Hey party people. Hope everyone had a nice weekend. Today we’re doubling up – check out Fallopian Groove over at PAIL in their Monday Snapshot (thanks, Josey!) and also here with a Scintillating! Riveting! post about riding in a cop car while pregnant.
Sometimes, being pregnant means that you get shingles, and you feel nauseated, and the thought of limes and garlic make you dry heave, and you endure terrible anxiety about life threatening complications and spend too much time on Yahoo! answers and your pants no longer button and
oh-my-goodness-get-over-it-already-because-this-all-means-you get a baby!.
And then, there are other days. And on those days, being pregnant means just one thing: you get to ride in a cop car.
I took a quick jaunt home for the weekend to celebrate my oldest, dearest friend who recently got her PhD. The plane ride back had made me uncharacteristically nauseated – dry heaving, cold sweats, the whole deal. And the thought of venturing home from the airport on public transportation with heavy luggage in tow, in humid August weather was, surprisingly, daunting. So, after a complicated series of rationalizations and justifications and consolations, like somersaults in my head, I decided that yes I could spend 30 bucks on a cab instead of less than 3 on public transportation – that’s a colossal TEN TIMES as much, for those
math geniuses! who are playing at home – because, you know, I’m worth it! And I’m pregnant! And I’m hot!
And, at first, things were going swimmingly. We – me and the rather ornery cab driver whose grisliness I was trying to embrace (metaphorically speaking) – cruised down the highway with the windows down and I was relieved in the (oh-so-naïve!) correctness of my decision, practically patting myself on the back for squandering what little savings we have on an indulgent cab ride. But then, less than 5 miles from my home, DISASTER STRUCK! (as did hyperbole, apparently).
All of a sudden, we came to an abrupt halt. We had encountered the annual Dominican Parade, in full force, shutting down literally every street between the exact position of the cab and my cool, air conditioned bedroom where I would promptly be
face planting myself awkwardly lying in some kind of convoluted,
starfish like, where-is-that-giant-vagina-pillow-when-I-need-it!
position, in a winning mix of exhaustion/nausea/pregnancy-ness.
After a series of complicated turns, detours, one-way streets and a dozen blue police barriers, the cab driver had had enough. And I had too. Now close to 40 dollars in fare and I was still several miles from home. Naturally, I decided to cut my losses, get out and walk – which I did in only the most overdramatic way possible, likening my couple mile
trek stroll to
some kind of Odyssean journey not for the faint of heart. Dragging my suitcase
from the trunk, I huffed and puffed my way down major city roads now closed to
traffic, darting in and out of a very raucous parade, feeling like some kind of
traveling, pregnant freak show. Sweating bullets now, I decided to approach three
idle looking cops – sitting ducks! – to register my grievances. I’m still not
sure what my angle was – what,
exactly, was I expecting to get out of them? Yeah, sure pathetic white lady, let me just shut down this joyful
parade enjoyed by hundreds of people FOR YOU AND YOUR FETUS. Please, go right
ahead, ruin the celebration! What can I say, I was hormonal (and subsequently kind of disgusted with myself. But
And then, it happened. As sickeningly paternalistic and generous as they could be, they offered me a ride. A ride. In a cop car. Through closed down streets. To get me home. I initially refused – you know, in the way you refuse something you desperately want, in an effort not to seem, well, desperate. But my protests fell on deaf ears – probably because they weren’t very forceful – and into the car I went. But not until I asked whether I should sit in the front or the back. A question which, naturally, they found HILARIOUS.
And then, once in the car, after the officer cleared out empty plastic water bottles and snickers wrappers from the passenger seat, he turned on his radio.
Calling out his identification number across the airwaves, he announced, for all city officers to hear: ONE PREGNANT FEMALE, TO 101 MAPLE STREET. I REPEAT, ONE. PREGNANT. FEMALE. TO 101 MAPLE STREET.
It was pretty amazing.
 Truth be told, our bed is definitely not big enough for this kind of threesome. That’s why I’ve asked C to sleep on the couch. Kidding! I’ve yet to purchase one of these novelties and instead just sleep awkwardly with my shoulders practically dislocated from their sockets. It seems to be, umm, working? <looks quizzically at numb hands>
 In my defense, this was neither my first, nor my second time in (the back of) a cop car. Sitting in the front was quite the privilege. But that’s a story for a different day.
 No, I don’t actually live on Maple Street but broadcasting my home address to the deep dark corners of the interwebs – and not just to all the police officers in my city – seems, well, reckless? Unless of course it means that you guys would send care packages. Because if that’s a thing, then I will totally edit this.
-  And the entire time, all I could hear was Chief Wiggum from the Simpsons: This is Papa Bear. Put out an APB for a male suspect, driving a...car of some sort, heading in the direction of...you know, that place that sells chili. Suspect is hatless. Repeat, hatless.