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the joys of womanhood, part 2

Anyway, once you have children, privacy just doesn’t exist…. After the o.b.g.y.n. gets a hold of you and breaks your spirit, then there is the actual birth, which goes by like a flash, considering how much time you spend worrying about it before hand- first timer’s anyway. I can remember my first pregnancy, most of it, and can recall it being the happiest time in my life. I mean, lets face it, pregos got it good. No more issues arising about self image- hey, I’m getting fat now, but its ok cause I'm pregnant. And everyone confirms it by telling you how beautiful you look, even though you are as wide as you are tall, and there is a 59% chance you ate the house cat that’s been missing for a couple hours now. That part of it, anyway, is glorious. It’s the last couple months that get ya. They sort of put things into perspective, in a Salvador Dahli/ Dr. Seus sort of way.

The last couple months of pregnancy are miserable- they were for me anyway. I was so big around, and it was so hard to move around, sleep, get in and out of cars, I was just ready for it to be out. Get it out of me! I shouted inside my head, every day.

I was a victim of far sighted, inconsiderate motorists, on one occasion, when I was about 8 months prego picante. I returned to my car to discover that people, on both sides of my vehicle, had parked too damn close to me, and I could not open my doors far enough for me to get in. I drove an old 80s farm truck back then, and I vowed, right then and there, that as soon as I could cram my fat ass through the back slider window, both drivers, of both vehicles, were going to become the shameful recipients of possibly the foulest hate notes I have ever written. Oh was I pissed. It took me more time to compose, write, edit, and then re-write again ( in mean handwriting- all capitals) than it did to drop my broken tail gate, hoist my very pregnant ass up onto it, lower my torso back into a lying position, roll over onto my side, tucking my knees under so I could get myself stood up from a kneeling position, and get up to walk across the bed of my truck to pry the back window open.

Luckily, for me, on that day only, my truck was a piece of shit. I didn’t bother setting an e-brake, removing the keys from the ignition (I prayed someone would steal it), and it wasn’t difficult to hoist a leg through the back slider to kick it out of gear. I was toying with the notion of a victory gloat...but the whole thing ended up being rather anticlimactic. Sadly, no gloat I had. At that point, I still had to yard my leg back out of the window, waddle across the bed of the truck, gingerly lower myself to a squatting position, kind of tip back onto my spare tire, then kick my legs out in front of me to sort of slide down onto my ass on the tailgate. Once there, 15 minutes later, I could then scoot my butt to the edge of the tailgate and THEN all that was left to do was fall off it. Success.

My mission wasn’t over yet. I, then, had to walk, all the way around the whole row of cars parked too closely together, to the front of mine, wedge myself between my front bumper and the car in front of me, and push off with my foot. I was able to get my truck rolled back, far enough to clear the car beside me, and open my door, then run as fast as a beach ball can bounce, around to get into the drivers seat, and push the brake pedal, before rolling into the row of cars behind the row I was parked in.

So back to my nasty windshield notes...wishing the people, who parked their cars WAY to close to me, the very best, of what I am embarrassed to say. Basically, wishing them the best, and sharing my stipulation, with them, about the condition of their parents, when conceiving them. Also, my theory, that this condition, combined with a 12 volt battery, a set of jumper cables, and a bottle of Everclear, resulted in the birth of the genetic mutant, who years later, was too stupid to have driven off a bridge, and done all of man kind a service, by taking themselves out of the genepool. That asshole, instead, then ruined my whole day, and deserved to be burned at the stake, for parking too close to me, and slowing down my quest, for world domination, a whopping 45 minutes.

About the time I finished the first note, and neatly placed it beneath car #1’s windshield wiper, folded twice, with a smiley face on top, I noticed that the driver of car #2 was beginning to unlock their vehicle. They couldn’t leave now! Not without their note! I thought about giving THAT driver the note I had just left on the first car, but I’ve always been a bit of a nonconfrontational sort of gal, whenever I have an issue, with a complete stranger I have yet to even meet. I didn’t really want them to SEE me do the note swap. The overall effect was lost, my chance missed, for a real good brow beating…. So, I just put the ol' truck back in neutral, slowly took my foot off the brake, and turned the wheel. I began inching toward the rear of vehicle number two. I had no idea what I was doing, I just knew they weren’t getting out of this, without some sort of punishment, for their rotten driving skills. My severely imbalanced hormonal state had no influence here, whatsoever. I inched up slowly, like a garden snail, attacking an unsuspecting tomato, until my bumper was pressing into the back of their car. There was really no sound, no tap or pop or bang, just a whisper of a groan, let out by the suspension of the other car, as it took on the pressure, from the weight of my truck. The owner of the other car looked up, but not at me, as it was still unclear what was going on. They had felt their car move- but were clueless as to why. Then, as they stood, puzzled if they had had one too many mai tais with lunch, I threw ‘er in park, and slipped out the passenger door. You gotta love bench seats, for that reason.

I headed back into the store I had just come out of, 20 minutes prior. I must say, the note the driver #2 left me was not nearly as well written, as mine was, that I had left for driver #1. Took them about 30 seconds to write. It read: Sorry I hit your car, and gave the license plate of the truck with the note on it I just wrote. They then got into their vehicle, and with it, pushed my truck backwards far enough to get their vehicle jockeyed around and past me. They did it skillfully and efficiently. Maybe not their first time pulling that little number. They broke one of my blinkers in the process. Jerks.

I watched the whole thing through the window from inside. I then terrified other shoppers, as I screamed, and threw a royal temper tantrum, at being out done. I was wronged, inconvenienced, abused, and then outw

itted by a bad driver. Shameful. After composing myself, I walked outside, to examine my broken light. It took another 5-10minutes before I could admit defeat, but I finally did.

As I went, to get into my vehicle, and metaphorically limp home, I realized that the other driver had pushed my truck back, almost far enough to completely fit into the space behind it. However, it was entirely too close, to the other vehicle in the next space, to get the drivers door open to get in.

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