The Venus of Willendorf

Against Dr. Me's specific instructions, I ventured out of my house today. I had a visit last night from some friends who I shared my plan of pregnancy isolation with. Like all good friends are supposed to, they blanketed me with assurances that I was in fact not hideous, I could benefit from social interaction, and I was a blessing in the lives of others. Silly me took this as an objective opinion even though they probably would have crowned me Miss America if I had a family of moray eels dangling from my nose. What else are friends for? After they left I felt terrific about life, the universe and everything.

When my husband suggested we actually leave the house I was receptive. My doctor never had to know. Fueled by the pep talk from the previous night, we planned a few errands. First a stop to Costco. Then a visit to a department store. Things had gone pretty well and even though I was feeling a little queasy, we decided to make one last pit stop at our favorite haunt, Jamba Juice.

As we pulled into the parking lot Spike noticed a pizza place next door. He reminded me that we had a coupon for the pizza chain but this particular location wasn't listed. "Why don't you go ask them if we can use it anyway?" I suggested.

"You better go instead. You're cute. They'll say yes to you," Spike replied. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw that I was in fact, not cute and told him as much.
"Honey. Trust me. You're cute. They'll do it for you."

Stroking the residual warm fuzzies from my friends' visit, I decided to trust everyone's optimism and give it a shot. I rolled out of the car and waddled into the restaurant repeating a modified mantra from the movie What About Bob, "I look good. I look great. I look wonderful."

"Can I use this coupon here?" I asked with an encouraging smile.
The bald, randomly pierced cashier glanced quickly at the coupon. "No," he said shortly and turned back to the oven. Apparently being blond isn't all it used to be.

What else could I do? I headed back to the car to get Spike and go for smoothies. As I left the pizzeria I fell in behind a group of ridiculously dressed "Emo" teens. They looked like walking turds deposited from The Ramons and were about that big. You've seen these kids around - they dress all in black, spike up their dyed black hair and wear those ridiculously skinny pants. They were taking up the entire sidewalk and walking as slowly as possible to keep their pants from falling off their pathetic excuses for rear ends with mixed results. I resigned myself to walking behind them all the way back to my car listening to their vapid conversation.

Then I caught their scent. It was pomade mixed with pot mixed with teenager and I decided if I wanted to carry this baby to full term I'd have to cut ahead. I discretely slipped ahead of them. As I did their conversation stopped. Then I heard giggled whispers punctuated with an occasional guffaw. Were they talking about me? Maybe. My girth is somewhat comical and I couldn't begrudge them a little merriment on my derrière's behalf. Who cares what these little turds thought anyway, right?

As I reached the end of the sidewalk I turned towards my car, revealing my full glorious profile backlit by the setting sun. I heard a reverential, "woah..." followed by raucous laughter from the entire turd squad. With embarrassment I rushed to my car.

"Did they take the coupon?" asked Spike, hopefully.
"No."
"Do you still want to go to Jamba Juice?"
"No." I slammed the car in reverse, hit the gas and to my delight saw the pack of teens directly behind my car.
"Hollywood, watch out for those kids!" Spike warned.

My murder attempt was foiled. Now the jury would have to classify it as premeditated rather than manslaughter. I slammed on the brakes inches from their weak little legs and grudgingly allowed them to live. One of the turds smirked at me and they slunk off.

Spike sensed my mood and the car ride home was silent. I knew it was silly to care what these idiot teens thought but I admit, I was riled. I had given society a chance and it had failed. I tried to just breath it out and think about what they would look like swirling down a toilet screaming for their lives. After a few minutes I was on the mend. Then from her car seat my darling angel daughter piped up with a sugary sweet voice. "I hate you, Mom!" Despite her declaration's stoney reception she tried again earnestly, "I hate you, Mom! I hate you, Mom!"

So there it was. I held back the tears as long as possible but as soon as we got home I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed on the toilet for a good fifteen minutes into my puffy thighs. When I emerged, bleary eyed, my good-intentioned husband tenderly suggested we order a supreme pizza to make me feel better. Big mistake.

You know, those Negative Population Growth people may be on to something.