A Pregnant Pause

I held my purse open for him.

"Aren't you going to search my bag?"

"I'm not worried about your bag," he said. "I'm worried about your unborn child."

"Eh, whatever," I said. "As soon as I have it, I'm giving it to this desperate, rich couple. If something happens, they have enough money to deal with it."

"Yo," he said to a guy on a cell phone who I'm assuming was his boss, "are we really going to let this girl in?"

"Come on!" I yelled, "I've been carrying this fucker for eight months and I can't take it anymore! I need to get my drink on!"

Boss man quickly glanced at me, scratched his goatee, and waved me through. The bouncer was the only one I met all night who seemed to care about the baby.

To the beat of blaring reggaeton, I shimmied up to a red-lit bar, licked some salt, downed some tequila, and sucked on a lime. Lola jutted her chin toward a stripper pole elevated in the middle of the dance floor. I climbed it and seductively slithered downward.

A group of scuzzy girls in skin-tight dresses stopped dancing. I hiked up my skirt, wrapped my leg around the pole, and twirled. They laughed and booty-danced around me.

It was almost 2 a.m., and after a quick trip to the CocoWalk ladies' room to restuff my bra, Lola and I noticed the party was still popping at Fat Tuesday (3015 Grand Ave., Ste. 260, Coconut Grove). Upon arrival, we were both immediately inked with a stamp that read, "$1 Jell-O shots." Fantastic.

As I ordered a mudslide and a Heineken, Lola spotted a group of guys giving away a tray of what looked like about 30 red coagulated shots.

"Hey, can I get a couple of those?" she asked a tall, pasty guy from South Dakota.

"Who are they for?" interrupted his short, bulldoggish friend. Lola explained they were for her ... and me.

"But she's pregnant," he said, his face flushed.

"So?" said Lola. "She's been drinking all night."

"Aw, man, that's the number one rule for girls. You don't drink when you're pregnant."

"That's so messed up," South Dakota persisted. "Her baby is going to be a retard."

"Well, I drank throughout my pregnancy," said Lola, downing one of their shots.

"Well," he said like a devoted reader of Pregnancy.org. "Your baby must be a fucking retard then."