Baby on board
My wife got pregnant in Italy.
This was a good trick, since I’ve had a vasectomy and can only shoot blanks.
It was a complete misunderstanding.
While Air France had her bag (remember Fuck Air France), we tried in vain to find her some clothing to buy so she didn’t have to wear the same thing she wore on the plane.
“Have you ever tried to buy clothing in a foreign country?” she’d ask. “The sizes are all different.”
Besides that, Italian women are built differently.
“They’re all ass and hips,” my wife said.
We went into one store and she actually found a pair of jeans she liked. They were about a foot too long, but they fit well everywhere else.
The women at the store said she could alter them that day. They were Armani. They cost 148 Euro ($179 American).
“Let’s keep looking,” she said.
I finally drug her into this juniors shop (she’s 36, but can pull anything off) where she found a lot of cute stuff to try on. Jeans, cargo pants, tops, the works.
“Come look at this,” she said from behind the curtain.
She had on a very stylish pair of jeans. Hip-huggers. Crack-of-the-ass kind of jeans.
“I don’t know how they do it,” she said. “You have to shave off a lot of pubic hair to wear these.”
The sales girl, the one who spoke the most English, was a trooper. She kept trying different styles of pants. They all fit the same.
My wife tried her best to explain.
“I’ve had babies,” she said as she cradled her arms and rocked.
“Ahhhhh,” the sales girl said.
And brought my wife a pair of sweat pants.
She threw them on; she looked great.
The sales girl pulled at the waist to show my wife that the sweats would expand – as the baby grew.
“Oh, God, she thinks I’m pregnant,” my wife said. “There’s no way I’m wearing those.”
This was a good trick, since I’ve had a vasectomy and can only shoot blanks.
It was a complete misunderstanding.
While Air France had her bag (remember Fuck Air France), we tried in vain to find her some clothing to buy so she didn’t have to wear the same thing she wore on the plane.
“Have you ever tried to buy clothing in a foreign country?” she’d ask. “The sizes are all different.”
Besides that, Italian women are built differently.
“They’re all ass and hips,” my wife said.
We went into one store and she actually found a pair of jeans she liked. They were about a foot too long, but they fit well everywhere else.
The women at the store said she could alter them that day. They were Armani. They cost 148 Euro ($179 American).
“Let’s keep looking,” she said.
I finally drug her into this juniors shop (she’s 36, but can pull anything off) where she found a lot of cute stuff to try on. Jeans, cargo pants, tops, the works.
“Come look at this,” she said from behind the curtain.
She had on a very stylish pair of jeans. Hip-huggers. Crack-of-the-ass kind of jeans.
“I don’t know how they do it,” she said. “You have to shave off a lot of pubic hair to wear these.”
The sales girl, the one who spoke the most English, was a trooper. She kept trying different styles of pants. They all fit the same.
My wife tried her best to explain.
“I’ve had babies,” she said as she cradled her arms and rocked.
“Ahhhhh,” the sales girl said.
And brought my wife a pair of sweat pants.
She threw them on; she looked great.
The sales girl pulled at the waist to show my wife that the sweats would expand – as the baby grew.
“Oh, God, she thinks I’m pregnant,” my wife said. “There’s no way I’m wearing those.”
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