My dear wonderful son has been born.  He was actuall born 9/25/06, nearly a month early.  Want to talk about a shocker.  I wasn't ready for that one, I can tell you that much.  In fact my water broke in the middle of the night and I sat on the toilet thinking not only had I peed my pants, but I had also lost the ability to stop my urine and was going to sit and pee forever.  It isn't that I am of limited intellegence, it is just that I was practically asleep and could not conceive that I was giving birth a month early.  Needless to say, my son thought otherwise.  A trip to the hospital and 17 1/2 hours of hard labor later and I had a wonderful 6 lb, 7 oz baby boy.  Could you imagine if he was full term?!  I would have had an elephant.

 

He has the appearance of a little Italian baby.  He has my olive toned skin, full lips and long fingers and toes, everything else about him is my husband.  I am sure he will have my husband's Irish temper and my German condensending mixture of ease and complete anal retentiveness. No doubt when he grows up he will have my husband's ancestrial ability to drink gallons of liquor and my ability to organize the hell out of anything.  I just hope he doesn't turn into a drunk, nazi skinhead.  That would definitely be taking the worst of both worlds...

 

He really is beautiful.  I didn't think I would love someone so completley and unconditionally.  I love my husband somewhat like that, but our love takes work, you know... like a marriage... because it is.  Most of the time I am between loving him and wanting him to live in a hole in the basement.  Love always wins out, but it takes a good fight and a bottle of Valium at times to battle that.  But my son... I don't know, I love him so much I want to squeeze the life out of him.  Not literally of course, but sort of... its weird.  I now know what people mean when they say they could just eat up their children.  It's that kind of love.  It makes no sense.  I read this and think that someone must be reporting me to DFACS right now.  I am not a crazy child smothering cannibal.  I just love the hell out of him.  He makes me want to quit my job and live in this weird little world of baby land forever and ever.  Which of course I can't do or I would become a hermit and end up talking to walls and shit.  I am one of those people that have a tendancy to never come out of my house unless absolutely necessary or become easily depressed and withdrawn.  Medication was made for people like me.

 

Anyway, I am back and I plan to post more... um... right.  You know, when I have time between feeding and obsessively cleaning my house, which is insanely organized at this moment.  Really.  All closets have been cleaned out.  I have amassed bags and bags of clothes and crap that need to go to goodwill.  It's crazy.  All I want to do all day is organize and hold my baby.  It may seem as though I have forgotten about my daughter.  I haven't.  She is still the light of my life, except now my life has another light.  Plus, something is different this time.  I am breastfeeding now, which I didn't do with my daughter.  That creates a strange bond between mother and child.  It is amazing and sometimes irritating and wildly inconvenient yet so easy and comfortable and weird and annoying and just wonderful.  Doesn't make any sense does it?  That is exactly what it is like, this new life of mine.  Just a strange mix of whacked out inconsistancies that equal up to near bliss.  Of course the bliss is assisted by prescription intervention.  Mood altering drugs kick ass and the ones I currently have are a wonder of the medical world.

 

It is time for me to go now.  I want to say thank you to all that still care about my little site.  Rose and Kay especially, thank you for your kind words and well wishes.  I shall be dropping by to see you all soon.  Take care and no worries, I will be back to my cantankerous and bitchy self very soon to complain and gripe my way back to normalcy.

 

That is all.

Wow, so I got my first nasty comment in a long while.  Quite a feat since I never post these days being miserable and pregnant, which ironically is what spawned the comment I guess.  Apparently my husband is bound to be miserable long after I am not, given the poor grammar of the comment that was all I could decipher.  The question I have here is why bother commenting on someone's site like that?  I think I have actually posed this question before, but still I cannot get past it.  As most of you know, my posts are generally exaggerated and frankly nobody's damn business.  I use this as an outlet to vent or bitch or just randomly comment on certain events of my life.  And for the record, anyone that is married knows that each individual within the confines of a marriage has to put up with the bullshit of the other.  Give and take it is and if one person is taking more than giving it is just as much their own fault as the person that is walking all over them.  I can assure you my husband would rather throw himself off the roof than be walked all over, especially by me and is well equipped to take care of himself in the event that my bitchiness reaches unbearable proportions, which it admittedly does.  So there you have it.  I love all the people that bother to still read my site and send well wishes and all around comments filled with smart ass and funny remarks.  If you have something derogatory to say to me it better be constructive criticism.  Otherwise, fuck off.

 

In other news...

