This may be the last post ever on defective yeti, as I started this blog with one main objective and that objective has now been fulfilled.
Yes, O envious Internet: I met Mighty Girl.
Long-time readers know that I have based my entire on-line literary career on Margaret Mason’s model: Mighty Girl started a blog devoted to conversations overheard on public transportation, so I started a blog devoted to conversations overheard on public transportation; Mighty Girl became a contributing writer for The Morning News, so I became a contributing writer for The Morning News; Mighty Girl launched a profitable website called Mighty Goods and started writing for The New York Times, so I often daydream about launching a profitable website and writing for The New York Times while squandering my life away playing Kingdom of Loathing. Fortunately, I hold an edge on Mighty Girl in one key category: production of small people. So when Mr. and Mr. Girl rolled into town last Wednesday, they requested an audience with The Squirrelly. It took some wheedling, but eventually they said I could come along as well.
We agreed to meet for lunch. The Squirrelly, perhaps sensing the momentousness of the occasion, spent all morning preparing. First, he woke up an hour earlier than he usually does. I realize that the non-parents in the crowd don’t recognize this as Ominous Foreshadowing, but when you’re going to take a toddler out in public around his usual naptime, any change in regular sleep patterns is as foreboding as a shark filled with nitroglycerin. Worse, The Squirrelly has music class on Wednesday mornings, which is applesauce’s only serious rival for the title of “Best Thing In The Universe” in his opinion. During music class the two teachers play guitar and sing while the babies and their parents sit quietly and listen enraptured — all the babies, that is, except The Squirrelly, who spends the hour racing around the room like an balloon released before it’s tied closed.
So by our prearranged meeting time The Squirrelly was both sleepy and tired. He had, in fact, fallen asleep in his carseat moments before we arrived at the hotel. Unfortunately I had arranged to meet them inside the lobby, so I had no choice but to wake him up and carry him in. So Margaret and Bryan’s first look at my child was as he was curled up on my chest, blinking sleepily and completely docile. I should have been wearing a t-shirt reading “WARNING: TODDLERS ON SHOULDER ARE CRANKIER THAN THEY APPEAR.”
We headed down to The Bell Street Diner, got a table, and strapped The Squirrelly into a high chair. He immediately set about demonstrating the suitability of his nickname, squirming about with such velocity that I was afraid he might pull a Flash and vibrate himself into another dimension. In an attempt to calm him down, I pulled out his bowl of food and set in front of him. He immediately began grabbing handfuls of avocado and cramming it into his maw. Remembering that I was sitting across from a woman who writes columns on etiquette, I said, “uh, we read that it’s empowering to allow toddlers to feed themselves like that, using their hands,” i.e., his complete lack of decorum is the result of a deliberate philosophy, and not because he is being raised by a race of subterranean lizardmen who live in our crawlspace.
Fortunately, I had an unexpected ally in Bryan. “Wow, lookit him go!” he cried with genuine enthusiasm. “He’s just shovelling it on in there!”
I spent the rest of the meal dividing my attention between my guests and my son, the former of which was politely asking me questions about my life and family, the latter of which grabbed everything within reaching distance and dropped it on the floor like he had been deputized to enforce the law of gravity. As a result, I have pretty much no recollection of our conversation. I do remember, though, that at one point The Squirrelly got so fussy that Margaret scooped him up and carried him around the restaurant, pointing out things and speaking to him quietly. Act like a savage and you get cuddles from Mighty Girl: take note, people.
(If “Touched By An Angel” has a spin-off show called “Cuddled By A Mighty Girl” I would totally watch it.)
All-in-all a complete debacle, I’d say! So we tried again later that evening, this time removing The Squirrelly from the equation and replacing him with The Queen and copious amounts of alcohol. We met at Cyclops for cocktails, and then moved on to the Dahlia Lounge for after-cocktails cocktails and six dollar doughnuts.
And I’m happy to report that Mighty Girl is every bit as charming as you’d expect, one of those rare Internet personalities that turns out to be as engaging in real life as they are on their site. And whatta great guy, that Bryan. If airplanes ran on charisma these two could fly around the world.
Naturally I have no photographic evidence of any of this, because I am a very poor blogger. But it all happened, I swear.
P.S. Seattlites will be pleased to know that I did my level best to convince the duo to move to our fine city. I think we have a shot, too — so long as they never do the math and realize that Seattle will one day be home to a teenaged Squirrelly, roaming the streets.
P.P.S. Those six dollar doughnuts at the Dahlia Lounge were freakin’ awesome.