One of my pals who happens to be a cigarette aficionado and beer enthusiast from way back, has recently announced she’s with child. No drinkie and no smokie treats for Mommy-to-be for the next several months. A pre-natal hop on the wagon kind of sucks, and you know how I know? Because she said as much when we were all gathered for a wedding reception on Saturday.
“THIS. FUCKING. SUCKS!” she declared, white knuckled and gripping the edges of the table while I talked to her with a Marlboro Light in one hand and about 62 beers in front of me. It was open bar. Talk about pouring salt in an open wound.
“Um, you’ll be fine,” I said, and then busted out laughing as she took a drink of her O’Doul’s and shot me a look only a crazed woman could muster. A couple of times while I was enjoying my moderate habit I indulge in only while drinking, I spied a blond head next to me inhaling smoke deeply as I exhaled. I shoved her and told her to get away from me. I care about this baby, ya know?
It’s just too bad she wasn't married to a sea horse.
Most of us who were in utero in the 60’s and early 70’s can be quite certain that our moms didn’t exactly stay away from the sauce during pregnancy entirely. My mother and my friends’ moms actually told us so. These ladies were registering for bongs and fifths of Jack Daniels for baby showers, I’ll bet.
Anyway, we’re all ok. We’ve got degrees from mediocre state universities and lackluster jobs just like everyone else. We turned out just fine, is what the old ladies say when they rationalize their pregnancies. To think if my mom didn’t have that six pack the summer of 1972, I’d be chief of staff of an Al Gore White House right now.
I’m certain that my friend Blondie will be a model pregnant lady. And I vow to be there at her house with a pack of cigarettes and a case of beer to celebrate baby Blondie coming into the world.