It looks like we've got some nice vocabulary to work with - I'm going to let that post sit there and fester for a few more days before I return to it and recap what new words we learned/created. This KuKd cool cat (who, like me, has also experienced the infamous Blight of the Ovum, which - contrary to popular belief - is not a World War II battle or wrecked alien spaceship), is also on a vocabulary creation journey of her own. Be sure to check out her new contribution to our lexicon, BFA, which also includes a nifty graphic.
Have I mentioned that I'm on a road trip right now?
That's right - Kevin, Tebow and I are coasting along the freeway corridor connecting Washington to Arizona, via Idaho and Utah. Tebow is our dog, by the way, for those of you who are popping in for the first time. This is our spring break, and since realizing how easily and terrifyingly bad shit can happen, we've decided to not waste a single week of work-free life by sitting on our arses eating Cup-o-Noodles.
Here's how we do it: stock the back seat with food in a cooler, so that we don't spend any money on breakfast and lunch, and fill the trunk with beer and wine, so that we don't have to spend any money on drinks. After all, we all know that money spent at the grocery store, unlike at a bar or restaurant, isn't REAL money (Kevin doesn't totally agree with me on this, but hey).
Then, while Kevin drives (as the son of a Marine Corps colonel who flew those huge helicopter-like monstrosities in the Gulf War, Kevin is more genetically inclined to operate a motor vehicle successfully than I am), I wear my anti-nausea wristbands and type frenetically on my laptop, reminding Kevin to stop if he sees a nice-looking truck stop. I love exploring truck stops. To keep myself from projectile vomiting all over the keyboard, I drape a t-shirt over my head and the dashboard to make a little tent, blocking out the puke-inducing scenery whizzing by. Screw the pretty mountains and rolling farmland: this KuKd momma has a book to write, a blog post to churn out! Life is too short to look at the mountains!
Last night, we pulled into Boise, Idaho, which is where I am now. Boise's okay and all, but what I REALLY liked was checking into our anti-septic smelling motel room (I LOVE MOTELS!) and enjoying our own little low-budget happy hour, complete with cheap wine out of styrofoam cups and cans of beer, good conversation, and dinner at an Eye-Talian restaurant across the street. I told Kevin I wanted checkered table clothes, candles, a dark wood interior, and a humongous plate of spaghetti that we could share, using our mouths to play tug-of-war with one long noodle (does anyone else remember that scene from "Lady and the Tramp?"). It wasn't quite like that, but close enough.
Our waitress was carrying a child. Her belly protruded far enough to nearly hit me in the face as she lean over to refill my water. She was young and blond, with braces on her teeth and clear blue eyes. I looked at Kevin as she walked away and said, in my slightly tipsy-slurred voice, "Our waitress is carrying a child." He nodded and said "yeah."
That was it.
I don't know when it happens, at what point men and women start to veer off onto separate tracks with this whole KuKd thing. It just does. I'm not saying it's bad; I'm simply remarking that, at some point, the woman continues on with lasting issues of identity and self-worth that the man doesn't have. Or doesn't seem to have, anyway. Or maybe has, but in a different form that isn't expressed.
For me, the thought process goes like this:
I was there once, right where you are, waitress with protruding belly. Seen it, done it, got the t-shirt. I was even PAST where you are, even MORE protruding. My belly wouldn't have merely ALMOST hit a customer in the face. It would have knocked over the table with its hulking, honking presence, sending both customers flying across the room simultaneously! It would have made meatballs fall off their mountains of spaghetti with the forceful wind it created as I whizzed by. It would have made customers whip their heads around and stare, gaping at the sheer enormous wonderfulness of my pregnant belly! I could have served wine carafes on that belly, balanced this basket of rosemary foccacia bread on it, deflected bullets with it!
What IS it with this inexplicable desire to stand up and shout, "I WAS PREGNANT TOO, WORLD! I WAS PREGNANT I WAS PREGNANT I WAS PREGNANT!" Is it the same thing that an elderly war veteran in plain clothes must feel when he sees a young, freshly scrubbed soldier in fatigues walk by? Does he get the urge to shout, "I DID WHAT YOU'RE DOING, ONLY WAY WORSE AND MORE INTENSE. BOO-YA."
For the record, I did not stand up and shout anything at the Eye-Talian restaurant. I was a big person, a normal person with reasonable behavior. After Kevin said "yeah" instead of the "yeah, and I can totally see how that would bother you in an illogical way, you poor misunderstood thing!!" as I was secretly hoping he would, I let it go. The truth is: no total stranger is going to give a rat's ass about my past, my pregnancies, KuKd status. They can't, don't, won't.
I know that, but I reserve the right to remain pissed off about it.
The good news is that the dinner was delicious, and cheap - since we only ordered water. No need for wine at dinner, when an entire motel-fridge-full is awaiting us across the street.