This weekend, in very last minute fashion, The Suitor and I took a road trip to San Antonio.  Once we pulled into a lot and left the confines of our air-conditioning, I declared the obvious: "Damn, it’s hot."
"This is why I didn’t want to come," he said as he stopped walking.
"What?  It’s hot.  I can’t say that?"
"It’s torture for me to be around you when all you do is complain."
"But it is hot.  Why can’t I say it?"
"Because you make it torture to be around you.  We shouldn’t have come.  You are a complainer, and I want to have a nice day with you–"
"So do I."  My saying it’s hot out doesn’t mean I don’t want to have a nice day.  But he insists that when I complain, he wants to fix it, and he cannot enjoy himself when he’s always trying to fix things.  So can I please be sensitive to this and complain less?  Well?  No.  It’s fucking hot out!  But I don’t say this.  Instead, I play the pregnant card, and really I don’t do it for effect.  I do it to remind him my body temperature is higher than his, that maybe he should be sensitive to it, ignore a little more, just understand it’s not easy for me all the time. 
"But I’m pregnant, and it’s hot, and I’m not saying I’m miserable, I’m just–"
"Making it miserable for me, and you always complain, long before you were pregnant."  Well that was that.  For the rest of the day, I could not state the obvious for fear that he’d complain that I was complaining.  And please, I know those people who are always negative and ruin everything.  I’m not one of those, but in truth, complaining to me is really second-nature.  I do it like I breathe, I guess.  But it’s not because I’m miserable; it’s just, well, expressive.  "It’s hot," clearly is not my most expressive attempt.  "Hot as balls" would have been better, but we get the idea.  It’s times like these where he wants nothing to do with me.  He’s frustrated, and I’m sure I complain a lot, so this is just one illustrative straw, but still.  Let me complain.  Who cares?  So it’s hot, and you hear me complain and instead say, "Yeah, it is.  Let’s get some water and try to walk in the shade."  Or you stop trying to fix it and just ignore it with a smile.  And it’s times like these where I kind of think he’s an ass. 

I have to pee.  We’re walking past the U.S.O. (whose tag-line is: Until Every One Comes Home), the organization responsible for lifting military morale and providing recreational activities and entertainment to our troops.  Well who wouldn’t support that endeavor?  Ahem.  I was wearing my "There are 2 peas in my pod" tee shirt and doing the bathroom dance when The Suitor pleaded with the information desk.  "Please, we’re not in the military, but my fiance is pregnant with twins and really needs to use your bathroom."  How do you say, "no" to that?  I’m doing the dance with my hand on my lower belly (my uterus is hard and growing upward; I can feel it these days).
"Where is your card?  We don’t let anyone in without the proper military identification."
I don’t want to use their ping-pong tables or sit on their sofa to watch Jerry Springer.  I want to pee.  They refused to let a pregnant woman use their toilet.  For the rest of the day, I had to listen to The Suitor complain.  It’s not a very just world. 

*As for San Antonio, I really loved it (and have some photos to share soon).  I ducked into the local bookstore to escape the heat and crowds and saw Ryan Seacrest with a rent a cop.  He sure is short in person.  It was then strange to watch him last night on the Emmy pre-show talking about his trip to San Antonio.