So last night I caused an uproar on the FB by mentioning I wanted to write about being prego (and about Jon Hamm’s yummy facial hair, which I would think was much more important), which you should all know would be too easy if it had meant just that. Do you all really think I would have been boozing like a fish this past weekend AND then announcing it on FB all white trash like? Ugh. Don’t answer that.
SO anyway. About being pregnant last Thursday. I find this story very funny and I have been running around telling it but I will warn anyone with a penis that reads my blog…you will be slightly disturbed and then you will probably picture me with a fat stomach, which I’ll tell you right now I don’t fucking appreciate. All the girls will understand and I will not need to explain any of this further. So. No more prefacing.
Last week we were off to DC to celebrate the union of The Bales. If you remember correctly, I was really bullshit about my seat assignment, which I drew out for you in this picture, which is still one of the most awesome things I’ve done of late.
And then on Thursday morning, I showed up to the airport at 0455 to catch a 0640 plane and the following happened:
So. To briefly get us up to speed, after two cancelled flights, I was sent back up to ticketing and our bags were shot out on the belt and we were forced to start all over, 4 hours after I started the journey. Then we were told we were flying through FRANKFURT (two hours from my house) instead at 1700, which is 12 full hours from the time I arrived at the airport (which is ten minutes from my house). So. By the time I boarded the plane for Frankfurt I had:
1. Tried on so many lipsticks that my face was stained but I still felt pretty.
2. I used my lunch voucher at Burger King and wore the crown which was a terrible idea because a. I smelled like Bk for the rest of the day and b. never eat BK before you get on a flight. That was just plain moronic.
3. I napped in the shape of a starfish on the floor watching the planes for like an hour which really pissed the Germans off but I.don’t.care.
Anyway. It’s 5pm now and I’m on the way to Frankfurt and napping with my mouth open for 40 minutes. I can’t take my ambien til the longer flight so I’m getting pissy. I’m also bullshit that I didn’t wear sweatpants considering this was now going to be a 20 hour travel day but Mr. H has a NO SWEATPANTS IN PUBLIC rule, which is wicked bullshit in general. And I’m STILL BEYOND BULLSHIT that I am about to get onto another flight in which I am in the middle bathroom seat for 7 MORE hours AND I am going to arrive to our own WELCOME BACK HAPPY HOUR 5 hours late because Lufthansa and Continental can’t get their shit together and fly planes. Fired, both of them.
It’s as we’re walking off the first plane to get ticketed for the next plane in Frankfurt that I come up with a brilliant idea.
“Don’t say a word when we get to ticketing. I will handle this. I have a plan,” I say to Mr. H. I have already blamed him repeatedly for ruining my flying experience that day and I know he has had enough of me.
“Cute. Can’t wait. What is this plan of yours?” He doesn’t even seem that interested. Just still annoyed with me.
“I am going to tell the woman I’m pregnant.” Then I look at myself because I KNOW MR. H IMMEDIATELY LOOKS, as though he doesn’t know what my fucking stomach looks like lately and I am pleased that I don’t think I look pregnant but I am wearing a very roomier fleece jacket and no person in their right mind would question a crazy haired woman wearing a jacket too big for her with clownish lipstick smeared from my nose to my chin. Not if they value their life, or so I calculated.
“You are not.” WHY DOES HE ALWAYS CHALLENGE ME???
“Yes, I obviously am. I once heard that people tell airlines that they just got married and get upgraded for their honeymoon but I don’t like you enough right now to seem honeymoon happy and so I figure pregnancy probably works even better because you just can’t question that and so yes, I fucking am. You better not say a word and you better not laugh.”
“I bet you 80 euro that you don’t do it.” He is technically betting me our shared money but I love winning.
“Stop reverse psychology-ing me.” I approach the counter and am pleased to see a seemingly nice woman in front of me. I lean in so she can’t really see my stomach and at the same time arch my back and puff my stomach out just in case she wants to inspect me. I did just eat Burger King and I’m pretty sure I can make myself look first trimester pregnant because really, anyone can if they try.
For the record, because I am vain and don’t actually want to look pregnant, here is a picture of me at the wedding two days later which I hope clears up the issue of whether I’m just fat because that would really piss me off today.
So. Happy looking ticket lady takes the ticket print out I hand her and our two passports and starts processing them. I put my forehand in the palm of my hand, which is propped up right in front of her face and I sigh a bit and put on my best look of distress.
