Isn't It Ironic

Note: Written on Wednesday, Nov. 21 but not posted until today because I am incredibly lazy.

How is it that I have never been more aggravated, disappointed, annoyed and occasionally outright disgusted with human beings as I have been since I started growing a new one?

This morning a big, cigarette smelling woman in a puffy, wet down-filled jacket sat on me. ON me. Not beside me, not near me but actually ON me, on the subway.

I used to be a patient person, I swear. Perhaps even too much of one. A year ago had someone sat on me, I'd have said, "Excuse me, why don't I give you some room," and gotten up to stand somewhere else. Confrontation would not have been an option for me, although I may have silently stewed about what a douche bag the woman was.

But today? Oh no. I couldn't let it go. I couldn't let this wet, smelly woman just plop down on me and sit there all the way to Yonge St. And I couldn't get up because she was heavy. I was trapped and I was panicking. The woman across from me on the train saw my fear, but like most Torontonians pretended not to and simply ignored the fact that I was slowly being smothered by this giant stinky wet woman.

After a few seconds I realized she actually intended on staying as she was, half on top of me and slowly suffocating me to death. So I had to act.

"Hello? You can't sit on me," I said.

"This is a seat," was her response.

"Mhm, okay sure, but I'm seven months pregnant and you're crushing me. Do you think you could get up so I can at least get out from under you?"

She gave me a long foul smelling exasperated sigh, waited just a beat longer than she should have, and heaved herself up just long enough for me to hoist my swollen body up from the seat before she went crashing back down again.

I realized that I had better walk away immediately from this women or risk throwing myself at her in a fit of unbridled hormonal rage, so I grabbed my bag, which had between between my feet and waddled away to the far end of the car.

I wish that was the end, but OH NO. Not three stops later and we were at St. George St. Many people disembark here so I was able to grab another seat and sat down to rest for the next couple of stops. Who should I see some sauntering over and drop down into the seat right across from me? Correct. Wet 'n Stinky herself.

She proceeded to glare at me for the rest of the ride. As I had somehow caused her personal anguish and pain and not the reverse. It took all the restraint I had in my soul not to leap over and throttle her. I mean I really, really wanted to clock her until she bled from her eyes.

Instead I just sat as calmly as possible until I was able to get off safely at my stop.

And then I cried. I hate that stupid wet lady, but karma will have its way with her eventually.

My Lovely Lady Lump: Week 27

Week 27.

Weight Gain: Very close to, if not already by now, 30 lbs. I learned this at my prenatal appointment last week and I'm not ashamed to say that I cried a little.

Milestones this Week (and, since I didn't post, last week too): Last week we had our monthly prenatal appointment and while all seems fine, I expressed a concern over how big I am suddenly. People keep asking if I'm due soon and then telling me that I must be growing a BIG baby. Hi, everyone? Shut up. I can't imagine anything that pregnant women want to hear less than, "Wow, you really got big all of a sudden. That is going to be one hell of a big baby. Ouch." [They make a weird grimace face and shake their head in sympathy.]

Doctor Awesome agreed that, yes, my bump is slightly bigger than average for end of second trimester. Super. He was also quick to say that I am also taller than the average woman so he doesn't think it's an issue. He did offer to schedule me for an ultrasound at 30 weeks just to put my mind at ease. I accepted. I heart ultrasounds.

I also had to drink the orange death juice. Anyone who's been pregs already knows what I'm talking about. Anyone who hasn't been pregs yet, think Orange Crush plus McDonald's Orange Party Drink minus anything that might be good about either of them and you've got the orange death drink. It's to test for gestational diabetes and if I didn't have it before that drink, I'm pretty fucking certain that the sugar content of the test itself has given it to me now.

The chicken and I are at a get-to-know you stage. I'm starting to learn some of her likes and dislikes and in return for my doting on her with her favourite things, she puts on one hell of a fun horse and pony show. I'm positive now that she enjoys pop music, particularly if I sing along. A little JT (you may recall I first felt her move just after his concert this summer) or Brit Brit's "Gimmie More" sends her into a frenzied club-worthy dance off. She's bopping around so much in there that my bump gets to buckling like a house of cards during an earthquake.

