Mr. Wrong Number(11)

Me: What do you think the first guy to ever milk a cow was thinking?

Mr. Wrong Number: Come again?

Me: Ew, I doubt it was that. But was he just super curious, like I wonder what this thing does? Or did he see a calf nursing and he was all DUDE MY TURN?



I’d pictured him shirtless and leaning back against his headboard, smiling as he texted back, but I knew all the while it was pure fantasy that my anonymous bestie would be ripped.


Mr. Wrong Number: Maybe it was a bro thing, where two guys dared each other to touch the teat and then—boom—out squirts the milk.

Me: Touch the Teat. Band name—called it.

Mr. Wrong Number: It’s all yours.

Me: Am I interrupting something, btw, with my cow-teat inquiry?

Mr. Wrong Number: Nope. Just lying in bed, wide-awake.

Me: Please don’t go creeper on me now.

Mr. Wrong Number: What? I’m not a creep. I’m just lying in bed, naked, practicing my rope-tying skills while listening to Robin Thicke.



I shook my head and rolled over on the air mattress.


Me: Nausea-inducing level of creep right there.

Mr. Wrong Number: Which was the problem? The rope or the nudity? Or the Thicke?

Me: The combination. Brings to mind all the distasteful options of what one could be tying. While Thicke-ing it up.

Mr. Wrong Number: I shall restrain myself.

Me: I see what you did there.

Mr. Wrong Number: Is there a reason why the teat question is in play, btw?

Me: I can’t sleep, so sometimes instead of counting sheep I start considering the bizarre questions that my brain is constantly churning up.

Mr. Wrong Number: The things you wonder about are batshit crazy.

Me: Like I don’t already know that.



But today, on the last interview, the clouds parted and things went really well. Glenda, the editor at the Times, was super friendly and we actually connected. I was behaving like a normal human adult and she was really funny, and it couldn’t have gone better.

Until.

She said, “What we’re looking for with this parenting columnist is someone who can add a real voice to the section. A writer who can tackle parenting topics but still makes readers laugh—or cry—with their very distinct point of view.”

I smiled and nodded, but my brain was scrambling. Parenting? What in the literal hell? I’d applied to be an entertainment blogger, not a parenting columnist. I’d seen the post for the parenting position, but I didn’t apply for it because—news flash—I wasn’t a parent. Like, the idea of squeezing out an entire human and being the person solely responsible for their survival had literally given me nightmares.

Could you even imagine?

Surely I’d lose my grip and drop the kid in the alligator swamp during a leisurely trip to the zoo, or maybe I’d just trip and fall on top of them because tripping was kind of my thing. If there was any way to klutzily, accidentally destroy my tiny human, I would most assuredly do it.

Glenda said, “I read some of your work at ohbabybaby.com, and it’s exactly what we’re looking for. The tongue-in-cheek comedic angle while still addressing legitimate parental topics is pretty much the vibe we’re interested in.”

“Great.”

“Your article about that Kardashian kid’s wardrobe made me cackle.”

I smiled. That piece had been one of my favorites.

I’d taken the job writing articles for OhBabyBaby as a side hustle to my boring technical writing job because living in Chicago was expensive. The site’s target audience was parents, but it actually wasn’t a parenting site. I’d done articles on which celebrities looked best pregnant, whose kids had the best wardrobes, the funniest Pinterest fails, and, of course, gender reveal nightmares.

Was that why she thought I was applying for the parenting job? Had my résumé been read and then promptly misrouted to Glenda because of OhBabyBaby? I opened my mouth to address it, when she asked, “How old are your kids, by the way?”

I swallowed. Blinked. Scratched my right eyebrow. “Two. Um, two and four,” I heard myself say, and I immediately wanted to slap myself in the face.

Her face lit up. “Mine are two and five! Boys or girls?”

I felt my armpits get instantly sweaty, and I pictured my nephews. “Both boys.”

“Mine are both girls.” She beamed at me and I hated myself. I was a lying, child-faking loser, and I didn’t deserve the kindness of this woman. She said, “Everyone tells me to buckle up for the high school years.”

I shrugged, and pictured the boys again. It was less severe a lie if I pictured actual people as I lied, right? I conjured up Kyle and Brady again. “Mine are killing me now—I don’t know if I’ll ever make it to those years. Because if I have to watch one more episode of Paw Patrol . . .”

“Right?” She shook her head. “I mean, what kind of town leans on a teenage boy to solve all of their problems?”

“An idiotic town whose mayor has a pet chicken. I mean, that fact alone should have sent up all the red flags.”

We small-talked about our kids—please kill me—for a few more minutes before the interview ended. She shook my hand and said she’d be in touch, and I honestly wanted to cry as I rode the elevator down to the lobby.