YOU'RE fat, and I hate you.

"I don't know about this shirt," I say to the DNB as we get ready to take a Saturday morning stroll through the markets and shops of the Strip District.

"I was just going to say you look nice," the DNB replies.

This I believe. Stupidly. Sufficiently convinced that I look okay, we head out.

Two hours later, a woman giving lobster bisque samples at a gourmet grocer asks me something about what I do.

"What do I do?" I clarify. It's kind of weird that she's asking. "For my job?"

"No," she says. "When are you DUE?"

I am caught completely off guard. No one has ever asked me that before. I try to laugh it off. "Oh, I'm not pregnant," I tell her. "But I'm never wearing this shirt again!" Ha. Ha.

Let's just make this the rule, Interwebs, for future reference. Unless a baby is CROWNING from a woman's VAGINA, you should NEVER ASK WHEN SHE IS DUE. And even then, the due date is almost always going to be a moot point.

"My daughter has a shirt just like that," the woman continues BECAUSE SHE HASN'T ALREADY DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE. "I don't like it on her either."

I try to give her a look that says, you should have quit talking before you were born, but I'm generally a nice person, and kind. So instead I kind of walk off, handing my remaining bisque sample to the DNB like it's a live grenade. I'm never eating again.

I say this outloud about a thousand times on the way home, I'm never eating again, never ever. The DNB tries to be helpful, but since he never once says "you don't look pregnant," he's kind of an Epic Fail.

And then, fifteen minutes ago, he looks over at me pleadingly, willing me to understand a man's needs. "This might not be the right day to ask, but can we get pizza for dinner?"