Conception
I was invited to a baby shower this past weekend. Unfortunately, going to a baby shower includes bringing a gift for, you know, a baby. Luckily, I knew they were going to have alcohol at this particular party, so the shopping would, eventually, be rewarded.
I went to the snobby baby store. Not the huge box store that is associated with the giraffe store. And I think every medium-sized town probably has the snobby baby store. The store where they sell ridiculously overpriced baby clothes, baby shoes, toddler wardrobes, Gucci diapers and gold and diamond encrusted rattlers. Okay, I exaggerate. However, how much can a store conceivably charge for a onesie? Even one made of organic cotton and post-consumer recycled waste?
So I go. And I'm cranky. Either because of the pain in my shoulder from stress or the lack of sleep due to the pain in the shoulder or the carbohydrate overload of breakfast only an hour or two beforehand. So I'm not a happy camper going in. I figure I'll find something small, pay and get out in ten minutes or so.
It is Saturday. The place is dead. There are two women at the register and one person buying something. I start to look around, overwhelmed by the vast walls of fleece and Egyptian cotton and whatever other fancy fabrics are used to make things that dreams are made of. I'm quickly tired and crosseyed by the colors and so I simply stand still, waiting for someone to come help me.
Instead, I get to listen to fifteen minutes of gossip. Gossip about out-of-wedlock pregnancy, shotgun weddings, how episiotomies were created to help Asian women undergo natural childbirth (I think--frankly, I was dazed by that point), pediatricians, etc, etc, ad nauseum. The customer, apparently, knew one of the women working and felt the need to catch up on at least the last year's worth of gossip, since she didn't know the employee had 1) gotten engaged; 2) gotten pregnant; 3) gotten married; 4) had the baby; and 5) got a job at this hellhole. In that order.
Finally, she left, after promising to catch up next week over a latte. I can hardly wait.
By this point, I wanted to kill someone.
"Are you looking for something?" One of the women finally asked.
"Um, yeah." How could you possibly tell? "I've got a baby shower. It is a second child. I don't know the sex. I hate you." Okay. I didn't say the last sentence.
"Well, we have these socks..." she pointed to a large display.
"Fine." I grabbed something sex-neutral. "Wrap it."
I paid and left. Finally.
I'm sure that, after I left, the two of them had a long conversation about me. And how I clearly am having problems conceiving. What else could possibly create a mood that bad?
I went to the snobby baby store. Not the huge box store that is associated with the giraffe store. And I think every medium-sized town probably has the snobby baby store. The store where they sell ridiculously overpriced baby clothes, baby shoes, toddler wardrobes, Gucci diapers and gold and diamond encrusted rattlers. Okay, I exaggerate. However, how much can a store conceivably charge for a onesie? Even one made of organic cotton and post-consumer recycled waste?
So I go. And I'm cranky. Either because of the pain in my shoulder from stress or the lack of sleep due to the pain in the shoulder or the carbohydrate overload of breakfast only an hour or two beforehand. So I'm not a happy camper going in. I figure I'll find something small, pay and get out in ten minutes or so.
It is Saturday. The place is dead. There are two women at the register and one person buying something. I start to look around, overwhelmed by the vast walls of fleece and Egyptian cotton and whatever other fancy fabrics are used to make things that dreams are made of. I'm quickly tired and crosseyed by the colors and so I simply stand still, waiting for someone to come help me.
Instead, I get to listen to fifteen minutes of gossip. Gossip about out-of-wedlock pregnancy, shotgun weddings, how episiotomies were created to help Asian women undergo natural childbirth (I think--frankly, I was dazed by that point), pediatricians, etc, etc, ad nauseum. The customer, apparently, knew one of the women working and felt the need to catch up on at least the last year's worth of gossip, since she didn't know the employee had 1) gotten engaged; 2) gotten pregnant; 3) gotten married; 4) had the baby; and 5) got a job at this hellhole. In that order.
Finally, she left, after promising to catch up next week over a latte. I can hardly wait.
By this point, I wanted to kill someone.
"Are you looking for something?" One of the women finally asked.
"Um, yeah." How could you possibly tell? "I've got a baby shower. It is a second child. I don't know the sex. I hate you." Okay. I didn't say the last sentence.
"Well, we have these socks..." she pointed to a large display.
"Fine." I grabbed something sex-neutral. "Wrap it."
I paid and left. Finally.
I'm sure that, after I left, the two of them had a long conversation about me. And how I clearly am having problems conceiving. What else could possibly create a mood that bad?
posted by Miss Head at
5:55 AM
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