 

It was my anniversary last weekend.  It went quite well and was all in all rather lovely.  Unbeknownst to each other, my husband and I got each other iPods.  I have suddenly become obsessed with all things involving the downloading of music.  Its great fun and we are both enjoying it.  We never did get around to eating the saved portion of our wedding cake.  I am near certain that I saved it and it is hibernating in the bottom of our freezer, but I am afraid to even attempt to taste it.  Everyone I know that has observed this tradition is now divorced.   So there you have it.  Traditions are sometimes stupid, especially those that involve eating old ass cake.

 

I know I haven't posted in forever.  Honestly, I just don't have anything to say.  Nothing.  How sad is that?  I am trying my best to be pleasant.  However, it is hard since the entire free world thinks that it is acceptable to comment on my weight.  News flash... it isn't ok to comment on a woman's weight even if that woman happens to be gestating at the time.  The following is what I have heard just in the last week:

 

- Wow, that baby is going to be big isn't he?

- You look like you are about ready to pop!

- Well, you were also big the last time weren't you?

- Are you enjoying getting fat?

- You sure you're going to make it up those stairs with that big baby?

 

There have also been various comments as to how tired I look, swollen ankles and hands, and focus on my belly button.  Look, I know my naval is sticking out right now, but I also know that if you touch it or comment on it I am going to break all of your fingers off.  I just do not see why people think this is acceptable.  It is hurtful and rude.  I am very well aware that I am 8 months pregnant and my stomach is very large.  I am not; however, all that big.  I weight about 140 lbs right now.  That really isn't that much considering how far along I am.  I have recently been profusely thanking my husband, mother and mother-in-law who have been so very complimentary and sweet about how I look.  They are always telling me how well I look and if it weren't for them I would probably never leave the confines of my closet.  Please note that the people that do say insensitive things are either men or women that have never had a child.  From this experience I have deduced that people are idiots.

 

That is all.

Being pregnant sucks.  I feel horrible and I have gotten to the point where horrible translates into if you make me move my big fat ass any more than I have to I will sever all apendages and hang you outside of my high rise office building by your hair.  Seriously.  Everything hurts.  I just got up to go to the bathroom and it felt as though I was walking on shards of glass tipped with hot burning oil.  Have you ever seen the Mummy Returns where those little pygmy creatures were shooting poisoned darts.  I feel like I have a pygmy taking aim at me at every waking moment.  I suppose you could say that I am exaggerating, but I am not.  I hurt.  I hurt to move and I hurt to think about moving. 

 

This, unfortunately, has turned me into the most un-fun person to be around.  I feel so sorry for my husband.  I really do, despite the times he can be a (seemingly) uncaring jerk... he really isn't.  I think I just pretend that I think he is sometimes.  Deep down he truly loves me and for that I am grateful.  However, there are times I just want to throttle him, for no good or apparent reason.  I guess because I am pregnant and miserable and he isn't. Take for instance last night.  I was beached on the couch unwilling to move.  I hurt and I was tired and it was nighttime which means all of these symptoms are incredibly worse.  Let me preface this by saying that he had gotten just as little sleep as I had the night before, he did get to sleep a few minutes later, but not much.  He worked all day long, like me, and picked up our daughter from school.  He then did yardwork for about 2 or 3 hours.  He was in the kitchen getting water and I asked him to brush Isabella's teeth.  This, of course, is a task in itself.  I am thinking he is in the kitchen, which is where her toothbrush is (don't ask), so why not just do it while you are in there and I won't have to worry about it since I seem to be the only one who will brush her teeth.  If I don't do it, she goes around with fuzz all over her teeth.  Anyway, he says "I'll do it later, I am tired too you know."   This just pissed me off.  I am sitting there, thinking what a prick, he has the audacity to tell me he is tired.  So, I did the obvious thing, I got up off my big, tired ass and brushed them myself with a small quip of "Now you don't have to bother."

 

This morning I got to thinking of what a bitch I had been.  As if I am the only person in the world who has the right to be tired, bitchy and in pain (except for the other pregnant women out there).  Living with me right now must be such a horrbile experience right now and I really kind of hate myself for it.  I am bitchy, cranky, tired, moody and just big.  I suck at everything right now.  I don't even cook unless it means I am making a quesadilla which is what I eat every single night of the week, unless I am too tired to spend the 10 minutes it takes to make a quesadilla in which case I eat a bowl of cereal.  And sex... forget it.  I hurt and I generally go to bed around 9, which is about 3 hours before my husband and even if we did attempt the sex thing I think it must be about like watching someone paint a wall.  It is boring as hell and takes much longer than you thought it would.  It just doesn't work out.  It is obvious that I am not even close to be in to it and I cannot pretend to be right now.  I feel bad about this, I really do!  But for some reason I cannot seem to muster enough energy to make a go at it. 

