Keep your germy paws off my kid

Many apologies for my sudden absence. I know I'm basically only addressing a few family members when I say that, but with my new position at work, I have absolutely no time on the bossman's nickel for creative writing. Can you imagine? Working? The whole time you're at work even?

With the new part-time position comes the added responsibility of parenting my daughter during the day. And let me just tell you, she's another one that's quashed my efforts at casting out my demons via the keyboard. I had planned to use the time that I was home with a four-month-old to write the great American novel or at the very least a few scripted postings about my stuff, but no. She needs bottles, and she needs diaper changes, and she needs interactive time with her dad. Why I thought she'd be content to sit and babble while I endulge in a harmess pasttime I have no idea. That's what my cat does. I guess I thought a baby wouldn't be much different. Oh well. So begins the journey of fatherhood.

Speaking of fatherhood, when my wife first warned me that a man with a baby out in public is a magnet for women, I thought she meant the scantily clad variety whose clothes are as tight as her morals are loose. Sadly, I have yet to be approached by such a gal when I'm out pushing Meryl in her stroller or a grocery cart. We do get approached by women however. They're just not the people I was hoping for.

For example, the other day I was at Kroger minding my own business and trying to locate the numerous items on my list when out of nowhere some frumpy weird teenage store clerk with a dustmop and a personality disorder makes a beeline for me and my daughter. "Awwwwww, look at the baby. Hey sweeeeeetie. You're so cute," she says grabbing my infant daughter's hands. Then sensing my shock at some stranger taking hold of my first born she says to me with a smile, "Don't worry. My hands are clean."

Yeh, as clean as that filthy dustmop.

I didn't say this but I wanted to. Furthermore a baby is not like an adult. If I were to meet you in the street and shake your hand, the last thing I'm going to do is then put my fingers in my mouth. But you see, Psycho Kroger Clerk, this is exactly what babies do. They put their hands right in their mouth. Then all your germs and the dustmop's germs and the germs of everyone who's touched the dustmop or your pudgy hands jump right onto my daughter who will immediately suck on her fingers thus initiating a struggle between the plethora of alien germs and her newly developing immune system. Not only that, Psycho Kroger Clerk, but even if your hands were freshly Purelled, you're still frumpy and weird. That alone is reason enough that I don't want you accosting me in the store.

Not five minutes and three grocery items later some woman whose older than dirt does practically the same thing. This woman wreaks of mothballs and who knows where her hands have been? And she wants to make small talk with me next to the frozen fish section. Meryl, not yet being totally aware of stranger danger, smiles and coos which just eggs the old bird on. Great.

When I get up to my favorite cranky oldster cashier (who by the way will then shame me by making me openly admit that I'm too cheap and stingy to round up to the next dollar and donate to whatever stupid charity Kroger has buddied up with this week) she notices that Meryl is starting to get cranky. I tell Meryl that it's still 45 minutes until her bedtime and the cashier says to me in her volume ten voice, "She's probably hungry." Like I really need additional parental guilt laid on me from the Kroger lady.

Today I return to Kroger and a group of girls is out washing cars for a fundraiser. Cleverly they nominated the most buxom to stand on the corner and shimmy for passing motorists with the hopes of luring them into making a donation. As luck would have it, this time Meryl was home with my wife.

Just my luck.