OK, irony alert: Went from my jubilant note about Paula's upcoming offspring to an actual, honest-to-God baby shower here in Chicago. I gotta say, I'm just not a baby (or wedding, for that matter) shower person. Yay, let's get a bunch of people who don't know each other into a room, play pointless games, eat tiny little delicate finger food, and coo over baby clothes and diapers and such. Plus, you get to hear about epidurals! conception! teething! projectile vomiting! Joy!

I'm perfectly happy -- chuffed, even -- to celebrate someone's baby-to-be.Really, I'm thrilled that my friends are going to be having little bundles of joy. But let's face it -- I ain't planning on participating in the miracle of birth anytime soon, thanks very much. I plan to be bohemian Aunt Sarah, who brings cool, inappropriate presents, tells funny, improper stories, and general whisks in and out of its life as a reasonably good thing. (I'm sure my sister and brother-in-law are glad I live far away, just to minimize my impact of any future nieces and nephews -- because Laura, I got lots and lots of stories about you growing up. Pictures, too.)

Selfish? Hell, yeah. You gotta problem with that?

So if I want to have an unconventional relationship with the kidling and the parents, why do I submit to being herded into a room to do it in some "time-honored", tedious quasi-ritual? I want to give the little sprout something that I think would be tremendously cool -- great
Jon Sceiszka books, toys funky stuff for the room -- not something you register for at Babies 'R Us. And I want to do it on my terms, not as an interchangeable "shower guest" at one of several cookie-cutter parties.

I don't want to be harsh to any of the participants today: It was a fine shower. I just hate the concept of showers, and am kicking myself for going, knowing that I'd be cranky about it. Own damn fault, I guess.

Plus, I had to miss the Gay Pride Parade Party at Jude and Chad's, which is tragic. Tragic!