Saturday, August 25, 2012

every freaking time!

I'm pretty obviously pregnant at this point. I mean, I've been asked for a cigarette in the last week, but I just thanked the guy for not being judgmental. Nonetheless, I'm assuming that most people assume that I'm knocked up.

Which is why it's so infuriating that the last three times I've gone to the grocery store, the bagger has left my checkout lane as soon as I start to check out. Apparently, the Krogetto in my neighborhood has not instilled in their employees an unconditional fear of pregnant ladies pushing food around in cages.

I would not consider myself a high maintenance, wispy pregnant lady. I mowed my own lawn (using a rusty, manual push mower, cuz we're hippies, remember?) into my third trimester. I wear heels to work still. I moved all the furniture in the nursery several times, by myself, before I was satisfied.

But there are some things I simply cannot do anymore. For example, reaching. Reaching and almost-full-term bellies are diametrically opposed. Thus, bagging my own groceries should be beyond my capacity. But I'll be damned if I ask for help! So I braved the Braxton Hicks and leaky bladder on the day Kroger had canned fruit on sale, and bagged and loaded my own friggin' groceries. And I'll keep doing it every time, too, because the whole time, I'll be praying the my water breaks all over the checkout lane. That'll show them.

Unrelated. Mitch is indulging my love for Robert Downey Jr. (and his love to kitschy action flicks) by watching Sherlock Holmes. Is Robert Downey Jr. really that hairless? It kind of makes him look a little geriatric. But he's still my #1 boo.

hey boo!

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