Sunday, October 26, 2014

Pregnant Pause.

Don't hate me because I make my own cereal milk.
Goddamn, I hate people. Not you, oh lovely reader of this blog entry, but people in my everyday life who feel the need to make every moment of this pregnancy suck. Like how making potentially bitchin' R-rated horror motifs into PG-13 movies sucks *cough* Ouija.

I'll just get to the point. Hope you don't mind if I tuck it into all these random photos.

Stupid-Ass Stupid Things Stupid-Ass Stupid Heads Do When You're Up the Stupid Duff

Ask if I'm feeling better after returning from a sick day.

I just smile and say, "I will eventually." But what I want to do is smash these people over the head with my keyboard. Which is wireless, so I could even throw it at them like a discus. It's pregnancy, you morons. Not the 24-Hour Slut Flu.

Jason Vorhies? Clearly this version was made by The Asylum.

Poke my belly.

A co-worker asked me if he could poke my belly. I let that brain fart go and replied that uh, hells to the no, he couldn't. He did it anyway. I looked at him like he stole my Salonpas. But what I was really doing was trying to activate my David Keith Firestarter powers to fuck him up, life style. I promise you, those powers are there. They're dormant, but they're real.

Point and laugh at how tub-a-lard I am.

Yes, Virgina, this shit actually happened. HAPPENED. In a Ralphs. I was just minding my own bidness in the canned soup aisle when these two pretty blond dial tones in their early twenties passed the aisle I was in, returned, pointed at my stomach, exclaimed "oh my God," laughed and split. Like I assume their legs do after a free Big Mac after 9 p.m. Btw, is that deal still on? Hashtag Mickey Ds, hashtag die bitches.

40% off?! Holy crap, now you can be that sexy shopping cart you always dreamed of being.

This hot British guy is giving me a boy.
Block me from shit.

Dude, I know you're dying to get in the elevator so you can go back to playing ping pong I mean work, but can I exit first so I can go buy some goddamned lunch? It only took me ten years to waddle to the lobby.

Also, if you could not stand in front of the loo-Starbucks-etc. with your iPhone like a douche statue when it's obvious that I can't enter otherwise, that would be great, mmeffingkay?

Telling me I don't even look pregnant.

Really? I don't look pregnant. So, what you're telling me is that I always looked like Nell Carter. Give me a break and cut the bullshit.
Robert Smith guarding our home while we watch Suspiria.

Tell me to enjoy "it" now while I can.

Enjoy what, motherfuckers? Edema, carpal tunnel, Symphysis Pubic Dysfunction, a karate-chopping baby, chronic fatigue, endless urgency to pee, nausea, fainting, rudeness from family, friends and total strangers, other knocked-up assholes looking at you like you ruined their whole 'only pregnant woman at work' gig and ugly-ass maternity clothes?

I can no longer feel my hands. I've developed skin tags all over my face and body. The baby doesn't let me sleep on my right side, and sleeping on my back is out. I can't even see my husband in bed anymore thanks to the Great Wall of Pillows. I average three hours of sleep per night before excruciating pain wakes me up. What exactly is this "it" I'm supposed to be enjoying? Piss off.

Talking about how easy they had it in their pregnancy.

Talking about how hard they had it.

Or, if they're not pregnant, talking about how much it would, like, ruin their whole deal. And stuff.

Now I just need a big-ass bowl, a spoon and some Dragon's Lair.

You don't want to get fat? But you want to do it before you get old. Because 40 is too old for you. Yep, my co-workers a few rows back love to have loud conversations about how much pregnancy would just suck for them weight and age-wise. Plus, that epidural needle! They heard it's really a saber sword filled with boric acid. Fortunately for them, they already look fat and old, so they might as well go for it.

I also love hearing how my mother gave birth to all of us without ever having had an epidural. Good. For.You. I'll bake you a cookie. With pot in it. Because I'm guessing that's how you got through most if not all of those deliveries.

I want a brick thrown at my head, and then an epidural. Wake me up when my baby boy is resting on my Victoria's Secret-flat belly and my face and hair look like Iman's.

Or, if I don't look like Iman, tell me I do, anyway. That's one stupid-ass thing I don't mind hearing.