Stories from the front lines of an unplanned pregnancy.

Friday, December 7, 2007

And on and on she goes...

Hiya, Kids. It feels like it's been an age, but I've been suffering a serious bout of pregnancy brain this week and just haven't been my usual self. Twice I got out of the shower without rinsing the shampoo out of my hair. Twice. So yeah, it's been like that. Anyway, I'm gonna try and make this post as coherent as I can, but something tells me that's just a nice idea that's not gonna happen, due in large part to the fact that I'm also watching the 75th Annual Tree Lighting and Random Artist Album Promotion Spectacular on Bravo. But you can bet your sweet ass I'll try, babies. Just for you.

(Random Thought No. 1: Shawn Kingston (performing with Natasha Betyourass, or whatever) has the BEST obnoxiously large and extraordinarily expensive shiny thing on a chain ever. It's a flipping box of crayola crayons. The sixty-four pack! Now that's gangsta.)

So this is cool: Yesterday was a major pregnancy milestone for yours truly. The cashier at IKEA actually asked me if I was expecting! Shut up. I know it's not as exciting as, say, that one time the mister and I got caught with the gimp in a Denny's bathroom, but it's huge for me. I'm carrying pretty small (I'm halfway there and unless you know me, I look like most of you prolly did directly following thanksgiving dinner, meaning bloated but not necessarily pregnant) and I'm still kind of sensitive about people just thinking I'm rocking a serious beer gut and not give me the fawning attention that we pregnant bitches so richly deserve. So last night I was all kinds of stoked when she actually called me out on my knockedupedness. Although, looking back, she could've just been reacting to the ginormous heap of Swedish snacks that we brought to the register. Technically, I'm only supposed to be eating for, like, one and an eighth... but recently I've taken the liberty of eating for an small third world country. Just another reason I wish I looked more pregnant-- it would stop all the damn stares I get when I'm ordering at dinner.

(Random Thought No. 2: Did you know that the tree this year is the first "green" one they've had? I love when shit is "green". I rarely fully understand the concept behind it (the tree's lighting involves solar panels and like, witchcraft or something, I think) but having anything to do with it makes me feel like a better person. Or it makes people think I am, anyway, which is really just as good.)

In other news, the mister and I are driving down to Fort Meyers Sunday night to meet his fam. Or so he says. Ha, we'll see what extenuating circumstances keep us from getting there this time. And to make an already awkward situation even awkward...er, we're spending the night down there before coming home on monday. Oy. I've always dreaded this situation, even before I met Christian. Every romantic comedy I've seen seems to have the dreaded "meet the parents" scene that involves a really uncomfortable sleeping arrangement discussion that ends with me sleeping in his little sister's room where the boyfriend in question then knocks on the door, begs for a little secret nookie, and we both end up caught with our pants around our ankles when mummy comes in with fresh towels. Okay, maybe not every romantic comedy... but you get my point. And seeing as how Christian's parents still refer to me as "Christian's girlfriend" (No joke, when I met his mom and sister, after spending the entire day with them his mom turns to his sister and says, "Well hopefully Christian and his girlfriend will come by for thanksgiving later this month." While I was standing there. Named my Alex. Apparently, I just haven't earned the right to be called by name yet), I get the feeling it might be even more uncomfortable than that. Or, I'm just being ridiculous and am going to have a fantastic time and they're going to love me and it's going to be beautiful and happy and wonderful and warm and welcoming and--

(Random Thought No. 3: Ashley Tisdale is the worst performer I have ever seen. It's like one of those creepy baby pageant contestants grew up, lost the bouffant, and has decided to lip sync her way through the Pro-Am section of the competition. I think I'm going to be ill.)

So... wait. What the fuck was I going on about, again? Whatever. I should prolly go wash dishes. I've got to keep up this facade of being totally domestically competent for the mister. Yeah right. He's totally on to me-- The other day I forgot to dry an entire load of laundry and I haven't made the bed properly in like a month.

Anyway, with love and... and... oh, I don't know,
a.



(Random Thought for the Road: You think when I finally pop out the squatter I could become a Rockette? No. Seriously, do you? Let me know...)

2 comments:

andy said...

you couldnt have been a rocket before the squatter because it involves practice, work, rehearsal, time, effort, etc. words that havent meant much to you since 1999. Btw, you have got to learn how to spell PROBABLY!

with love and scholarly valencia genius...A.

Borkes said...

All those things that Andy said, as well as the fact that Rockettes are about 5'9" and migrate exclusively from the Amazon. These are the reasons Rockette-ing is not for you.

Even though I'm sure they could use more ethnic girlies on the squad.

(did I mention how much I hate the word verification thing? Sometimes I can't even read it, and it's not even technically a 'word,' is it? It's just some letters italicized and molded a little. Not acceptable)