Entry 5: Panic At The Disco

By February I was basically an expert on pregnancy. My OB/GYN was necessary only because I could no longer reach my own vagina for examination. I had been reading all the books, listening intently to my body and paying close attention to my diet. This came as quite a surprise to most everyone who knew me, especially my best friend whose response to the news of my pregnancy was, “I’ll alert Taco Bell.”

She had only recently been awarded the privilege of being referred to as my best friend – mostly because I didn’t have many to choose from but also because in a conversation between the two of us shortly after meeting she unexpectedly brought up two of my very favorite subjects; masturbation and poop. I knew immediately that this was going to be a special relationship.

But anyway, I digress.

It was February meaning that my husband’s (sister’s) birthday was just around the corner and her idea of a celebration was torturing me with a night of sober karaoke.

Because of my abnormally large belly, the general consensus was that I was either carrying triplets or I was ready to pop – and the drunken American Idol hopefuls at the karaoke bar were no different. On my way to the stage I was confronted twice with “Any day now?” and once with “How many babies you got in there?”. By the time I finally got to the front the announcer shouted, “And this one’s pregnant! How sweet…” before he handed over the mic.

Thanks a heap, I thought. And by the way, you are no Ryan Seacrest.

My sisters and I had made some tradition out of singing “Earl Had to Die” by the Dixie Chicks every time there was a karaoke machine nearby. It wasn’t until now that I realized it had never been a good idea. Pencil that in between a bastard child and a police record on the list of things I owe to my good friend alcohol.

By the end of the song the Birthday Girl was sprinting for the bathroom and I could tell by the look on her face, it wasn’t to pee. After about a half hour of ignoring my conscience I finally went looking for her. She had locked herself into a bathroom stall and was hugging the toilet that now contained what appeared to be three days worth of tequila soaked bar food. Since I was attending church regularly again, as promised, I called upon the man upstairs to do me a solid and send me a way out of this mess!

But instead he sent me a drunken Kathy Griffin look alike – pre Extreme Makeover, if you know what I mean, only half as funny and twice as obnoxious. She came banging on the door claiming to be a doctor, insisting that I let her in to evaluate the patient. She was unrelenting, trying to shoulder her way into our makeshift drunk tank – threatening to call the police and turn me in for being pregnant in a bar; a threat that amused me more than it scared me.

I could not believe I let my sister drag me into this place all pregnant and hormonal. Some husband she had turned out to be. A good husband would never let his pregnant wife leave a bathroom stall with puke splattered shoes.

As it turns out the police did show up. Apparently the Kathy Griffin look alike called them after all and claimed to be a fellow officer needing back up at the karaoke bar to arrest a pregnant woman for child endangerment. Too bad she’s the idiot who left the party in hand cuffs. But hey, that's her life on the D-List, right?

Because my sister knew that I never met a burrito I didn’t like, she bought me one as a peace offering and because of this I eventually forgave her and allowed her back into our marital bunk bed.

But not before I farted on her pillow.