The A$$ Hat: This Summer's Must-Have Accessory for Opinionated Strangers

There is little in this world that brings out stupid comments from friend and foe like pregnancy. I'm not sure if it's because the majority of the population is aware that preggos aren't recommended to partake in fist-fights or because the sight of a pregnant person automatically bestows the seer with a medical degree, but there is no other time in a persons life when they will more wish to live on a deserted island than while with child.





It was during my 4th or 5th month of pregnancy with Critter that I ran into a person who has always been a mega-butt and I should expect no good to come from. Butt Head looked me up and down with his critical eyes and said, not "Congratulations" but "Wow, you've gotten really fat." Which was an especially cruddy comment for him to make, considering I had only gained about 10 pounds.





As I blinked in shock, the only comeback I could think of was to tell him that I was right on target with my weight gain and my doctor had congratulated me for being exactly average.



His response? "Huh. Well, she's not concerened that your butt appears to be what's pregnant, not your stomach?" I had nothing to say to this, so I pretended not to have heard him.




However, when I got home I curled up next to Husband and told him the story with tears streaming down my face. Husband looked at me and responded with all the sympathy of his gender. "Well, what can I say? You know he's an ass hat!"



And out of the ashes of my self-esteem arose the A$$ Hat:








See those little slips of paper sticking out of the top? Those are all the crappy comments people have made to me over the course of my pregnancies. When someone says something stupid, mean, or completely inappropriate, I jot it down on whatever is handy and when I get home I put it in the A$$ Hat. Then, when I'm feeling creative and/or mean spirited I pull out the A$$ Hat and try to come up with retorts to all the stupid things people say.



As you can see, the A$$ Hat is pretty full. And so recently, I changed the Hat's rules. Now I play a different game.



Friday's are pretty boring for me, so Fridays became my Game Day. Each morning on My Most Special Day, I close my eyes and pick a saying from the Hat. Then I pack the diaper bag full of Critter essentials and run all my errands that I have been saving up since the previous Game Day. I make a tally on the slip of paper for each time someone makes the same, or a similar comment. And then I picture them in the Hat, a la Jeff Foxworthy's "Here's Your Sign."



So, Strangers, if you are unable to keep your opinions to yourself, and you run into me on a Friday, and I'm laughing maniacally, that's why. It's because you are wearing the A$$ Hat.

Reason #42 Why Pregnant People Shouldn't Grocery Shop While Hungry

Ya Got Any Weddin' Dresses With Nursin' Flaps?

My sister-in-law is getting married 3 weeks after Nudger's due date, and I am to be a bridesmaid. SIL, faced with the complex task of dressing 7 maids in various stages of reproduction, gave us the option of wearing the dress style of our choice in the color of hers. Bless her.

I went to a local bridal salon to check out different styles and to see if they carried my first style of choice so that I could try it on before I get too rotund. Since bridal salons are never open in the evening, when my sitters are home, I had to take Critter with me.

Upon entering the store, a haughty woman in a severe black dress swooped down on us. She gave my clean, stroller-contained, and SLEEPING baby the stink eye. "Can I help you?" she sniffed, glaring down at Critter like a plague carrying sewer rat.

Immediately ticked that she was treating my sweet, SLEEPING baby like a sticky, screaming terror, I decided on the spot to have a little fun to relieve my stress.

Discreetly I slipped off my wedding rings and responded to her inquiry with my most back-woods-redneck voice. "Yeah, I'm a-lookin' for a weddin' dress. Cheap one." I stuck my hand on my hip, poking my expanding belly over the stroller canopy. "I'm thinkin' I should look at the umpire dresses."

The woman paled, no doubt calculating her commission going down the tubes. "Um... Let me get a consultant..." She looked around her in an apparent attempt to find someone else to pawn me off on. Seeing that there was no one near by to save her she turned back to me in defeat. "Right this way." She gave me her sewer-rat look and stalked toward the back of the store. I followed, making carefully sure to whack the stroller wheel against the counter as I passed it.

