Drool

So I'm a-headed out to the Bay Area to meet my niece Francesca tomorrow, and lacking any meaningful baubles from infancy to give the kid (my folks must have burned it all in a cleansing fire), I went shopping for a suitable gift. Oh my God.

I'd hitherto been spared the world of baby commerce. This shop, named something like Baby Planet, or World Of Infants, or Drool Factory, was packed to the gills with useless crap. All the other customers were young rich women beaming and basking in the satisfied glow of new motherhood. They were all eager to point me in the right direction: I should get some "onesies" (basically t-shirts that strap around the crotch). No, I should get cute little booties decorated with elaborate designs. No, I should get a $3000 sport-utility stroller. No, I should get her a computerized bottle, or a special papoose strap & carriage, or somesuch. I'm miffed that they summarily dismissed my idea of a handgun. Francesca was born into a rough world, and she's gotta be able to protect herself.

By the way, I've seen pictures of the kid, and you better thank your stars that I was somehow able to resist posting them (I had to be restrained by a team of musclebound he-men). Nobody cares about other people's babies. That's a truism. But trust me on this one: she's cute as the dickens.