So I'm waddling down the street today, on the way to mail the bills I figured I ought to pay before going into labor. Una is sniffing happily next to me, as I pause periodically to pull down the maternity tank top that fit a lot better before the baby started moving downward.



A young, heavyset guy, sitting on some steps, asks me, "Having a boy?"

Yes, I told him, a bit surprised but grateful he didn't ask the usual stupid questions or inquire whether I was having twins. "Any time now."

"Is it your first?" he correctly surmised.

I told him yes, that it had taken me a while to find the right guy, but what can you do?

"He still in the picture?" he asked me.

"Yes, he's my husband," I said, wondering why the wedding ring on a chain around my neck wasn't enough of a signal.

"And you're going to stay with him?"

Suddenly, the whole conversation became clear to me. He wasn't just making conversation; this was his version of a pick-up line. Maybe that's why he was hanging out on a stoop in front of an unoccupied house near the bus stop: to hit on pregnant women (there are several in my neighborhood right now).

Wordlessly, I pulled Una after me and waddled away. Fortunately, by the time we'd mailed the letters and returned, he was gone, back to underneath whatever rock he calls home.

Moral:
Some guys have super bad mojo.