So Much For Promises

There are two subjects of which I self advised to never plague upon my blog. The first is infertility. The second is politics and religion (as a demonstration of my patriotism I treat them as one and the same). I found it imperative to avoid these subjects as their discussion has the tendency to bring out my bitter bitch; every woman has an inner bitch (if you disagree you are: A. not a man B. not a man married to a woman or C. not a man who has ever met a woman). I, however, have replaced my inner bitch with a bitter one.

So much for promises made to thy self . . .

I hate pregnant women. Is that statement too biting? My teeth seethe when I walk in front of a maternity store, its patrons’ rosy with anticipation “oh how wonderful, my genitalia will stretch to accommodate an un-ripened cantaloupe, what wonderment, my nipples suckled till raw and red, losing all resemblance of their former shape!” Much worse than the maternity store is the never-ending parade of pregnancy walking down my block; these are the women announcing with each step forward their refusal to gain a pregnancy pound, electing instead to move fat from their ass to their firm round belly. Is my bitter bitch beginning to show herself? In the presence of the expecting I am expected to give up my seat and preferred parking; I’ve been carrying around an extra 20 lbs far longer than nine months, where is my reserved parking spot?

Living ‘childfree’ in Utah has frequently made me a target for questioning. No-orgasm Nancy’s feel it their God ordained duty to “be fruitful, multiply and replenish the earth”. Amazing they even find the time to cast judgments. Questioned in the lobby of my doctor’s office I responded . . . why my husband says my pussy is far too pretty to go through childbirth . . . at once Nancy shut her mouth, in fact, every mouth in the lobby shut . . . or fell open . . . as if I were watching synchronized swimming.