She does not like being seated for long periods of time at my desk. If I'm still for too long, she will kick up a fuss, usually by stomping on my kidney. It's kind of a - get the hell up and move already woman, I'm all crushed and cramped in here, shit - type of kicking. Not so comfortable.

Here's the bump this week - my last week in the second trimester - home stretch here we come:

Thank You

Dear Dude at the corner of Yonge and Bloor,

Thank you so much for saving my soul today at lunch hour.

I think I was a little too tired after a long, sleepless night, and a little too hot after a strenuous step-class, to realize just how much trouble my soul was in due to my recent abominations and sins.

I must have looked down right grouchy and blasphemous as I attempted to get my heavy pregnant belly past you on the street and if you hadn’t stopped to yell at me, well, who knows where my soul would be right now.

I so appreciate you screaming in tongues and then graciously “saving me from the clutches of Satan and the horrors of hellfire” with your little paper brochure. I mean, whoa, that was a close one.

If not for you I could totally be the clutches of Satan and the horrors of hellfire right now. Instead of tired, hot, swollen, pregnant and sitting in my office chair watching the minutes tick slowly by. Hm. Waaaait a second...

Sincerely,

Beaches

Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice

So sweet, isn't it? That age old adage that lovingly describes the differences between little girls and little boys. Aw. Warms my motherly heart, really.

Except for the fact that it's such absolute bullshit.

Clearly whoever came up with this sugar and spice crap has never ridden the TTC. I ride the TTC every day. And there are schools on my route. Which means there are girls on my bus. Teenage girls. Sugar and spice and all things nice?

More like ciggies and thongs and all things skank.

What has happened to our girls? Before I get too preachy I must confess, I logged a few hours of my teenage years with a belly full of vodka and my head in the toilet - but at least I was an angel on the outside! These days? For the love of Britney - they are wee devils!

And speaking of... one of these oh-so-sugary little tarts flashed me her "Britney" the other day! Right there on the bus at 9a.m. I believe I even gave out a little gasp of horror.

I don't blame her, by the way - Britney. She's just a rusty cog in a much larger, much more evil corporate machine. Selling sex to our little ones by way of their "starlets" and pricey paparazzi opportunities. Maybe that's what's changed in teenage girls since my day? I mean, my idol was Madonna, not necessarily the purest of roll models, but she always came across as strong, independent and sexy in smart way. On her own terms, you know?

I may have been sexual at an early age, but I sure as hell wasn't slutty. I respected my elders and deferred to authority. I never wore my undies on the outside of my clothing. Sure, I probably spoke loudly with my friend in public places and made the odd old lady feel uncomfortable, it's expected from a gaggle of teenagers. But did I talk about kicking bitches asses and doing blow and sucking balls? Oh hell no.

But these girls. These little girls who could be so smart and so beautiful if they would drop the tougher than thou routine, they are scaring the crap out of me. Because what if one day it happens to mine?

So for now I have to believe in the sugar and spice bit. For my own peace of mind. I think I'll just assume that today kids are lighter on the sugar (let's face it, too much is bad for you anyway) and a hell of a lot heavier on the spice.

I Hope You Dance

Alright new moms and moms-to-be, I'm issuing you a challenge.

But first I'll apologize to non-moms and non-moms to be for the extreme cheese factor of what I'm about to say. Sorry. Really sorry. You might want to look away.

Back to the moms. Have you ever heard the song "I Hope You Dance", by Lee Ann Womack? And if you have heard it and dismissed it immediately as horrifying new country crap (as I did when I first heard it), have you ever really listened to the lyrics? Because if you have, I guarantee, you can not sit through this blasted song without breaking into the ugly cry. Not just weepy, oh no. The UGLY CRY.

It's a challenge. Find it. Listen to it. Listen to it again. And just try to hold back the tears. Just try. You can't. I already know it. It's not possible. Here's a sample of the lyrics, clearly written in the midst of a pregnant woman's hormonal meltdown:

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances
But they're worth taking
Lovin' might be a mistake
But it's worth making
Don't let some hell bent heart
Leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out
Reconsider
Give the heavens above
More than just a passing glance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance

Choking back some sobbage already aren't you? Yeah, you are. It's okay. Let it out. Take some comfort in the fact that my own surging pregnancy hormones have allowed me to embarrass the hell out of myself by 'fessing up to this publicly so that you don't have to.