put me in such an awful spin

Halfway over the bridge to New Jersey, I second guessed the "I am interested in listening to your sob story" t-shirt I had worn.

Kidding.  I don't have that t-shirt.

I just have that look about me.

That look that says, "I'm listening".

There must be something about the way I part my hair that says, "go ahead.  I'm here for you".

Something in my left eye that says, "I'll know what to do".

Belly up to the bar, order a drink, and let it happen.  It always does.
Ain't no stopping it.

I meet the new girlfriend of the guy who's 40th birthday we were celebrating.  She was sitting all by herself, all the boys have known each other for 30+ years.

It can be lonely when all the boys have known each other for 30+ years.
It's one of the downsides of smalltown living.
Or upsides, I guess, if you are into that sort of thing.
Why they consider Philadelphia to be a big city, I'll never know.

Hi Lori, I'm Lora.

Fast forward ten minutes later and I have learned that she is 32 years old and never thought she'd be pregnant again, but here she is five weeks along because she knew that if she didn't have this man's baby, he would leave her for someone who will.   She has a 14 year old daughter and 12 year old son.  The daughter spent the summer in Utah because she fell in with the wrong crowd after being molested by her stepfather for ten years and ended up brutally raped by a 27 year old "friend".  I didn't get the skinny on the 12 year old, other than 'he is wild, just like all the boys his age".  She's glad he's experimenting with drugs now, before he is old enough to get wrapped up in that lifestyle.  "Boys will be boys, right?  At least they can't get raped, right?"
Totally wrong.
Anyway, Lori was mad because this babydaddy would only let her smoke a pack a day and drink one drink per hour now that she's knocked up, but he didn't know she was picking up other people's drinks while they were in the bathroom and she has cartons of smokes squirreled away in her office and what he doesn't know won't hurt him.  She asked me if I lived in the City and wondered if I was worried about the kids my son would go to school with.  She said that she can't imagine what kind of mothers and children I would have to deal with once Jake was in school.  She said that I should think about moving out to the suburbs, "maybe somewhere like where she is, somewhere -you know- whiter, where everyone has jobs and money and stuff, where it is surely a little bit nicer and safer and I wouldn't have to worry so much about my son".

Right.

Moving on.

That's what I get for being nice.  For not wanting to leave the ladyfriend of the guest of honor in a corner all by herself.

So, when she excused herself to have a cigarette, I moved on to the birthday guy's brother's girlfriend.  She asked me how old my son is, told me how much she misses that age, and then launched into how she had to quit her job as a paralegal to spend more time with her children when she was going through a divorce.  Her ex was an abusive alcoholic, and she is afraid that her teenaged daughter will fall into a relationship similar to the one it took her years to dig herself out of.  "What should I do?", she asked.

She didn't know my profession.
She was just one mom talking to another mom.
Desperate.
Staring guiltily into her drink, knowing the damage it is capable of.

Communicate, I answered.
Talk to her in the car, where you don't have to look at her.
It's hard when you have to look at her.
Tell her that you love her.  Tell her that her father loves her. 
Tell her that you love her so much that you divorced her father.
Tell her that her father loves her more than he loves alcohol, but right now he feels that he needs alcohol and that makes a man feel like he doesn't need his family.
Tell her everything you think she should know.
If she can handle what she's been through she can handle hearing your side of the story.
Tell her how it hurts you.
The marriage, the abuse, the divorce.

I stopped talking when she started crying.  She hugged me, thanked me, and pushed her drink away.

And then we started making fun of all the ladies with mullets and bad cleavage and the balding dudes with open shirts and gold chains.  Welcome to Jersey, she said.
She's a native.
She knows all about it.

Maybe it's wrong of me, but when I'm off the clock, I'm off the clock.  Babymama to Be up there, I listened, I empathized, I wished her luck.  Should I have told her to stop the drinking and smoking?  It's not my place.  She knows.  I told her to give her daughter too much love right now.  All the love she has in her because that girl needs it.  No matter how exasperated (I don't think I used that word, that's a big one) she gets with her behavior, love her, hug her, spend time with her.  Lori was surprised at that.  She told me that the girl wants to be left alone, and she was trying to respect her daughter's wishes which was easy because she couldn't stand to see her hurting and crying and miserable, but she said she'd try.

Christ Almighty.

I left the boy for someone else to deal with.  It's Saturday Night.  I'm off the clock.
If you live in the Philly burbs, watch out.  Looks like there is a Threat to Your Children in the making out there.

Is it just me?  Is everyone else a sounding board for the problems of the world?  Because I feel like it's just me.  I feel like I'm the only one who can't drive across the bridge and enjoy seven or eight fingers of a decent scotch without talking about drugs and rapes and abuses of all sorts.

Can't someone tell me they like my shoes?  Ask me where I got my bag?  Compliment me on my new haircut and the stellar job I did with my eyeshadow?  Let's talk about the weather.  About our pets.  About candy and ponies and diamonds and throw pillows.

Gah.

All this blather in lieu of a post I had in my head about how sometimes my goofy life winds up in a bar that holds a Danny Bonaduce South Jersey Neighborhood Hotties Party and has all the Phillies games broadcasted on a giant television above America's largest LED lit dance floor (srsly), watching the Klitschko v. Arreola fight on a tv that's hung at a weird angle and getting a crick in my neck while laughing in my head that I'm surrounded by people drinking ultra classy mega fruity $5 "martinis" who just might not be clever enough to know what an areola is nor where a clitoris is.