I have never made much of an attempt of hiding my disdain for Kansas. It is, after all the home of too many EX-Factors. But sometimes even I cannot find the words to describe the bizarre heinousness of this landlocked state.
Of all the friends I could have made in KC, somehow I ended up with a bunch of blondes who live in the burbs. I feel like Miranda, only it is my friends who have abandoned me and Manhattan for Brooklyn or in this case, Overland Park, Lenexa and Prairie Village – yuck.
No offense to the minivan driving suburbanites who have settled down in domestic bliss but it is just so, so not my thing.
And yet, I am repeatedly being drug out to – gasp – Olathe for these ladies I adore.
Saturday night was just another example of this personal sacrifice. Not only did I make the trek to the burbs but I was hoodwinked into attending a barbeque, which was in actually a couples baby shower. Little People – EVERYWHERE. I like the kiddos as much as the next chick with a ticking clock but seriously, I make it a point to keep my booze and my babies separate.
And because we were in KANSAS, we really had to go out of our way to secure said alcohol. I still really don’t understand why you can’t buy booze in the same place you buy soda but it is perfectly acceptable to have a liquor store sandwiched between a HYVEE (grocery store) and a Christian book store. Something about that just seems wrong.
To add insult to injury I knew better than to imbibe and drive through Kansas, those cops are crazy.
I diligently made idle chit chat about the latest maternal devices but when I asked about this weird baby carriage thing, my girlfriend just laughed and said, “I am glad I know you are not really a bitch.”
Apparently, when I exclaimed, “What will they think of next!?” my tone came off a little more snarky than impressed.
I was far to sober to manage conversation between sweet as sugar suburbanites and newly married couples gushing over two year olds.
I needed a beer. And as I stood there with a cold one in hand, I heard a small voice, mutter from below.
“Blue Moon?” asked the rumbled five year old. I nodded. And then he nodded back approvingly. “Niiiiiice.”