So, you know how you’re at home, trying to take the obligatory belly shot to appease the masses (or at least the one or two gals who you pestered, and turnabout’s fair play), and your husband comes home with the preschooler.  And sits on the couch.  And pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been getting these 800 number calls.  I finally answered:  it was Capital One, and they want to talk to you.”
“Did they say why?”
“No.   They wouldn’t, or they couldn’t.  But they want you to call them back.”

And you get that feeling like your dad or your teacher or some authority-figure in your life has busted you for something, but you have to play the guessing game as to what exactly it could be? ….

…………………

And you know how you call the number, and are instructed to enter your credit card number, but you can’t, cause you don’t have one, and you never did?

And how if you keep saying, “I.Don’t.Have.A.Credit.Card” you finally get a menu option where you can push buttons to finally get to a person?

And how that person has an Indian accent, and you have flashbacks of Slumdog and wonder truly where your call is routed to and if they’re sitting in a spot with “Red Hills” and “Cannon Beach” and “Lumpy’s” signs on the walls so they could “be” in my vicinity?

And how when you say you can’t give a credit card number to them because you’re never had a credit card with them, and your husband has never had a credit card with them, and no, you don’t have a credit card with them, and your husband *still* doesn’t have a credit card with them, and you’ve never had a credit card with them and … ?

And then when they say you need to give your social security number instead, that you can’t continue with nice Librarian Dren but have to drag out the I Learned From A Roommate Who Put Many a Person In Their Place When Asking for Ridiculous Requests Dren, and you say that you’re not comfortable with that and don’t think you should *have* to be?

And you run downstairs to google the number, because now you’ve decided that you’re part of some Dateline “Can you believe they fell for this?” rip-off story?  But google says it’s Capital One.  But you’re still not gonna give up the SS?

So they say they can’t help you and let you know how unreasonable you are in subtle inflections.  But they’ll call back again if need be.  Which you’ll never get the call, because it’s going to your husband.  And they won’t talk to him.  And that menu option of “report credit card loss or fraud press 3″ lingers in your head?

…………

And you bank on talking to another person when you call back.  And you do:  a guy who sounds all-American down to the, ‘Uh, yeah, uh, can I get your name?  Is that Z like zoo?”  Because he asks for your name, not your non-existent credit card number, nor your your social security number?

And it takes him ten minutes to spell your name, and then says, “Oh” and then “Uh” and then “I need to talk to someone else”?

So you sit in silence, with your belly solid as if you ate stone soup for lunch, and wait, and wait, and wait?

Until he comes back on and says, “Oh, the reason we called is we’d *like* to offer you an account with Capital One:  would you be interested?”

And you have two options on how to react, and choose simply to laugh at the utter rediculousness of it all rather than let the Hormonal One be unleashed, because you have enough battles in your life, and this poor guy can’t possibly get many people laughing somewhat hysterically at him over the phone, and maybe that would make his day a bit nicer?

And you say, “No, thank you.” and thank him for his “help” and hang up and think that this could be an excellent means of inducing labor when the time comes, but dang it, it’s not going to help you calm down for quiet time while the boys are down?

……………….

Yeah, me, neither.

Seriously:  belly.hurts.  But my stress level is waaaay down.

And here it is:  in all it’s glory.

Picture one:  Good Posture.  Also, how I walked around in public for many weeks while ignoring the fact that there was a Miss Boo bouncing around in my belly.

Picture Two:  Bad Posture.  Also known as, tired of sucking it in, and it’s nighttime, and seriously:  how do I look like my friends who are 37 weeks pregnant already?

Many women note that the popping out of the belly button is their indicator that “We’re ready to go!”  So, does that mean I get a “get out of the third trimester free?” card? The button’s not totally obvious in this picture, but I really don’t want to repulse folks:  stretched out three times is a bit much, apparently.

And no, (Heidi), I’m not wearing maternity pants yet:  denial can be a blissful place to be, although I do find myself getting into pajama pants at night ealier and earlier.

And yes, that is a pedometer:  we’re back on the 10,000 steps program.  Because we don’t have enough going on in our lives right now ….

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel