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[See more milking here.]
“That’s it!” said Lo as she stomped her way out the door, champagne flute in hand.
“Lo,” I called after her, turning around to the other guests and the host and shrugging my shoulders apologetically before I ran to catch up to her.
“Go back, if you want. I’m leaving.”
“No,” I said, “I’m with you.”
She got in the car and started up the engine. I barely had time to hop in the passenger seat before she put it in reverse and angrily drove out of the driveway.
“Hey!” I said, “Take it easy. I know you’re upset, but you don’t have to kill us both to prove a point.”
“I won’t kill anyone,” she said as she hit the accelerator and drove away from the house. “I’m just so sick of it and that was the last straw.”
“Technically, it was a nipple and not a straw,” I said, trying to make her laugh.
“It would have been better if it was a straw and a glass of milk.”
Allow me to put this opening into a greater context for you. As you know, there’s almost a three decade age difference between Lo and me. That makes for a lot of mutual friends at various stages in their lives. We happen to know a number of women right now who have given birth in the past one or two years…