“Is this flight full?” I ask in a tone nicer than one I’ve ever used before, but slightly emotional sounding, because I want her to think I’m slightly unstable due to my baby’s hormones overtaking me. (because that obviously happens when you’re really pregnant)
“No, it’s actually not today, but I have nothing but middle seats, unfortunately.” She looks up at me and gives me a fake smile that I DESPISE but I stay strong and try to think of something sad so that I start getting worked up in case I need to cry. The thought of David Beckham having more children with that bitch Posh does the trick and I feel a little pool start in my eyelids.
I sigh, but not in a mean way. “You’re sure? What if we waited until we were the last people on the plane and then we just checked around and if there was ANY other seat, could I please, please move?” I was using some sort of soft, pleading voice that I’ve never used before and I looked out of the corner of my eye to see if Mr. H was acting like a supportive father to be or if he was trying not to laugh like an asshole that was about to blow my cover.
She paused, which was a great sign in my head and looked at the computer, then back at me, then back at the computer. “Well, I don’t have two seats together but,” she tried to continue.
“Oh. No. I don’t care where he sits. One seat will do. Anywhere.” Then Chris jumped in like the generous soul he is, mostly I think because he wanted to get far away from me and he wanted me to stop acting like I was on Grey’s Anatomy.
“I can take a seat wherever. If you have one it’s fine.”
She looked a little concerned that I didn’t care where he sat so I figured it was now or never. I took a deep breath and just let it all out.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m pregnant. (then I paused to be dramatic) And you would not believe the day I’ve had already. Two of my flights have been cancelled and he booked us middle seats (in a, how.dare.he, hiss) and I have 7 more hours to go and I have been getting sick and I just don’t think I can handle one more flight like this. Please. I will take anything you have.” And I’ll take an Emmy with that as well because my performance was almost flawless. Even I believed I was now carrying around a mini me in my belly and now I needed that seat. I would fucking sob if I had to.
Mr. H was dead silent. The woman’s head titled, which was another good sign. She leaned over and whispered something to her coworker, who looked at me. I acted like I was too distressed and busy swallowing back baby bile to be able to smile. They whispered again and then the happy ticket woman started ripping up my tickets and typing fast.
Oh my god, I thought. I had just fucking done it! I had got us upgraded with my superb acting skills and now I was about to get new seats, 80 euro AND bragging rights. (No, maybe I just look fat or frumpy still has not occurred to me)
“Well, we do have two Economy Plus seats next to each other, just a window and aisle seat together available. And, they have a lot of extra leg room, you know, for the baby.” FOR.THE.BABY. What in the Christ? I tried REALLY hard not to laugh. Fuck it. I’d take it.
“I cannot even tell you how happy I am. Thank you so much. You are my new favorite person. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I am PUMPED.
As we walked away toward Duty Free to buy scotch, new tickets in hand, I said to Mr. H, “You’re welcome. You don’t even seem happy that I just Amazing Raced that shit and got us sweet seats.”
“You should feel awful,” he started.
“I will rip up your ticket right now if you keep this up. You can act happy or go sit by the bathroom again. I have no idea why I’d even feel awful.” I knew he’d tell me, though.
“You JUST CRIED awhile ago…remember?” Oh I knew what he was getting at. And by awhile he meant like a month. He kept on. “When the guy said he didn’t know you were expecting? And you cried? And you were yelling and now you tell someone you’re pregnant and you are proud of yourself??”
I had no idea why I would even have to EXPLAIN THIS. “Two fucking different things. One, that day I was wearing a goddamned empire waist dress which NO ONE TOLD ME MAKES ONLY PREGNANT GIRLS LOOK NICE AND NON PREGNANT GIRLS LOOK FUCKING PREGNANT and I was standing like a lazy cow, sticking my stomach out, bagging groceries and he DOES NOT KNOW WHAT HE IS TALKING ABOUT AND TWO I TOLD YOU EVERYONE WOULD CRY and THREE, (I am slightly shrieking but too happy to get to white noise) this is NOT even the same thing. I am brilliant, I won us these tickets and you are UNGRATEFUL.”
“Thank you, honey,” he says in a tone that I don’t consider thankful. “I am thrilled about the tickets and you are still fucking insane.”
I wasn’t even listening to him anymore. All I cared about is that we sat in the front of the plane, drinking two glasses each of chardonnay, to celebrate. And to show you where, and how happy I really was, I drew a new picture, which might even be better than the first. (Click the green link below this)
So, no, I’m not real life pregnant. But you better bet your bottom 80 euro that I will be every time I fly.