Labeled a social misfit yet again

I had this exchange with a German spa this week through email.

“I’d like to book a massage, foot reflexology and a face massage. I’m 37 weeks pregnant, can you confirm this is ok with your spa?”

“No, we cannot do pregnant women. Danger not for us.”

“My doctor said she would write a note saying she approves.”

“This is not possible.”  They love this fucking phrase.  It drives me crazy how many times a week I get this goddamned phrase.

“But she said it was fine at this point, and I could even use the steam room and sauna and pool, in small doses.”

“Nein.” Oh, we were apparently done the English version of this conversation. “We suggest you do not use the facilities due to dripping.”

“Dripping?” She must have been using Google translate so I looked up what other words were the same for dripping in German.

LEAKING?  LEAKING. Leaking was a word that could be using the same German word, which is super because I have never been told I can’t use something due to the fact that someone didn’t want MY VAGINA DRIPPING ALL OVER THE PLACE.

“You don’t want me to leak? Like my bodily fluids in the water?”

I wanted to be violently angry but in true German form, I had just been handed the most literal, in my face explanation about why I was not wanted in their establishment at this time. Not, no, we suggest you wait. Not, no, it might not be a great time, would you prefer after the baby is born? Not, no, we apologize we can’t accommodate you because nudity for pregnant women is not allowed during your last phase of this beautiful experience in our spa. Just no. We will not have you leaking your vagina everywhere.

“Yes. This is not possible.”

Even as someone who admits her vagina of late has been like a goddamned Elmer’s glue factory, I thought it was a bit much that she insisted on making me feel like a misfit of society, one who freely distributes bodily fluids in public places, laughing in the faces of unsuspecting, non-leaking Germans. But she did and that was the end of that conversation.



I think we all remember that even though I have a child now and one on the way, by nature, I despise 90% of the world’s children. I like my children. I like about ten other children. I tolerate a handful of others, but for the most part, I think most children are unnecessary, spoiled, awful, stupid, ugly and a poor decision in general. Having a child has made me forget this temporarily, but I assure you, I was reminded why I hate children and I’m going to go over today’s little incident and all of you who have been parents for more than 3 seconds in life can have a good laugh at my anger and tell me that it just gets worse.

So this morning I’m sitting at my desk, minding my own business and working when daycare calls and starts with their standard, “Hi, Mrs. Hopkins, just a courtesy call about Sawyer.”

This is normally followed by, he fell while running or he bashed his face off a truck or a table or the door, or he’s bleeding and we don’t know if he knocked out a tooth, which is my personal favorite call to receive, considering falling and putting my teeth through my lip is a top 10 fear of mine. Once they called to tell me he had ring worm but in my head I heard them say tape worm, and I panicked and called the Mr. immediately shrieking about that must be why he’s refusing to eat dinner and we are awful parents for letting him swallow a worm and off I went to immediately get him out of school. Then they told me at school that it’s ring worm, not tape worm, and I immediately wanted to know whose dirty kid is a tiny wrestler, because in my life I’ve only ever heard that wrestlers get ring worm and it makes sense to me to blame an entire sport and not say, the mats that would be used by both high school wrestlers and toddlers.

So that’s what I normally get called about. Today, though, a bit different.

“Sawyer has a few bites that are bothering him and we thought we’d let you know.” Huh, I thought, maybe that’s why he was itching his back this morning on our way out.

“Bug bites? Is he itching them?”

“No, not bug bites, child bites.   A child bit him. Twice.”

WHAT IN THE CANNIBALISM FUCK ARE THEY CALLING ME ABOUT?  You do not start a conversation telling someone their child has a few bites and assume I’m going to guess human bites above fucking bug bites.

“I’m sorry, what? A child bit him? Twice? What happened? Is he upset?” I refrained from launching my fat self out of my chair and marching over there to take a look at the crime scene and judge which shithead child bit my angel. I bet it was that sloppy haired, moon faced annoying one that tried to stomp on my flip flop wearing shoe for giggles the other day when I went to pick Sawyer up. He fucking smiled at me while looking at me in the eye and I already told that fucking overgrown toddler that Sawyer’s mom is hot and big lately and doesn’t have the patience for tiny halfwits with behavioral problems. I would match that child’s teeth to my son’s bites and deal with this myself.

Yes, I am 100% going to be that parent.

“Well, we aren’t sure what happen because it happened pretty quickly but they were on the slide and there was some commotion and the child ended up on top of Sawyer and bit him on the face twice. He has bite marks on his face and look worse than they are, probably because he’s so fair, and he didn’t really cry until we put ice on his face but now he has marks and we thought we’d let you know before you come back today.”

ON THE FUCKING FACE?  ON. HIS. FACE.  ON HIS PERFECT AND ADORABLE AND POTENTIALLY EASILY SCARRED FACE.  WHAT IN THE HOLY HELL I AM GOING TO SPANK THE EVIL OUT OF SOMEONE ELSES CHILD IN TWO GODDAMNED SECONDS. And why in the Christ has daycare become like some jail yard scene from Sons of Anarchy? I am going to find that child’s father in the email system and parade my ass into his office and have a talk about acceptable public behavior of children. Snacking on my fucking child’s face like a fucking psychopath menace to society does NOT MAKE THE CUT AT DAYCARE. And let’s not blame Sawyer’s porcelain and perfect skin when a child is using him like shark bait before lunch on the one day I was not aggressive about anything.

“Does this child have his shots?” Because if this child is one of those non-vaccinating motherfuckers, I am going to fucking choke his entire family while filming it.

