Thursday, April 1, 2010

The Cruelest Month

So, I'm eight months pregnant.

As I mentioned last week, I'd kind of forgotten how ridiculous everything about being 8-months pregnant actually is, but the last several weeks have been helping me to remember. For example, last night, I spent approximately two hours lying in bed having the following conversation with myself:

SELF: "There is NO WAY I have to pee again. I'm going to go back to sleep."

*90 minutes elapses*

SELF: "OK, if I still have to pee in five minutes, THEN I'm definitely getting up."

CUT TO: Self lumbering out of bed, after 2 hours of internal sleepless debate, and shuffling angrily towards the bathroom.

*End scene*

Yes folks, it appears that I have hit that special intersection in pregnancy where the constant need to pee bangs up against the difficulty level involved in getting my large self out of bed, transforming my nights into a hellish battle between my sleepy brain and my constantly needy bladder. So, you know, boo to that.

One positive aspect of pregnancy I'd forgotten about is just how much attention you get from the public at large just for being large with child.

This weekend David and I headed off to our local spa/Casino/hotel combo for a little "Babymoon", hoping to soak up some rays, dine on mediocre ethnically "themed" food and, as it turned out, inhale our yearly ration of second-hand smoke in a single evening!

All morning, post-check-in, wherever we went throughout the "resort" fellow vacationers/degenerate gamblers would cluck joyfully in my direction and/or murmur congratulations as their glazed slot-machine-addled eyes took in my passing belly.

That afternoon, we headed for the pool. As I was making my way down the stairs and into the water, my maternity bathing suit working overtime to contain my large form, a size-zer0 Paris Hilton look-alike suddenly called out from her lounge chair,

"Oh, you look SO beautiful!"

I looked around, perplexed as to whom this bikini-clad nymph might be addressing (using, I might note, a tone of voice usually reserved for small children or those with recent head trauma) and eventually concluded she was speaking to me. I nodded a feeble thanks as she asked,

"When are you due?"

I told her I was a month out and she beamed widely, explaining that she like TOTALLY wanted a baby someday. I was smiling back at her, attempting to imagine her flowing blond weave tamed into a practical mommy do, when suddenly her Ed Hardy wearing boyfriend (need I say more?) put his arm protectively around her rock-hard abs and glared at me as if to say...

"Do not pull my hot lady friend into your pregnant world, manatee lady!"

...before hustling her away from me and towards the bar, leaving me to float in peace.

And speaking of bars....

...they are another place I've noticed where you tend to get a lot of attention when 8-months pregnant.
Let me clarify.

This last St. Patrick's Day, my sister and I, being the good Irish girls that we are, headed out to celebrate this most sacred day at a local pub here in L.A. Now, normally an event of such magnitude would have called for the ingestion of copious amounts of beer (green or no), but in deference to my passenger I resigned myself, before tugging an "Erin Go Bragh" shirt over my enormous girth, to limit my intake for the night to a single Bud Light.

Naturally, this diminished the merriment to some degree, but the night was not a total loss, as it turned out to provide a revelation that may prove valuable to you, my beloved readers. For I have discovered a secret long coveted by female bar-goers everywhere! And that is a FOOLPROOF method of repelling the unwanted advances of drunken bar dudes.

You see, as I was savoring the first sips of my beloved Bud Light, a suitor in a state of advanced intoxication approached with the always winning come-on line:

"Hey pretty lady, you look like you could use a shot!"

As his arm darted around my shoulder, I ducked to avoid the shower of spittle that apparently came free with his offer. I paused briefly and pointed south, past the now-oversized boobs that had likely attracted him in the first place, towards the belly, heretofore camoflaged by the bar's dim light and simply asked,

"You still interested?"

Truly I don't think the lad could have fled faster if I'd revealed that I had a penis.

And so it was that I danced the night away to my favorite Irish band in complete peace. Feel free, ladies, to co-opt this method for your own uses! The next time you want to head out to an event and get your drink on without dealing with unwanted attention from the male of the species, might I recommend a well-placed pillow tucked securely around your mid-section?

Fair disclosure, you'll get a couple of dirty looks from those judgemental, "What the hell is that pregnant woman doing in a bar?" types, but you can always just tell them you're only having one Bud Light.