(Start with Monday's post if the boss isn't around) So what were we talking about? Oh right. I was hanging around the impregnatas at work trying to conceive by association. While I didn’t seem to be catching the pregnancy wave, in hindsight, I may have caught the hormonal imbalance. But pregnant women can be so touchy.
One got upset because I helped myself to her comfy shoes under her desk and walked around the office in them for a couple of hours (symbolism anyone?) Big deal. She probably never would have even noticed had my petite size six and a half feet not stumbled in her size eleven Amazon woman-in-the-circus Herman Munster skis, landing me face down on her desk. So self-absorbed. I could have had a brain hemorrhage and she’s busy calling me a “Sick Mother”: A cheap shot at my fertility issues no doubt.
Then there was this other coworker and yet another…shall we call it…misunderstanding? I admit I may have gone a mite overboard. When she got into her car after work one Tuesday, I probably shouldn’t have been waiting in the back seat.
I also probably should have mentioned I was there at some point before she pulled into her garage a good forty minutes later. (I intended to, but I let too much time elapse. After the first twenty minutes it would have felt awkward.
Like when you meet somebody and two minutes later you don’t remember their name, so the next day you say: “I’m sorry, I forgot your name”. But if you talk to them every day and never say anything, four months later you can’t just say: “I don’t know your name. I’ve never known your name. What is it again?” Or let them think you’re senile and just reintroduce yourself: “Hi I’m Lori. And you are?”
At that point you either have to ask someone else what they’re called or trick the person into saying something like: “You know, like my husband always says to me: ‘Katrina….”)
Anyway, I personally felt like this floozy in the car and I had bonded during that time together even though she was unaware of my presence. We sat in traffic together. We rocked it out to Jay-Z together. Then once traffic starting moving, she texted, flossed her teeth and gave herself a Botox injection while I sat in her back seat and ate half of a watermelon that I had left over from lunch. I confess. I was in the wrong. I should have at least brought paper towels (and maybe something to spit the seeds into.)
Even still, were the TASERS and police dog really necessary? There were two male cops who likely had to grease their biceps to get them to fit into their half-sleeves (what was I talking about again?), a female cop who could probably kick both their asses and Officer Pup, being barely restrained, on a leash.
Pregnant women are so sensitive. Nothing but drama. Couldn’t the trollop have just looked in her rear-view mirror and said: “Lori, would you please get out? I’ll see you at work tomorrow”? What’s become of our society? Doesn’t anybody have manners anymore?
After that and a few other incidents of minor stalking (misdemeanors at best), I became known in the office as the Bipolar Bisexual. Just don’t call me a “non-team player.” That I couldn’t take.
I admit I was getting somewhat frustrated. I’d spent week after week talking to, breathing near and eating with the impregnatas; a grand sacrifice on my part because I didn’t like most of them. All to no avail. Some would say my spirited behavior was fueled by my desperation to have a baby. Others might think my nightly fertility hormone shots were to blame. Who knows? I never feel quite myself after McDonald’s either. I think it's the soda.
Although I didn’t get pregnant via my somewhat zany, madcap methods, of course the silly teenager who only worked there part-time did. She didn’t hover, stalk, or impose on everyone like I did. From my understanding, all she did was take one quick crowded shower. (“Wait, that wasn’t the washcloth?”)
The only thing that happened to me was that I gained ten pounds by trying to eat every meal and every mid-morning and mid-afternoon bite every day with everyone who was pregnant. They were gaining baby weight while I was gaining snack fat. Everyone was saying to them: “You’re all baby” and to me: “You’re all Dorito’s” And it was true. All I had to show for my months of hard work were orange hands. (I told everyone it was Vitamin “A” poisoning from drinking carrot juice. “That stuff’ll kill ya.”) I’ll admit I spent about five minutes just feeling sorry myself. Then I realized that the right thing to do was turn my self-sympathy into anger directed at the impregnatas.
Why couldn’t they do anything to make me feel better about myself? Geez, toss me a bone will ya? Show me that pregnancy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Throw up on the conference table during an important meeting. Gain a hundred pounds with a six pound infant. Tell me you have such bad heart burn that when you put your toothbrush in your mouth it melted. Tell me that Maury Povich’s producer just called and your husband wants a DNA test. Tell me your wrists got huge and your boobs stayed small. Tell me your boyfriend was hoping his wife would have her baby the same day as you, so he’d only have to make one trip to the hospital. Tell me the only food you can keep down is out of season. Tell me my perfume makes you nauseas. Tell me you promised your five year old that she could pick the baby’s name and she picked "F---!" Tell me your obstetrician quit his thirty year practice because he couldn’t bear to see you naked from the waist down even one more time.
Listen, I gotta go. My favorite radio station is giving away tickets to the Partridge Family Reunion concert to caller number eight. I think I love you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.