Reaching the dressing rooms, I noisily plopped myself on one of the cushy waiting benches. I shoved out my tummy as far as it would go and patted it. "Now, I'm due with Cornbread here in November, and we're shootin' to have the weddin' in October, so I'm gonna need a stretchy dress. Hey, do you know how to keep your turkey-timer from poking thru the material?" Mrs. Horrified pretended not to hear me. "Please wait right here," she instructed. As she walked around the store pulling dresses she kept looking over her shoulder at me as though she expected me to be shoving things into the stroller basket or wiping my nose on the veils.

She returned a few minutes later with 200 pounds of tulle and satin over her arms. I raised my eyebrows at her and snapped my cheek in Ultra Redneck fashion. I patted my belly buddy again. "Do ya really think white is the best option? I mean, I don't think it'll fool anyone." Mrs. Open-Minded glared at me. "All of these dresses can be ordered in cream."

"I was really hopin' for red or green. Ya know, Christmassy and all that since it's late October and nearin' to the holidays." I tapped my foot impatiently. "And I need to hurry here. I gotta go meet my friend to borrow some nursin' bras." As Mrs. Helpful turned to put down the white meringue I could see her roll her eyes. "We don't have red wedding dresses." She huffed. "If you want a colored dress, I suggest you order a bridesmaid dress."

Tiring of my game, I decided to let her off the hook. "You got any of them with nursin' flaps?" At her inevitably witchy response of "no" I stood up and started toward the door. Unable to resist one last jibe I called to her over my shoulder. "Ya know, you should really get a play space in here. Like a ball pit or a train table. Somethin' for the young uns to do while their mama's shop."

***********

Now, I understand that there are some places where one should not bring their children. Bars, adult movie stores, antique china shops...I get that some places are simply not child appropriate. And I see that wedding dress stores, filled with expensive white fabric, could definitely be on the No Rugrats list. I don't take Critter to movies with anything other than a G rating, restaurants that don't have crayons at the hostess stand or ball pits in the sound proof room, wedding ceremonies (even if he's invited) or book club, just to name a few.

But he was ASLEEP. In a stroller. He's not old enough to eat jelly sandwiches, so his hands aren't sticky; he's not old enough to walk, so he can't play hide-and-seek in the dress racks; and he's not old enough to talk, so he's not screaming "Mama, Mama, listen to me sing Barney for the 2 billionth time!"

Was the Wedding Witch justified in treating me poorly because I had an infant with me or was I justified in being a pain in her rear for it?

Just Give Me My Puke Pills!: Part Deux

After returning home and washing out the barf bucket, I got out my trusty (read: useless) insurance card and dialed their phone number.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

I should have taken the fact that the phone rang 7 times with no answer as a sign of what was to come.

Halfway through the 8th ring the line connected. "You've reached Screw You Blue Insurance. This is Lucifer." I should've taken the fact that Ole Luc didn't ask how he could help me as sign number 2.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Smith. I'm insured with y'all, and I'm having a problem getting a prescription filled." The desperation in my voice was palpable

This elicited an "Uh huh" from the Super Helpful Insurance Minion.

"So..." I hedged, wanting him to tell me what my next step should be.

"So?" He clearly didn't understand why I had a problem.

My mood swung and my inner witch came zooming out on her broomstick. "So!" I barked at him, all traces of pleading gone from my voice. I was a woman on A Mission. "So! I want to know what the problem is! The pharmacy said I need prior authorization from you, and I want you to give it to me!" I thought that the unspoken threat in my voice was perfectly clear. Lucifer, however, did not.

"Yeah," he drawled casually. I could hear the clicking of his solitare game in the background. "What's the medication?"

"Zofran." Good, we must be getting somewhere.

"Huh. Hold on." Before I could answer, I was listening to Muzak. Which I hate.

