What a beautiful sunny Easter Sunday. My roommate gave me a chocolate bunny. My new haircut looked especially sassy. I had brunch with my roomie and 5 hot guys. Most of them were gay, but since I can then fantasize about them kissing it still counts high on the plus side. I was on top of the world. Until the multiple cups of coffee from brunch kicked in, and I found myself squirming in line for the bathroom at a random Starbucks. The person inside apparently hadn’t gone to the bathroom ever and was now excreting a lifetime of urine and God knows what else. The squat pinched faced woman in front of me turned around and watching me perform my pee-dance politely asked if I would like to go before her being that I WAS PREGNANT.
Now I have been dumped right before Christmas (3 times), followed by a homeless man chanting “white girl with a fat ass,” mistaken for a drag queen, cut off by my elderly phone buddy who apparently finds my stories more boring than being house ridden, told by my middle school art teacher that I had a wonderful imagination but unfortunately very little artistic talent, and I once loudly farted while holding a very difficult athletic pose in a bathing suit for a room full of art students. But none of that prepared me for this moment.
So I did the only rational thing I could think of. I thanked that evil, evil woman and took her place in the bathroom line. I figured my day was already ruined, why make my bladder suffer needlessly? Then I took that sweet chocolate Easter bunny, popped his head off, and stuffing his hollow body full with peanut butter – I ate him up.
I would feel guilty, but after all I am eating for two now.
Jelly Kean – I am sorry but this post made me laugh – what a silly woman, you don’t look pregnant at all!!
I swear to God you need to make up a one-woman show with these incidents, you can’t make this stuff up – I like the part about your elderly buddy cutting you off – hilarious! Girl, if you don’t get a movie contract out of that, than Hollywood is wack!
“eating for two” all you gotta do is laugh….
I never, ever mention anyone’s possible pregnancy unless I’m witnessing the moment of birth itself. I need to see a tiny skull emerging from vagina before I offer congratulations. Even then… Back in high school, we were sure our Spanish teacher was pregnant and when a cheerleader (very nicely, actually) asked about the baby, the teacher laid her head down on the desk and wept for 45 minutes. While we all just awkwardly stared down at our text books.
I remember now what the cheerleader said: When the baby comes, are you going to give it a Spanish name?
What is Spanish for “tears of self-loathing?”
Adios mio!