti of poop bags. I blinked at them, willing the offending aisle to disappear from existence, or at least my memory.

The second aisle was full of bottles. Shelves and shelves of baby bottles. My stomach churned. I darted off for the third aisle, this one containing baby seats and carriers. Frantically I looked down at the tiny black and white pictures on the gift registry in my hand. It might as well have had pictures of a flux capacitor for all I knew.

FUCK. THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH WINE-XANAX CHASERS IN THE WORLD FOR THIS SHIT.

Sunday morning I was forced to spend an hour and a half in the one section of Target I had never before visited, the baby section. Why would I do such a thing? It was not voluntary, I assure you.

Last week, one of the many middle-aged males in my department approached me. It was Fellow Peon’s boss. As soon as he leaned against the wall of my cubicle, I knew what he was there for.

“Vix, I was wondering, since you are, well–” he stammered.

“–the only girl in our entire department?” I asked, my eyebrows raised with what I hoped was a hint of FUCK OFF, OLD MAN.

“Yes, I suppose,” he answered with a chuckle.

I’ll chuckle you right in the balls, chief.

“I was wondering,” he continued, “if you would mind organizing a little something for Fellow Peon? You know his wife is pregnant, and she’s due soon.”

“Mmm hmm. I’d heard something like that,” I muttered. Bastard had to get his wife knocked up. So rude of him. Why does everything always happen to me.

“Would you mind collecting money from everyone and buying some presents? I can tell you where he’s registered.” He looked a little uncomfortable. Awww, what’s the problem? Feel a little guilty that you’re asking the token ovaries to do the baby shopping even though my idea of a good time is punting a baby over a fence? FEELING A LITTLE GUILTY NOW, OLD MAN?

“Yeah. Fine.” I forced a big fat fake smile out. Oh, the wonderful gems of social behavior I learned from my years of prep school.

He turned and left my cubicle with a self-satisfied smile. I wanted to cut him.

That’s the story of why I had to brave the baby department. The last time I reliably cared for a baby was in 1992, and that’s because I was being paid to do so. The cable tv access was nice too.

After pacing the aisles, surely looking as lost as a little kid without his mother in a Super Wal-mart, I noticed a woman walking by with a baby in her shopping cart. I chased her down to the shoe section.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” I asked. “Can you help me for a sec? Is this the same thing as a diaper genie?” Exasperated, I pointed at a small black-and white picture labeled “Baby Trend Diaper Champ.” I had no idea what the picture was of. A giant can electronic can opener? An alien helmet? A plastic crate with buttons? WHAT THE FUCK IS A DIAPER CHAMP. HELL, WHAT THE FUCK IS A DIAPER GENIEA? Does it grant you the wish to take back your pregnancy? No? THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS IT.

The woman studied me for a moment, probably deciding if I was playing a prank or if a twenty-nine year-old girl could really be so clueless about baby products. THE LATTER. I PROMISE. I only use my ovaries for evil instead of good. NOW HELP ME ALREADY.

She squinted at the tiny picture on the wrinkled paper I held up to her. “Yeah, that’s a diaper genie.” She looked at me, her lips forming a faint smile of amusement.

“Thank you!” I said, dashing off before she had a chance to break into laughter.

Back in the diaper-related items aisle (not the same as the diaper aisle), I stared at the tall boxes labeled “Diaper Genie.” What do they do?

“Odor-free disposal system” it said underneath. I crouched down to get a better look at the box. So where does the baby go? Can you just leave it inside this thing until it’s done pooping? What is this ring-thing of cellophane for? Does that cover the baby from foot to head, like those giant trash bags for Christmas trees? It seems like it should be a trash can, but there’s no opening. What the fuck? Is there some secret code that opens this fucking thing? I know! Expelliarmus! No? OH MY GOD THIS MAKES NO SENSE.

I picked up the most expensive magical hole-less Diaper Genie and put it in the cart. Not my problem to figure this crap out, I just have to wrap it. Oooh you know what else I like to wrap? DICKS. WITH A CONDOM. Then you don’t have to make some poor sucker spend an hour and a half of her Sunday shopping for incomprehensible baby contraptions which may or may not obey the laws of physics.

Since I was losing patience, I decided to go for the most expensive items on the gift registry. That means less shopping, less wrapping, and more of a wow factor. Fine. Baby Bjorn. A hundred bucks? Seriously? What the hell, you could Aggie-engineer the same thing with a grocery bag and duct tape. And the happy European-looking people on the box? They look clean. Well-rested. Happy. LIES LIES LIES. They obviously do not know that all body liquids can and will be projected on them throughout the course of infancy–SOMEONE PUT THAT ON A GODDAMN BOX–if not all childhood, and then once again when the kid starts drinking profusely. Even I know that and I know shit about babies.

I used the last bit of the pooled money to buy some onesies (Oooh they should make those for adults. They look comfy!), socks (matching, of course–all clothes have to match, even though they will inevitably be covered in spit-up or poo for most of their existence outside the washing machine), and wrapping paper. Even the wrapping paper was cute.

You know why they make everything baby-related so cute? It’s not because babies are cute, oh HELL no (see previous paragraph on projectile bodily functions), it’s exactly because babies are so NOT cute after they’ve thrown up in your hair and pissed right in your face (WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE. YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO USE THAT AS A WEAPON UNTIL YOU’RE A TEENAGER). The pictures of pink elephants and green (happy!) tigers and yellow (non-carnivorous!) lions are the only cute things to look at among all the poo.

Once I paid for everything and unloaded the many bags in my living room, it was nearly one p.m. I put on a Christmas movie, popped open a bottle of wine, and changed back into my tshirt and flannel pajama bottoms. I wrapped, I curled, and I plumped. Two hours and several glasses of wine later, the gifts looked beautiful.

Who looked like a baby-gift goddess on Monday? And who received warm thanks from two supervisors and three different partners for so graciously taking care of everything? Yeah. I milked that shit for all it was worth. And that’s the only thing I’m milking, like, ever.