Saturday, June 09, 2012

Redux: I'm About To Say Something Unthinkable

       Or, if not the entirely unthinkable, then certainly the ill-advised.  I am about to blog on no sleep.  None.  I got up at 8:30 am Monday morning, and haven't slept since.  But enough about me.  Let's talk about -- and mock, denegrate and otherwise deride -- others in my general vicinity. 
       This would include the lady who has let everyone, BUT EVERYONE, know she's pregnant by telling us how the smells of our coffee/cinnamon buns/banana nut muffins/chewing gum bother her.  Because she's pregnant.  In case you hadn't heard her the first four times she made the point.  So, could we please either discard our food or go sit somewhere else, so she doesn't feel sick.  Because she's pregnant.
        I'm becoming increasingly alarmed at the number of women in the world who actually think that being pregnant means something to the rest of us.  Let me clarify.  It doesn't.  Hey, I wish you well.  If you want advice, I'll gladly share my experience with you.  I'll even look at your ultrasound photo, at least for a bit.
        But if you think for one hot second I'm even remotely impressed by your pregnancy, you have landed on the wrong redhead.  To me, you're just another dame who got herself knocked up, so quit acting like it makes you somebody.  Women have been doing it since our Australopithecus mother, Lucy.  And she didn't have ovulation predictor kits and basal thermometers.  She did it the old-fashioned way.
      American women behave as if Betsy Ross stitched motherhood together from the scraps of the first flag.  Who does it better than we do?  Who wants it more than we do?  Who knows more, cares more, tries harder?  Why, we do, of course, because we're Americans, and we invented every fucking thing. 
     So it only seems reasonable that when some twenty-something sweet young thing decides she's going to take time out of her busy insider trading-and-pilates schedule long enough to reproduce, we should be more than willing to forsake our coffee and banana nut muffins for her convenience, even though we don't know her from Adam's housecat.
      You know what, sister?  The ladies' room is right over there.  Why don't you high-tail it in there so you don't get sick on the carpet?  Because if you try and use your microscopic little embryo to manipulate me again, I'm going to take this banana muffin and shove it some place with which your as-yet-to-be-hired doula will become intimately acquainted in about eight months. 
     See?  What'd I tell you?  Ill-advised.
     On the upside, the TSA and American Airlines staff has been stellar this morning, and I want to marry them and have their babies.
     Talk to you guys later.  We're boarding soon.

(Originally published on MySpace in 2008, on the day I was leaving for a vacation with my BFF, Kim, in North Carolina, I sadly had to fly coach while sleep deprived, thereby forcing me to tolerate... people... other people... I did not know... like... strangers. This was the resultant blog.  The one thing about sleep deprivation is this. It is my pentathol.  I cannot lie exhausted. So here's what I really, really think about certain types of women who manage to experience the solitary miracle of pregnancy.)

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