You're pregnant! Fuck!

Once upon a time in 2004, I distinctly remember finding out about my first pregnancy. It was nothing like all those pregnancy test commercials, where you pee on the magic stick and all your dreams of having/not having a baby come true.... Boy, I'd love to sue those companies for false advertising!

It was my birthday, and just a few short hours after being fired from a job for reporting my boss for stealing company property and being highly inappropriate with his staff (Corporate America Lesson #273: Don't report unethical behaviour from supervisors, chances are they are covering worse things being done by THEIR bosses). Sitting at home, depressed, dejected, in the middle of moving, and exhausted from climbing up 3 steps, I figured my incredible crap birthday luck (a yearly tradition) was not entirely spent yet. Why not do a pregnancy test, just for laughs? Whilst still on the porcelain throne, the two lines of the pregnancy test become clearer and clearer, like two erect middle fingers wishing me a happy 25th clueless year on the planet. No. Noooo. NOOOOOOOO!!! (for full effect, that last one should be in slow motion and lower pitch, like the sound of someone drowning with cement block feet)

Why don't those pregnancy test commercials keep it real? Oh right - we women are only supposed to show joy and happiness at discovering our fertility status! We always get what the answer we want - of course, we are women! We are never disappointed in anything, ever. It's supposed to be:

"I'm pregnant! Now all I want to do is wear pastel pink floral-pattern tents, sit on a rocking chair and stare at the sunset with a placid, vapid smile of contentment and ultimate purpose while my body turns into a blimp and I lose my identity!"

or

"Woo, I'm not pregnant! Honey, let's keep fucking with wild abandon indefinitely! Wink wink!"

What I would give to see something more realistic, like:

"I'm not pregnant... again.... WAAAAHHHHH! Why, god, whyyyyy? I'm so sore from banging all the time I can't sit down, why won't it take?!?!"

or

"I'm pregnant! Dammit. Well, at least we don't have to worry about birth control for 9 more months. Honey, let's keep fucking with wild abandon indefinitely (for now)!"

or, as was in my case

"Pregnant?! How the fuck did that lousy orgasm-devoid coital gesture negate my birth control and inject me with a parasite?? That was practically immaculate conception, WTF. Ortho Evra - you owe me child support!!"

Yes, pregnancy. The most stereotyped and undignified moment in a woman's life - if she so chooses. And I will state, for the record, that choosing to have a child can be just as difficult as choosing not to have a child. I respect a woman's decision, whatever that may be, without judgment. There is no right or wrong decision when it comes to procreating - it is what one does with that decision that makes all the difference.

Shortly after I found out I was kidnapped by an alien, I walked over to my closet and promptly had a fashion funeral, knowing I wouldn't be able to wear all my adorable clothes ever again. Goodbye, midriff-exposing tank tops! Adieu, tight pants and hourglass waist! Dear god, was I going to need a bra now?? How could this happen.... my beloved vanity, snuffed out in one quick, lousy routine lay...

Little did I know back then what it meant to be pregnant in the United States. Having been freshly fired, I had a clue that my employability was inversely proportional to the size of my growing belly (I have giant rants about this, to be shared later on). What I didn't know was that the fashion industry had a very specific opinion about what women should wear while they are baby factories - basically pink, red, white, black, baby blue, floral, and pretending the human tumor protruding from your midriff wasn't really there. No yellow. No orange. Green? No. Sexy clothes? Bwahahaha fuck you, mom-to-be, your attractive days are O-V-E-R! If you are pregnant in America, you are supposed to look like a delicate fucking flower, and should be treated as such. That's what you get for having sex, shameful hussy, cover thy sin with purity! In this society where female innocence and virginity is the biggest marketing tool, daring to show the consequences of feminine sexuality is a direct threat to corporate profits being raped reaped by insidiously sexualized advertising. It's sickening. No no no, ladies... cover that shit up! Men want to fuck you - they don't want to think of what might happen beyond that! Tsk tsk.

After going maternity clothes shopping - well, no. Let me rephrase. After crying my eyes out in yet another futile attempt to find any maternity clothes that didn't reduce me to a sexless blob or clean out my bank account (talk about a scam targeting a specific female demographic), I rebelled against the forced fashion stereotype and went back to all my cute clothes, completely at peace with baring my belly in social protest. I'd be damned if this kid was going to cramp my style! Fuck that! Thrift stores were also a treasure trove of interesting non-maternity clothes - I highly recommend! With some selective shopping on a budget, I found clothes that fit better and looked better than all the overpriced mall garbage. I also wrote to Victoria's Secret and asked them "howbout making a sexy maternity line for all those women who you helped to get laid?" To which they actually replied with an apology and that it was not their concern. Anti-motherfuckers!

But then I found myself with another annoying predicament of this culture. Apparently, a visible pregnancy bump has an irresistible gravitational field. Random strangers will be powerless to stop themselves from grabbing and rubbing your bump.... Nay, they will swiftly hurtle towards you with grubby paws, demanding personal information because... well, shit, lady, you're sticking it out there! You're not a person anymore, you're public property! A personality-free vessel answering the same damned questions in an endless loop. Yes, people, everyone asks: What are you having? What's the name is going to be? When we are due? Did we crave pickles and ice cream? Like it's any of your business. I'm telling you, it's like fucking deja vu every 15 minutes. The Twilight Zone was probably the brainchild of frustrated pregnant ladies. But for the inquiring minds, my general response to the usual Qs was always: "Definitely liberal, hopefully gay," "Rhino. Yes, Rhino," "Not soon enough," and "That stereotype offends me deeply. Fetch me bacon or I shall cry." We did not end up naming the kiddo Rhino after all... but it's close!

I got pretty good at smacking away entitled hands reaching out to touch my belly bump. But my kung fu chops were not enough to thwart the inquisitive, touchie-feelie fuckers from invading my personal space. So I dyed my hair green, in the hopes that it would either 1) distract from the baby belly, or 2) inform others that I was a punkass (I'm really more of a hippie, with bite), and/or 3) clue people in to the fact that I was ready to chomp any hands getting near me. Oh, and of course, 4) it made me look cute as fuck. My last few months of pregnancy were spent in adorable anti-social bliss.... What a relief!


I must say, I got hit on a lot when I was building baby from scratch. You'd think peckers on the prowl would consider an impregnated female off limits, but I was pleased to learn otherwise. I can only attribute that to one thing: pregnant women are voluptuous, curvaceous like all delectable femininity, and sexy goddesses to be revered and desired. Even men cannot deny that in this pro-eating disorder world. We are ripe, flush with life, and undeniably powerful. We are Mother Nature in all her creative glory! Who wouldn't want to tap that?

Be proud, MILFs - show your beautiful, growing selves to the world! I'll be damned if this country is going to force me to cover any of that incredibly fabulous shit up, and you shouldn't either. Taking pride in your body now is a lesson you will teach your babies for the rest of their lives. So start with you!