Marshmellow Fluff

Years ago when the Prius came out, and a friend was trying to describe them to me, I had never heard of or seen one.  She was shocked because in her words, “they are everywhere!”.  Sure enough, on my way home, I counted 20 of them on the freeway.  Much like Prius’ are, where you don’t see them until you are looking for them, so applies the rule to douchebags.  I don’t typically look for them, matter of fact, I try to steer clear of all douches and all related douchebaggery.  However, for the past few days, I’ve counted at least 10.

It all started the day before yesterday, when I was asked for the first time, if getting pregnant was a mistake.  First, yes, people do say those things, and those types of comments are not reserved for romantic comedies about “Insert name of current cutesy actress here” having a one night stand with “insert name of hunky actor here”.  People.Actually.Say.Inapropriate.Shit.Like.That.  My response was that, although I may look youthful in the right lighting, I am in fact a grown adult, who has in fact made it 30 plus years without accidentally getting pregnant and successfully managed to get pregnant on purpose.  Then, on my way into Starbucks, a semi-attractive guy smiled at me and said hello, granted up to that point his actions may be construed only as “polite stranger”, but then he caught an obvious glimpse of my belly, which admittedly, depending on the angle could be interpreted as “newly pregnant” or “unattractively fat”, to which his response was a disappointed, “Oh.”

“Oh!?!?”   Translation: I was going to pick you up when I saw your face, but the I looked down and realized either A. You are too fat to be my type or B. You are already pregnant, rendering you completely useless to me.

Now, I realize that for the next 6 months, I shouldn’t take to heart that men will not be cat calling me as I walk down the street and I will not be the apple of anyone’s eye candy, but at the very least, I would request that those thoughts remain thoughts and not actual comments that I can hear with my hormonal ears.

Then, that very same night, douchbaggery struck again when Paul came home and told me he lost his wallet.  In retracing his steps, he realized it was likely left at the Chevron gas station by his work.  He called and the guy who answered the phone first asked what was in the wallet, then quickly added, “nope we didn’t find a wallet.”  Which, in all my years of being an amateur detective, I know that someone doesn’t ask what is in a wallet, if there is no wallet in the first place.

And then this morning, on my way to work I was cut off and almost run off the road by a raised black truck with a militia sticker on the back window and a “I love my pit bull” bumper sticker.  Even though I know Pit Bulls to be a very understanding breed and uncannily tolerant of douchbags, I think even his Pit must think his owner was a douche.

But on the flip side, in a world of Prius’ there are also plenty of other cars, if you look for them.

While I feel knee-deep in douches, if I stop looking for them and instead look for wonderful people, there are plenty.  Like the ultrasound technician who patiently sat with Paul and I as we watched our baby do somersaults.  She didn’t mind one bit as Paul hovered over her shoulder taping the entire thing on his iPhone, asking her to “please just one more second, can you go back, right there, perfect, okay hold it riiigghhhtt, there!”  Or, the men who gave their seats up last weekend on the train for Paul and I after we stood on a crowded train for an hour in the aisle.  Or, the kind person who found Paul’s wallet in the dumpster, sans the $200 that was in it, and called him.  Or my amazing friend at work who sits and listens to me complain about how none of my clothes fit anymore and instead of rolling her eyes, she helps me to laugh at myself and the process of being present for your body and your growing baby belly, as they stage a mutiny against you.

Maybe for a few days all I saw were Prius’ but from this day forward, I choose to see all the rest of the cars on the road, minus the douche in the raised black truck.

I have this recurring dream where I’m talking and my jaw dislocates and when I crack my jaw back into place without being too obvious to the crowd of people who I am standing in front of, my mouth clamps shut and the pressure of my jaw clamping causes my teeth to grind down into tiny little pieces.  If this dream sounds familiar let me interpret it for you; you grind your teeth while sleeping.   I know this because the dentist stuck a TV camera in my mouth so I could see how when I moved my jaw back and forth, there were matching erosion patterns on my lower and upper teeth.  I’m pretty sure this was his way of getting the point across without coming off like he was telling me I needed $2,000 worth of unnecessary dental work.  When you add that to the annoying popping sound my jaw makes when I talk, eat, chew gum, breath or yawn with too much enthusiasm, the teeth grinding fact is undeniable.  2 hours later, I left the dentist with a “Night Guard” which is a custom-made acrylic contraption that clips onto your bottom teeth and renders you impossible to make out with before bedtime.  That happened 3 years ago and as of three days ago, I’ve now worn my Night Guard 3 times.  Wearing it has become unavoidable, mostly because I like to eat and lately eating is painful. Let me make it clear, that this has not stopped me from eating, it’s just slowed me down, which I am no fan of. Compounding this stupidness, I can no longer chew gum without my jaw locking and popping….which would be awesome if my jaw danced for money on street corners, but it doesn’t, so it sucks.