Monday, September 20, 2010

Don’t Get Up for the Pregnant Lady. Really.

Now that I’ve grown too fat and slovenly to ride my bike ten miles on a daily basis, I’m back to taking the bus to work and daycare. Which, as much as I love the availability and world-saving possibility of the bus…can really be obnoxious.

Because some days I’m running 30 seconds late, and on those days, the bus is right on time and then I’m 20 minutes late. And some days, when I’m right on time, the bus is running 30 minutes late and then, no matter what, so am I. And that’s just not fair really.

And some days, the bus is crowded. Some days, I have to stand. Some days, I have to hold on to that flimsy strap of material way the hell up on that bar that to reach stretches my arm beyond good balance even when I’m not middle-heavy. And I know there are plenty of young women out there these days with beer guts and I know I’m not so pregnant that there is still a good chance to the outside observer that this baby is just a beer baby like all the rest of those girls. And so when I have to stand, I don’t whine. Really, I don’t.

It’s days that I have to stand and watch the jackasses who didn’t bother to get up for me also not bother to get up for an ELDERLY (1) WOMAN (2) whose left leg is clearly not in working order (3) who is fumbling to put her wallet back in her purse because her left hand doesn’t seem to be as functional as the rest of ours (4) and her right hand is desperately holding on to the pole she is forced to hold because those dumb jackasses are pretending to look the other way and not notice her so god forbid they have to give up their precious seat for the next 5 stops.

Even WORSE, there is always one jackass, most often a chatty regular who thinks she owns the bus, with her FLIPPING BAG on the seat next to her, so involved in her overly loud conversation that she can’t possibly observe that the poor woman needs to sit down and she wouldn’t even lose her seat. Her bag (or, in most cases, her three different cat stamped, homemade, Ikea-looking bags) would lose its seat. And now wouldn’t that be tragic.

So really, don’t get up for the pregnant lady. I’ll gladly fall on you. But if you don’t get up for that elderly woman with a bum leg AND bum hand next time? I’ll throw up on you. Because my motion sickness has been getting better and better every time I have to stand on the bus.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Pet Peeve #57,692 (I have a few) - Not NOT Trying

It seems now that I’m visibly pregnant, everyone wants to tell me their baby story. Some I actually care about, others I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if I tried. But I pretend like the best of them. Probably why they keep talking.

Perhaps I should rethink this great pretending skill of mine?

But not the point, the point is recently, I’ve had several people, especially men, tell me they were “not NOT trying, you know?” when they got pregnant.
No, dipshit, I don’t know.

‘Cause here’s the thing – were you having sex? Without a condom? Without pills? Without a patch or a ring or some spermicide? Or even without the 23% effective rhythm method? And haven’t you, for your ENTIRE life before been terrified of doing precisely what you were doing because you might’ve knocked the girl up? Right. You’re fucking trying. Just because you’re not seeing a doctor or taking hormones or giving your wife a daily shot in her ass or harvesting her eggs doesn’t mean you’re not trying.

You’re doing it, without protection. Joyfully. Not because you’re stupid or drunk or just that fricking horny. You’re god damn TRYING. Just because you haven’t looked at ovulation calendars or bought ovulation kits or taken a temperature daily, or even felt that nasty discharge doesn’t mean you’re not trying.
Oh, and really…just because YOU haven’t? Doesn’t mean your wife hasn’t. You want my opinion? Most of those women telling their husbands they're just going to not NOT try is her way of convincing their dumb ass to try because they were too much of a pansy to actually try.
So next time? Ask for a blowjob. That’ll convince me you’re not not trying.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Warning – This Could Be the Hardest Thing You Have to Do as a Parent

Now, don’t get me wrong, it could easily not. You could wind up one of the many unlucky parents who has to deal with drugs or truancy or a high-school dropout or a car wreck or a teen pregnancy. All of which would certainly be harder.

But let’s say you have a good teenager. This will undoubtedly be harder than all those endless diaper changes. Late night wake-ups pale in comparison. A litany of “whys” for the rest of your life you could manage. Missed naps and break-downs and temper tantrums can be overcome. Geometry homework? You can do it. Parent-teacher conferences? Time outs? Detentions? Done.

If only you can manage to put together all that cute, tiny baby furniture…without killing your partner.