“It’s your first step to becoming a home-maker.”  “It” apparently being “buying a three pack of chicken breasts.”
“No,” she responds, “I think the first step to becoming a home-maker is cooking all day on Sunday.”  I’m eavesdropping again.  “Take a fork.  Poke holes in it.  Put it in the oven, then you’re done.  Serve it with your chicken.”  They’re talking potatoes and cans. It’s not an Irish joke about Shamus’s dirty testicles. “Green beans and corn.  I like ‘em cafeteria style.  I’d rather eat everything else fresh, but man, I hate crunchy green beans.”  “I feel like it’s not real cooking if I use the microwave.”  “Target is one stop shopping, that’s why I registered there.  If you work there for 21 hours, you can get health benefits!”  I want to work at Target.  I need health benefits (aside for my cobra benefits which cost an arm & leg).

The girls are discussing her engagement and her prenatal vitamins.  They ‘re counting carbs together so this one can fit into her wedding dress and that one doesn’t gain too much weight during her pregnancy.  They’re both in college.  “A handful of nuts or cheese is good for snacking, but it’s high in fat.”  Then they discuss babies and how insulin makes them grow.  This makes me think of my toes and The ‘beeties.  She’s got gestational diabetes. “Vegetables are good carbs, but fruits have too much sugar.  They’d rather I get my carbs from vegetables.  Rice is THE WORST carb, and I’m Asian, so it’s torture.  Thank my personal savior Jesus that Doug doesn’t like white rice.” Okay, she said “God,” but it’s fun to say Jesus around here.  I then learn the one who’s pregnant, the Aisan girl, is married to Doug and already has one child.  She’s now pregnant with her second.  “I want three, but Doug wants two.  I’ll change his mind, and I have to hurry up and have them all before I’m thirty-five.”
“But you can have babies when you’re over forty these days.”
“No.  You shouldn’t have an infant at that age.  You should be a young mother, and by the time I’m forty, I want the kids to be applying to colleges.”  The Suitor is 39 is all I can think.  I cannot imagine him with children that age.  I can’t imagine myself, at 30, with anything more than a toddler.  Though I’m getting ready for one, even though I’m not pregnant yet.  We’re now shopping for another car, so we each have one.  Bring on the SUV (Oh, and as an aside, when we were test-driving some yesterday, we nearly got into an accident in the parking lot, when I exhaled a nervous, "Oy vey."  The salesman let out a guttural laugh and responded, "Well, that’s a phrase I haven’t heard down here in over a decade.  Folks ’round here say ‘boy howdy,’ instead.")

Via IM, I relayed the above conversation to a friend, who responded, “I wonder what people would think overhearing our conversations.”  I spent the day discussing my vagina, which I imagine is far more amusing to hear. Ah, the vagina.  Good times.  Add insult to injury, I think I’m getting a yeast infection.  "What, like you have to pee a lot?" The Suitor asks.
"No, dear, that’s a urinary infection."
"I don’t understand."
"A yeast infection… never mind."

Boy, howdy.