...weighing in at 122 lbs, measuring 36-38-36, is an angry mess.
37 weeks, and no baby.
I'm chugging raspberry leaf tea by the potful, doing lots of walking (though a mad dash across the street for the bus almost dislocated my pelvis)...and my grandmother will be happy to know that I even tried castor oil the other day. I am pleased to report that it worked (wow, did it ever), but it didn't bring on labour. :P
So, one could imagine that my mood is less than stellar right now (although, TMI warning, my colon is clean as a whistle!).
This morning's post is brought to you by a whopping dose of Righteous Indignation. And it carries a Very Large Pregnancy Card.
I just got back from the grocery store, where I needed to pick up some diapers (Ailsa's still in them at night, and the let's-try-to-overnight-in-cloth-diapers, which was attempted last night, resulted in a change of diaper and pj's at 11 pm, and a very stinky set of bedding this morning. Back to (environmentally-conscious) disposables for now) and some evaporated milk (let them eat fudge!)*. I pulled into a middling-full parking lot to see a woman pulling into one of the stork parking spots, clearly marked as "reserved for expectant and new mothers".
"Nice car," I thought, as she got out of her fancy Mercedes, wearing a black fur coat. But she wasn't holding a baby. And, not to judge, but she didn't look any less than her late 40s.
So, after finding a farther-away spot of my own (non-stork), I waddled briskly into the store, on the lookout for a fancy black fur coat.
Aha! There she was, in the produce section. I was careful to assess her physique (her coat was now open) and noted her admirably flat belly (and nice hair and nails, I suppose, if you're into that sort of thing. Snif.) before approaching and saying, pleasantly, "Excuse me, but I noticed you parked in a spot reserved for expectant mothers."
She turned to size me up (half her height, and 3 times her girth) and said, "I made sure that there was one available."
Erm, the other one was full too.
I continued, a slight bit more icily, "They're reserved for a reason." I indicated my offensively large midsection.
And she said, "It's not the law." AND WALKED AWAY.
Possible retorts included, "Neither is me punching you in the face," but I think that is against the law, in retrospect, so it was a good thing that I just called after her, politely (I swear), "Have a nice day!"
I fumed throughout the rest of my 2-item shopping, and waddled back out to my car. Hers was still there. Hmmm, I thought. Retribution time. I mentally sorted through my inventory. Keys? Too much, and also a felony. Lipstick? No, I really like that lipstick.** Aha! Pen and paper!
I tore the top portion of my receipt, and just wrote "Karma", then drew a little flower beside it. I tucked it under her wiper blade, and left. I feel better. I was tempted to hang low, and wait for her to come out and find it, but darn it, I wanted fudge more.
* Ok, "me". Let me eat fudge.
** I used to have a hot pink lipstick in my pocket for that sort of thing. When I lived in Sandy Hill and Chinatown, people would block my driveway all the time, and many people returned to their cars to find "Thanks for blocking my driveway!" cheerily written on their driver's side window, with a nice smiley face beside it.