7 minutes and 51 seconds later, Lucifer was back. "Our policy is not to fill a prescription of more than 5 pills of Zofran without authorization from the prescribing doctor."

It was my turn to use his choice word. "Huh?"

"Ma'am, we don't fill prescriptions of that particular drug for more than 5 pills without authorization from the prescribing doctor" Click, click, click went the solitare game.

"Yes, I heard you, I don't understand what that means, though" I explained to the ghoul.

He let out a huge sigh. "Ma'am. Without your doctor's authorization, we will not pay for a prescription of more than 5 pills."

Clearly, he and I were great communicators. "What do I need to do then? Should I have my doctor call your office? Should I have her call the pharmacy?" I thought that by giving him more than one option I had a better chance at an agreeable outcome.

He sighed again and the clicking resumed. "Ma'am, you need your doctor to fax us a document stating that he or she has written you a prescription for Zofran and that he or she wants you to receive more than 5 pills." It was plain he thought my elevator wasn't running to the top floors. What my elevator wanted to do was floor him.

"Um, doesn't the fact that my doctor wrote the prescription for more than 5 pills show you that she wants me to have more than 5 pills?" I could not have sounded more irritated.

Neither could Lucifer. "Ma'am. Our policy is not to fill a prescription of more than 5 pills of Zofran without authorization from the prescribing doctor."

"Oh, good grief! I heard you the first THREE TIMES YOU SAID THAT!!" I was near the end of my rope and I wanted to tie what was left of it around this guy's neck. "Is there a particular form I need to have her send you or will her scribble on a piece of paper work?"

"Ummmmmm. Hold on." It took me about 5 minutes to realize that this time there was no Muzak. It took me another minute to realize that this was because he had hung up on me.

I burst into tears and threw the phone to the floor, scaring Critter, who also burst into tears. As I sat on the sofa rocking both of us I vowed to go out and buy an Insurance Demon voodoo doll and stab it with as many pins as I could get my swollen hands on.

It's Not Like I'm Trying to Buy Medicinal

Marijuana. Just Give Me the Dang Pills!

After spending the night curled in a ball on the bathroom floor while sniffing lemon slices, I dragged my barfy bum off the floor this morning and headed to my nearest CVS to refill my Zofran prescription. Zofran, for those lucky enough not to know what it is, is a highly potent anti-nausea pill.

I waddled up to the pharmacy and slid my prescription across the counter. Noticing my green gills, the chirpy pharmacist guy promised to have the meds ready in less than 10 minutes. I crawled over to the set of plastic chairs and dropped into one. A couple of minutes later a timid little voice called to me.

"Ma'am?" The pharmacist guy was looking at me with sympathy.

His sugary sweet demeanor immediately set off my alarm bells. "Yes?" I responded warily.

"Um, your insurance requires prior authorization for this prescription." He let this announcement hang in the air for a second. "And without insurance, it will cost $427.00"

"What?!" My shriek was no doubt heard all the way up in the film development corner.

The pharmacy guy began to look alarmed and took a step back. "I can't fill this prescription the way it's written without authorization from your insurance company. The only way I can give you the 30 pills is if you pay full price for them. Otherwise, your insurance will only pay for 5." The words came tumbling out of him so fast it was hard for me to decipher each one individually. The poor guy was obviously new to the profession and hadn't had much experience with dealing with people who were livid with their insurance company.

Well, who better than a barfy pregnant woman to break him in?

"That's horse hockey!!" I snapped at him. I lunged out of my chair and snatched my prescription back off the counter. "It's not like I'm trying to get Percocet or Pot or something! It's barf pills!! What the heck is their problem?" I demanded of him.

"I don't know" he stammered nervously. His eyes darted from side to side, obviously looking for someone to rescue him.

"You know, you really should have that answer!" I sneered at him and stomped away.

Once in the car I wrenched my cell phone out of my purse to call the insurance company. As I did, a wave of nausea hit me and I was wiped clean of my anger. All I wanted now was a bucket and my mommy.