Entry 7: The Price is Wrong, Bitch!

Once the initial surprise wore off that my daughter would in fact be born a boy, I started to view things in a much bluer light. I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life but being a lady was never one of them – so the more I thought about raising a daughter the more episodes of The Twilight Zone I figured I’d be avoiding by having a boy instead. I also thought it was pretty fun to tell people I currently had both a penis AND a vagina – although I’m pretty sure I’m close to the only person who found that amusing.

I started to think a lot about boy names - with little help from my naïvely adorable eight year old niece. She suggested that I name the baby Jackal Sonny - which I didn’t even think was all that creative. I mean, my 3 year old nephew suggested that my sister name her baby Punkalotta Mujibu – now that’s original! Besides that, Jackal reminded me way too much of Baby Daddy and Sonny just reminder me of Cher. I decided it was unimaginable.

Now I was on to my next shenanigan; my office baby shower.

One darling lady at work had the bright idea to collect money from everyone and buy me a group gift. As I slowly unwrapped and opened what would reveal my Nightmare on Lycra Street, I was horrified to find that instead of a gift, they all pitched in to buy me a large box of shiny pregnancy spandex. Now I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but my idea of pregnant comfort is far from dressing up like a cast member from Xanadu. Imagine how I must have felt trying on my stretchy shorts and sundress to model for the office and attempting to make a face of satisfied excitement. What type of pregnant woman finds comfort in magnifying her ass flaws with spandex? It was bad enough as it was – I already had to tell myself that the reason for the dimples was because my ass was smiling. I hadn't been this disappointed since McDonald's canceled 39 cent cheeseburger Sundays.

I didn’t even go home after work that day; I drove straight to the mall with my girlfriend to dispose of it. The lady at the return counter could not keep her droopy eyes off my stomach. She kept shifting her gaze from my belly to my ring finger. When she saw that a wedding ring was not decorating my finger I sensed the words “illegitimate child” oozing out of her thoughts. I wondered if it would be considered inappropriate to bitch slap a 70 year old woman at a department store return counter. It would be like a female version of Happy Gilmore punching Bob Barker - only pregnant.

In true single mother fashion, I opted instead to take the cash and I then went and bought myself the most obnoxious cubic zirconia I could find. Nobody would ever question the legitimacy of my child again – even if I had to fake it.