Group shower

The invitation sat innocently enough on the kitchen counter. Teddy bears holding balloons proclaiming some sucker was about to drag another freeloader into the world. I figured Wife would be gone one Saturday afternoon at this baby shower, leaving me to day of baseball, college football or camel racing from Timbuktu and a gastro buffet of foods I am no longer allowed to eat (yummy - chili dogs with jalapenos). I couldn't wait.

"Too bad, hon, looks like you're baby showering it this weekend," I said trying to hide my snarkiness, which was about as well hidden as hiding Rosie O'Donnell behind a telephone pole.

"Did you read the invite, sweetheart," she said. Something afoot. "It said it was a 'joint shower.' Do you know what that means?"

"Is it anything like the coed showers we had at UNLV?"

"No dear. It means you and I are going to a baby shower. Together."

"Surely, you jest Pumpkin. Baby showers are meant for those with high levels of estrogen, and while I admit to crying when Tom Hanks died in 'Saving Private Ryan,' that doesn't mean chickiness level didn't red line."

"I do not jest, and plenty of guys go to baby showers nowadays. So you're going."

You could have shoved a 12-pound freeeloader through my gaping maw. I didn't know what to say. Then, I remember what I heard about broads and bachelorette parties. I figured a baby shower might be the same thing.

"Do the chicks strip down to their undies and have a pillow fight at these things?" If there was a chance of a pillow fight breaking out at this shindig, well, then that could definitely get me to attend.

"What do you think, shit bird? No! We eat finger foods, drink some soda, play games..." Wife can have a foul mouth from time to time. I've tried talking to her about it, but she just calls me a fuck stick and beats me with a plastic hanger.

"Like strip poker?"

Her sigh almost sparked a kitchen fire. I had a feeling I might be testing the limits of patience. After five years of marriage, you begin to pick up the signs. "No. After the games they open the presents, and then there's cake."

Well, I would sure hope there was cake. It would be a gyp in my book if we didn't get something made of sugar, flower and coated in enough frosting you could spackle an elephant-sized hole in drywall.

"Do I have a choice?" knowing full well the answer.

A big, hairy-ass no. And when I couldn't summon a fainting spell or a seizure that morning I knew my afternoon of unabated sports watching, appetite gorging and alcohol consumption was going to die before it got off the ground.

Here's what I learned from my first baby shower, unless you're a freeloader's old man you can't tell the difference between a baby booty and a stiletto high heel shoe when it's inside a brown paper bag; crushing soda cans against one's melon and screaming "Who's your daddy!" at such an event is frowned upon; accepting the dare to wedge my fat ass into the stroller does not endear yourself to the mother-to-be or the giver of said stroller.

One of the games we played was guess what baby items was inside the brown bag. There were six bags and if it weren't for Wife participating in the same game next to me my list would look like this: bota bag, flask, weed pipe, rolling papers, pipe cleaner and heroin spoon; I cheated, however, and peeked at Wife's list: Booties, mini bottle, pacifier, teething ring, bottle brush and baby spoon. I'd say all in all, I was pretty damn close.

Then came the presents. I'll admit, I got caught up in the tide of oohs and ahhs whenever the expectent couple opened another package of LSD-colored onesies (you gotta be somewhat tweaked to appreciate the color schemes the fashion gurus slap together on these fabrics). Dudes were just as excited as chicks at the haul that was piling around the couple's feet, which resembled Ali Babba's lair after 20 minutes.

The macho thing to say here was that I was excited for our friends and the loot they were landing because the rest of the POW (prisoner of wives) husbands were excited, but the truth is I was truly happy for their upcoming journey into parenthood. It was three hours of my day I wouldn't trade with anyone for anything.

Well, maybe a minor trade to get a TV in the room with Dodger/Diamondback game on, say I'll pay for the baby's love/hate tattoo on its knuckles (it's inevitable, you know, I know it and the tattoo artist I talked to in El Mirage knows it). That's fair, right?