So what were we talking about? Oh, right. All of those women at my job who got pregnant just to spite me. I think it’s possible. Or maybe some of them just yearned to keep up with the Joneses. They didn’t want to be the last couple on the block to have an enclosed deck or a baby.
While I was going through fertility treatments, we lived in a one bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of an elevatorless building in Queens. Not to be outdone, we built a six by eight inch enclosed deck on our fire escape overlooking the spacious concrete alley way below. It looked like a teeny Nativity scene. Now all we needed was the baby.
I think I mentioned yesterday that I used to spend my days at work following around the impregnatas in an attempt to catch the pregnancy wave going around the office.
I noticed that there was a direct correlation between how much I disliked a co-worker and how quickly sperm and egg made a love connection for her. It seemed the more unpleasant the woman, the faster she got pregnant.
With one woman, Selena, I could just picture her mating ritual that weekend when she nastied her poor husband into submission: “I’m going to get pregnant now so just shut up and do what I tell you! You’re moving! I told you not to move!”
I think everyone at the job had mutual disdain for her and she provided no reason not to. But honestly, with most of the others, I probably started not liking them after their pregnancy was announced but convinced myself that I had never liked them. And maybe a couple of them who had more than one child, I actually liked between pregnancies.
There were, count ‘em, six impregnatas: Prenatalie, Exvirginia, Aftergloria, Forgottenpilar, Broken condomary, and Drunken Bingina. Even though their announcements arrived at the office around the same time, they broke the news at various stages of their pregnancy progression: From the laid back girl, “Oh, I’ve known for six months” to the clairvoyant laid-back-in-the-bed-of-the pick-up-girl: “Jimbo and I just got together in the parking lot on my smoking break. We’re going to have a baby!”
Therefore, obviously, they were in various degrees of impregnated evolution from “I’m still a size two jeans” to approaching backbend, to full schwa. Frankly I avoided the size two’s. My low self-esteem had enough on its mind. I knew instinctively that I could never survive kissing a butt that, pregnant, was the size mine was in fourth grade.
So there were six impregnatas at the moment. After two weeks, I decided to focus on stalking only three. Truth be told, I was only permitted to focus on three. The other three had told on me. One emailed my supervisor that I was infatuated with her and, while she was flattered, requested to be moved to an unlisted cubicle.
Personally I didn’t see anything untoward about walking with her into the ladies’ room. Women go in flocks all the time. I do see, however, how following her into her stall of choice could have been misinterpreted.
Then I packed up my stapler and my comfy shoes and decided to share a 3x3 cubicle with the second impregnata, telling her that my own cubicle was being measured for an entertainment center and armoire. All was chummy for two days, at the end of which she called security who then slapped me with a restraining order for “Invasion of Personal Space”. How is that a real charge? Maybe on Dr. Phil it’s a real charge. It was issued by the security guard for crying out loud. Fake cop, fake charge. I decided to stay away from her. Even though you and I know the restraining order was totally unenforceable… probably.
Then the third impregnata filed a harassment report with Human Resources. She moved out-of-state the next day. What I don’t get is: Why even bother filing a complaint if you know you’re moving anyway? Some people make no sense.
Listen, I gotta go. I just finished waxing my floor and my husband and I are going to practice our pairs-skating routine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.