With a sick child at home – just an ear infection; uncomfortable but not threatening – what’s a decent, responsible mother to do?

No idea.

Me, I went out with the menfolk.

Nate was calling it the Drunken Blogger Orgy which Doug immediately shortened to Blorgy. And if by Blorgy one means a pregnant woman nursing a club soda and plate of hummus in a Soho bar while discussing toilet training methods and bloggers with book deals, then by God, Blorgy it was!

I was honored just to be invited along with the elite NYC dadblogger set: The effervescent Pierre, aka MetroDad; the erudite Doug, aka Laid-Off Dad; and the comic savant Tony, aka Crouton Boy, who remarkably, has committed every headline ever written for the Onion to memory. Greg from Daddytypes canceled at the last minute with some lame excuse about his kid, preschool starting in another city, blah blah blah…I don’t know. Sounds like BS to me.

I definitely knew I was in low-estrogen territory the moment the waitress recommended the Cuban Pork Sandwich and three sets of eyes lit up. Still, they made me feel right at home and not y chromosomally-challenged in the least. Pierre even fed me fries, as promised in his last post, even if I still am waiting for ice cream and that belly rub.

For those of you who know and read these prolific writers, I’m going to let you in on some of the scintillating conversation:

Tony: Hey, Sesame Street came out with a new Old School video…
Group: No way! Awesome! So cool! Where did you get it? Wow!

Pierre: So I’m starting to work with Peanut on the potty on the weekends…
Group: No way! Awesome! So cool! Wow!

Yes, this is what happens when parents get together, no matter how cool they may seem.

Soon enough the conversation evolved to all things comedy and pop culture and occasionally, blogging. I admit my eyes glazed over when the discussion veered to sports blogs for a brief moment, but fear not female readers (except you, Sarah). It returned to someplace more accessible in no time. Highlights included LA versus NY, the evolution/devolution of Saturday Night Live, how anyone who doesn’t think Dooce is an amazing writer is an idiot,, alternative comedy, the Muppet Show, Pierre’s encounter with Jimmy Fallon, my almost-date with Will Arnett, Uma Thurman’s alleged affection for ecstasy, neighborhood celebrity sightings (Paul Giamatti at the playground! Paul Giamatti at the gym!), the two-child debate (since three is inconceivable in this city), Soho House, literary agents, John Podhoretz, Rob Walker, Freakonomics, 80s music, and the poor excuse for Matt Damon’s character arc in The Good Shepherd.

In short, nothing of substance.

Ah, the perfect evening.

If any of the wives are reading, I assure you that all three were perfect gentlemen. I didn’t catch a one staring at my boobs, not even once. And that takes a whole lot of will these days.

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