Dear Grocery Cashier Lady

Dear Grocery Cashier Lady, Guy on the Street, Old Lady In the Bathroom at the Mall, Starbucks Girl, Weird Irish Guy at Party and Other Countless Strangers I Encounter Daily:

Yes, I am pregnant. Mutha-fuckin' pregnant. Eight months. I'm due February 8 (well not technically, but nine months is as long as this kid's likely to get a free gut ride.)

No I do not know the sex of the baby. Weee! Aren't surprises fun?

Yes, I know my stomach is big. Very big. In fact, if you ask my asshole or vagina, they both know it too. Go ahead...ask. I'm warning you, though, they've both been in miserable spirits for months and aren't likely to respond kindly.

If I don't know you, please don't touch me. Or my stomach. That has my baby inside. Especially if you're a weird old man. Next time you do, I'm going to feel free to grab your ass. Or kick you in the balls.

When you make noises like "Oooooh" or "Whooaaaa" or "Mmmmmmm!" or "Woooooweeee!" or "Wowza!" that's simply not cool. Just because I'm pregnant doesn't mean I'm a free-admission circus act for your entertainment. Fuck off.

Don't stare. It's impolite. I'm not staring at the hair coming out of your nose.

Can we just keep our relationship all-business? I'm just trying to buy some shampoo and I'm in no mood to talk about whether this is my first, if I'm excited, my due date, if I think I'm going to go past my due date, how old my other kids are, or ooooh, wow, am I going to have my hands full. I'm just trying to make it through the day and into my bed where, hopefully, my husband won't breathe too loudly, I won't get a leg cramp, I'll get up to pee less than three times in one night, and I won't wrench my back trying to roll over after sleeping on my right arm to the point where I don't believe blood will ever flow to that part of my body again.

And above all, remember this, when a woman is eight months pregnant or more, she ain't feelin' the miracle. A watermelon sitting on your pelvis is not the easiest thing to haul around and it doesn't put you in the most charitable mood. We've answered your questions about due date, boy or girl, etc. a million times or more over the past five months, and we don't care anymore. I know these days, all I can think about is if I poop, will a baby come out?

Oh, and to the guy in the parking lot who leaned out his car window to get a better look and then proceeded to whisper "Whoa" when I walked by? Bet that was the first time a pregnant lady flipped you the bird, asshole.