“Yes, he has his shots.” Does he also have a fucking death wish?

“Please call me if Sawyer is unhappy today or if anything else happens. I’ll talk to you more about it when I come over this afternoon.”

And then I hung up, called the Mr., gave this exact account, which he found far more humorous than I did, probably because he thinks that I care more than Sawyer does at this point, and he did express concern when I told him children will be children does not fucking apply to my child and that I would be spending the weekend training Sawyer in Mommy Approved Mortal Combat.

No one uses my child as shark bait and gets away with it.

The queen of awkward run-ins

I’ve had a number of awkward encounters with famous or influential people and having had one just two weeks ago, it reminded me of the others I’ve had–all the political ones, like the time Joe Lieberman rescued me from the press near the Senate floor, the time I told the President in the elevator that people used the word scrumptious to describe him, the time a female Senator insisted I stole a book from her, the time Senator Thurmond pinched my ass in his office during a photo op, the time Ted Kennedy forced me to throw a ball to his dogs as payment for taking a photo with him, and other less memorable moments where I inserted myself in a public setting.

There was also the time I thanked Melky Cabrera for his part in the 2004 Red Sox World series win, thinking he was Orlando, when they look nothing alike but I got caught up hearing that Cabrera was in the same bar as me and acted instantly like an idiot. I blame excitement.

And the time during Pedroia and Ellsbury’s rookie season that I stood behind them in the dugout while they were hanging out stretching and shouted, TAKE YOUR SHIRTS OFF ROOKIES, repeatedly, from 20 feet away, like a lunatic, until they turned around and said REALLY? to me, confused and somewhat disgusted, which I chose to ignore.  That one can be blamed on Vodka and my undying love for Pedroia.

The most recent example is more toned down and innocent, though still awkward all the same.  I was reminded of it last night when I saw a picture of this person standing behind the President giving a press conference, thinking to myself, ugh, you are such a disaster sometimes.

Two weeks ago Germany exploded into flames and my entire body began morphing into Shrek at 3pm daily, like clockwork.  To rectify the situation, I found myself two plastic kiddie pools and a sprinkler to set up for the rest of the heat wave.  The Mr., though, pointed out we were missing a sprinkler part and so off I went to the PX in a lovely pregnant ensemble consisting of yoga pants worn so thin you could just see my bloomers from a football field away, a sports bra and tank top I had worn for two days straight and flip flops, the only thing I’m interested in slipping my fat feet into these days.

So there I am, wandering the two aisles in the Home and Garden section out back when I round the corner and almost bounce an oncoming guy off my stomach, in a very, not looking but leading with my stomach type way.

“Oh god, sorry,” I exclaim, barely glancing up, just slightly noticing an older and normal looking guy who doesn’t appear to be disgusted or angry towards me.

“No, I’m sorry, excuse me.”  How polite of him for recognizing the importance of my large existence and duty to breed the next generation.

Standing in front of the sprinkler part section, I go back and forth between fingering sprinkler parts and comparing them to the picture the Mr. sent me off with.  The only job I have is to match them up like a Memory game and I’m failing miserably.  They all look the same and I’m tempted to just buy the big box that has a new sprinkler AND all its parts together.  Then I heard the man coming closer and so I waddled over to him, tapped him on the back and launched myself into what I consider a normal way to approach an unsuspecting victim of mine.

“Excuse me, Sir.  Would you be able to help me with this?  I am unqualified at locating sprinkler parts and here is the part I was told to get and they all look the same and you seem to be qualified for the job.  Any way you could come around here and help me?  I bet you can help me.”  I jammed the phone in his face, barely made eye contact and swung around on my heels, doing a quick penguin shake over to the parts area to show him the three sprinkler connectors I thought were the closest.

He gets down on his hands and knees and is rummaging through the parts and double checking my phone and I can tell he isn’t sure of what he’s doing which makes me feel sad and better at the same time and so I just continue blabbing on, to make up for the uncomfortable fact that I’ve got someone else’s husband trapped on the floor working for me, only because I’m fat and pregnant and bossy and he has probably been taught not to say no to anyone with another human in their stomach.

“If you can’t figure out the part, don’t worry about it, I’ll probably just buy a whole damned new one.  I mean look at me,” I gestured to my profile like I was Vanna White, “I can’t be sitting around LIKE THIS at my house hot and sweating and swollen.  The other day my feet turned into cinder blocks and I’m turning into an ogre but don’t worry if you can’t figure it out.  I’ll just buy them all or just have my husband spray me with the hose for the next week. I mean even my almost two year old is looking at me in disgust and the Germans don’t think nudity is always appropriate and my doctor says this massive child is almost 8 pounds already which I am not looking forward to but don’t worry about it if you can’t figure it out.  This is not your problem.   Oh, maybe your wife needs a sprinkler by chance while you’re here?  Would be a good time to get one, don’t you think?”  Surely his wife could use a new sprinkler in her yard.

And then as I went to grab the parts out of his hand, he thought I was shaking his hand and so we had an awkward little claw grabbing session as he says, “You know, maybe I should get a few parts myself,” as he looked up at me, still on his knees, and I saw it.

I was talking to the 4 star General and Commander.  About sprinkler parts.  While making him squirrel around on his hands and knees for the crazy lady talking about heat waves and large children.  Horrified yet star struck, I took all the parts, said a quick goodbye and thank you and waddled as fast as my tree trunk legs would get me out of there.

I should really be put in a cage.