The following post is sadly true.
The scene: An engagement soiree down at the rivah on the 4th of July. Yours truly has been boozing since 11 am, pausing only just long enough to shower and throw on a cocktail dress before sundown. Passing through the swanky dining area, the Barista decides to compliment the caterer on her excellent ham biscuits. The caterer looks at the Barista and says, “thanks honey – when are you due?” Shocked, I sputter, “uh – not pregnant. It’s just the style of the dress.” The caterer continues, “No way. You look just like my daughter and she’s about four months. Are you just not telling anyone that you’re pregnant?” Glaring at the stupid cow, I say through clenched teeth, “I’m. Not. Pregnant.” The very large, very slow to catch on catering she-devil then leans forward and grabs my stomach. She pats me down and gets in a good squeeze before my head spins around in a circle and I levitate matrix-style above her ready for combat. “Oh my….you’re not pregnant. Well. Yeah. But that dress definitely makes you look about four months along”.
I suppose it could have been worse. She could have accused me of appearing seven months preggers, but none the less, I slunk out of the room feeling more than a wee bit sad in my ill-fitting dress. So I hit the wet bar again to top off my nineteenth cocktail to raise my spirits because that always works every time. I spend the next few hours enjoying the party, toasting the happy couple and celebrating my empty womb.
Until the fireworks end. And I am cornered by another woman who absolutely has to know why I do not have any children. How could I not have made a baby yet? How long have I been married? What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with me? Don’t I know that there is no greater moment in life than when I hear my baby cry for the first time and look over to see my husband cradling that little life in his strong man hands? What am I waiting for? Don’t I know that my husband wants a baby even if he doesn’t know he wants a baby yet? He is going to be an amazing father and I will love being a mother. I can quit my job right now in preparation for the pregnancy because that is the most important job I’ll ever have ever ever EVER.
When she finally stops hurling accusations at me, I take a deep breath and tell her that I’m trying to get pregnant. I try every day. That I really want a baby so bad and that I don’t know what’s wrong. I tell her I think I may be ovulating and that I should probably go find Mr. Barista so that we can make a baby right now…and then I sit back and wait. I can see it in her face that she’s appropriately mortified, so I switch gears and tell her never mind, maybe I’m not ovulating; I’m just really stoned.
Don’t ask a woman if she’s pregnant. Don’t ask a woman why she’s not pregnant. Don’t do it. Or don’t take offense when I tell everyone you said it only hurt a little when you had your extra set of nipples removed.