Bambi + ? = $100,000,000 raised for a
worthy cause
No problem, right? All I have to do is figure out whatever that
tiny little question mark stands for, and I’ll be raking in donations with a
backhoe.
In the mean time, I’ve been getting
acquainted with our clients, volunteers and community partners, who are for the
most part, lovely people.
And then there’s Maude.
At 83 years old, Maude is one of our
longest serving volunteers. She’s a very
fashionable dresser, who told me when I complimented her on her summery outfit,
that since she retired, she sees no reason why she shouldn’t dress like she’s
embarking on a pleasure cruise every day.
From what I’ve seen of the woman, she takes this look deadly serious.
Maude came to a recent information session
my agency hosted, and mingled with the crowd. Afterward, as I cleared up the
coffee and tea station, Maude approached me with a question.
“A bunch of us were wondering, dear. Are you pregnant?”
First of all…no. Just, no.
Unless there is a clearly identifiable baby head emerging from my vagina
while I scream for drugs and or the castration of whatever bastard did this to
me, let’s all safely assume I am not with child.
In fact, let’s assume that with my current
sex life, any resulting pregnancy should be immediately reported to the Vatican. It’s not that I’m a virgin, but given my
recent surgical history and how very long it’s been, it’s safe to say I could
qualify as such under most technical definitions of virginity.
I am however, kind of fluffy. To make matters worse, the dress I was
wearing had a funny little bunching of extra material over my tummy that pulls
to the side. Perhaps this decorative
flourish simply drew undue attention to my mid-section.
I told Maude I was not pregnant, thinking
this would be her cue to walk away from any ensuing awkward conversation while both
of us still stood a chance of salvaging dignity.
“Oh. So it’s just your weight then is it?”
I was really, really starting to hate the
shit out of Maude.
Actually, I explained to Maude, it could be
a bad wardrobe choice. Yes, I could
stand to lose a few pounds after winter, but my dress was a little too big in
the middle as a matter of fact, with extra material bunched and pulled, which
may make it appear as a maternity dress.
Maude was having none of it.
Faster than I thought an 83 year old could
bend, she suddenly had her well-coiffed old lady head resting against my
stomach. In explanation of why her anchor shaped earring was pressing into
my belly button, she said that she was so surprised more people hadn’t come up
to me during the event to do exactly what she was doing, and listen for the
baby kicking.
I bent to the side so Maude could see my
not so motherly face staring at hers.
“I’m glad more people didn’t do what you’re
doing right now, because then I’d have to punch them in the face. Because it’s rude. And because I. Am. Not. Pregnant. Am I clear?”
Apparently, I was not, because Maude
straightened up and patted my cheek like I was a sweetly dim-witted child.
“Well it would be OK if you were,
dear. There’s no shame in pregnancy!”
Indeed.
There is however, a considerable amount of shame when there’s no
pregnancy.
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