Saturday, August 15, 2009

Do It With Sincerity

I love women. I know, so do you. But I have more reason to love them now that I’m facing Imminent Birthing.
I’ve been feeling, how shall I put this delicately? Like a Sumo wrestler in need of hip replacement. The kid is sitting on my pelvis, which does not make for graceful standing and encourages waddling rather than walking. I have one pair of pants and 3 dresses which fit because, with my due date less than a month away, I refuse to buy more clothes. My face glows, literally, because I’m constantly sweating. I’ve taken to wearing my hair in a pony tail with multiple bobby pins holding it in because I can’t stand to have anything add to the heat. In short, I am not Angelina Jolie right now. People confuse us when I’m not pregnant, but no such luck when I’m expecting.
So I penguin-walked into school registration. And bless those angels who work there. 4 of them, separately and without any prompting, gushed over how good I look, how small for my advanced state, how lucky I am to be in such good shape. And then, while treasure hunting for the not-to-be-found school supplies at my local store, I ran into another friend. She weighs about 2 pounds. And she raved about how skinny I look and how she can’t believe I’m only 4 weeks away from having a baby.
I tell you, next teacher appreciation day, I’m sending Godiva chocolates to the ladies on the staff. Bless their lying little hearts!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

10 Points For Trying

I’m checking out at the grocery store. I have 4 nectarines. The cashier puts 2 on the scale, types in the number and weighs them. That bugs me a bit because the scale rounds up the amount owed, but whatever. I figure, it’s an extra penny or so. Then, he takes one nectarine off the scale (for you math whizzes, this leaves one on the scale), types in the number and weighs that single nectarine.
“Um,” I say, in my best “is this your first day on the job?” voice. “Nectarines are charged by the pound, not individually.”
“Oh, sorry,” he says. And proceeds to weigh the other two nectarines.
“Wait!” I stop him, irritated now. “You need to void the other nectarine. You charged me for it twice.”
Of course, the machine won’t let him do that. Or, he’s not, um, cashier-y enough to know how to do that. So here’s his brilliant plan. “Why don’t I just charge you twice for the original amount, because you bought 4 nectarines and I weighed 2 each time.”
Bright idea, Galileo, but you see, you’ve actually charged me twice for the same nectarine, in addition to charging me ALREADY for every other nectarine I have. So if I let you charge me again, that will make twice that I’ve paid for each nectarine. Now, I like my produce, but not at what amounts to $4 a nectarine. I was pushing it on the $2/nectarine.
I explain in the voice used to tell my 3 year old that she can’t use my carving knife to operate on her stuffed kitty that charging me AGAIN would not actually solve the problem.
Then, suddenly having an Einstein moment, he says, “Oh, got it. How about I just take the extra money out of the cash register, since I can’t void the sale?”
Okay, I’ve been a cashier. I know you’re not supposed to do that. I know that it will throw his till off, that the tape will read 7 pounds of nectarines when they only sold 5 pounds, etc. I also know that if I stand there talking to him any longer, the line behind me might start chucking their produce at me. Besides, it feels like my uterus is trying to find its way to daylight and sitting, immediately, is a good idea. Fine, I say. Give me the money. Of course, I have to tell him how much it is, because I don’t think he really understands what’s happening.
And, when he opens his till, he discovers that he has dollar bills, but no change. So then he starts asking the other cashiers. “Do you have any change? I need to give this lady 76 cents in change.”
I’m quick witted. Well, not really, but faster than he is. I pull out a quarter, tell him to give me another dollar and we’ll call it good.
And I bet he’s still struggling to figure out why all of that happened in the first place.

In a like story, I was buying fabric once. 2 yards. Off the same bolt. I told the perky 12 year old at the cutting desk that I needed 2 yards. She measured one yard and cut it. “Oh, I need 2 yards,” I said, in louder than normal cutting-desk volume. She stared at me. After a good minute and a half she said, “Oh, did you want 2 yards together?” Well, yes, sweetie, usually when someone buys multiple yards of the same fabric, they don’t want you to cut it into 1 yard pieces for them. It makes sewing clothes a bit more challenging. But thanks for thinking through that!

Monday, August 10, 2009

Don't Mess With a Hormonal Pregnant Chick

I’m standing in line at the grocery store. The cashier says, “When are you due?” I respond, “5 weeks.” She says, “Wow. It’s going to be a big baby!”
I’ll give you a moment to digest exactly how rude that statement is.
Okay, moment’s over, now I get to unload.
So, first of all, the part of me that is like my mother wants to respond, “No, you idiot, I’m just fat!” Of course, I don’t do that because I have a 10 year old daughter with me and I’m trying not to make her die of embarrassment. Yet.
Second, it’s probably true. All my babies are big. Is this something that I look forward to? Do I hope that in 5 weeks I’ll be trying to squeeze out a fully grown adult male ready to shave? Do I look forward to the whole “slight pressure” thing, as though giving birth to this 10 pound baby will feel just like stubbing a toe? Thanks for bringing that up, lady. I need chocolate.
Third, I’m glad my stomach was pointed at her and not my butt. All I need is some well-meaning statement about how big that’s getting.
Fourth, just because my belly protrudes does not make it public domain. I wish we’d go back to the whole Victorian-don’t-mention-it thing. And, besides, did I mention how large her stomach was getting? No, I did not. Well, I mean, I just did, but not to her face. Just on this private forum.