Silly Mama, Your Shirt Goes in the Hamper, Not in the Trash Can

After a fun-filled, glorious day, the hubby suggests that we dine out. Who's to argue with an offer to NOT cook a meal that everyone criticizes and then NOT spend another hour cleaning the kitchen? We decided it would be casual - the neighborhood grill joint with a splendid patio for ansty kids to stretch their legs and the most accomodating staff around. The menu offers something to please everyone and the food is out in a flash. This is the neighborhood family-friendly place, so we are soon surrounded by a few families we know.

New Orleans is by far the biggest small town I've ever known...especially since Hurricane Katrina. We are so relaxed as we enjoy adult conversation (and adult beverages, too). The boys are chatting it up with their own circle of friends and behaving extremely well. The evening, was, up until this point, absolutely flawless.

Like I said, New Orleans can be a very small town. I attempt to divert my eye, but it's too late...SHE already saw me. This elderly, name-dropping, social-climbing, cantankerous old bitty whom I haven't had the "pleasure" of seeing since Katrina makes her way to our table. She asks about our extended family, Tulane, and makes small talk in general. Then she says, "Congratulations on your growing family. I hope this one's a girl."

Wow - I am stunned, shocked, and, completely speechless, which, for those of you who know me is utterly uncharacteric. Her words hang in the air link Damocles sword...waiting to pierce my heart. I compose myself just long enough to state, in no uncertain terms, "I am NOT pregnant."

COB (Cantakerous Old Bitty, as I now refer to her) stares blankly and I excuse myself so no one sees a few tears escape my angry eyes. I pause and take a few moments to compose myself in the restroom. When I emerge, COB is seated at a distant table. Talk about a self-esteem-killing, ego-busting turn of events.

By the time I arrive home, I've mentally convinced myself that, although I know I have some pounds to lose, I certainly cannot look pregnant. It must be the shirt! A new shirt - a fashion experiment run amok. My youngest almost wet his pants when he saw me putting the (new) shirt in the trash can. "You're so silly, Mama. Your shirt goes in the hamper, not in the trash can."

No, sweet boy, this shirt does go in the trash can...if only I could find a way to fit the COB in the trash can, too...