 

That is just depressing.  I am tired now and I feel bad.  Maybe tomorrow will be better.  Or maybe this pregnancy will just drag on forever.  What irritates me is everyone saying that October will be here in no time and I want to rip off their ears and make them eat them.  Yes, I know October will eventually be here.  Obviously time has not stopped just yet.  But it still feels like forever, especially when you feel like shit.  It's sort of like Christmas when you are a kid.  It seems like the year goes by and Christmas never comes and then when the season rolls around you think you are almost there.  Alas, it just means that you have to stare at the Christmas tree for another month while beautifuly ribboned packages stack up under it and you cannot touch them until Christmas morning which never seems to get there, but you know it will.  Yet, it doesn't take away the fact that I feel like crap, this kids kicks 24/7 and I need a nap after only being awake for about 2 hours. 

So, because I think I forgot to tell everyone, here it is.  I am having a boy!  I actually found out about this 2 months ago, but for some reason I forgot to say anything.  This is up there with forgetting to put on pants before I left for work one day.  I only made it halfway out of the driveway, but hey, no pants.  This is what I get for getting dressed in the laundry room on my way out the door each morning.  Also note, that I get dressed in the laundry room that is right off of the kitchen that has a huge sliding glass door and the curtains are always open.  If you also add in that I get dressed at 5 in the morning and it is pitch black outside; therefore, I am naked for the world to see.  I really don't give a hoot.  If I cannot remember pants, what in the world makes you think I will remember to close the curtains?  However, that is not the point of this post.  Everything is not about me.  Actually, this is my blog and its all about me.... so there.

 

IT'S A BOY!  Please see first embarassing pics of my sons boy parts posted on the internet for the world to see.  This will be the last pics of my son's boy parts, at least on the internet.  I take naked pictures of my daughter all the time, because she is funny as hell and is always doing something funny and since always falls into the category of always funny and sometimes naked, there must be naked pictures.  I just feel a little funny about posting naked kid pictures.  First of all, there are a lot of freaks out there and even some of those freaks are pedophiles and I really don't want to go there, at least without the intent to kill said pedophile with an ice pick and/or chainsaw and/or any other available deadly weapon, at least after I purchase said deadly weapon because I don't own an ice pick or chainsaw.  Secondly, these pictures would go into the category of something that lasts forever and once they hit the internet, there is my kid naked on the web and that is just setting her up.  For what, I don't know, but clearly that is not the point.  I don't want to raise a stripper.

 

Anyway, it's a boy!

I have posted oodles of new pictures and some of these include some fantastic shots of my daughter on Easter.  I know, Easter was like 3 months ago, but I only have pictures developed or downloaded about twice a years, so I even have new Christmas pictures.  Whatever.

 

I also got a new scanner so I feel it is my duty to scan EVERYTHING.  Scanning is not exactly fun, in fact it is boring and time consuming.  However, if you buy a scanner then you must scan.  Therefore, I have decided that I should scan all of Isabella's artwork and keep it online, you know, just in case something happens to the originals.  In my quest for items to scan, I came across the Mother's Day card she helped make me.  This just cracks me up!  She looks like she was pulled over for drunk driving and this is her mugshot.  She is cute here, but it in no way depicts how cute she actually is because of the ridiculous stupor-like scowl she has on her face.  The only thing better than this would be if she were flipping off the camera.

Yeah I said it.  Men.  Suck.  Or maybe its just men from Alabama and California, but I am going with all men for right now.  You see I like to keep up with current events and politics.  Its what makes me a good citizen and intelligent and witty and all around an interesting person to be around (shut up, yes I do love myself).  The point is, even though I am a little weak woman as you assholes seem to so readily think, I can carry on an intelligent conversation with the best of them even as they seem to think my mind is filled with what I plan to wear, babies and washing the dishes.  Fuckers.  Bite me.  All of you.

 

I was in Alabama this weekend.  I can see now this is where I went wrong, but that clearly is not the point as it is not my fault that I chose to have a conversation in Alabama, but I digress.  On Sunday, the man and I stopped by his grandparents for lunch, because frankly I like to eat lunch and it was lunch time.  We ate and while the rest of the women argued over who was going to wash the dishes I made my way into the man room (also known to the rest of the free world as the living room or den, but apparently here this is where the men go to watch tv while the women do womanly things like clean up after the fucking slobs after they just fed the bastards).  **Sidenote:  I do not engage in these ridiculous rituals.  I offer to clean up, I take my plate to the sink and rinse it off and will go about tidying up the place because it is the right thing to do.  However, if someone tells me not to worry about it or to just sit back then I do.  I am not going to argue over washing the dishes.  You tell me not to and I won't, unless of course I am at my own house in which case it is my obligation to clean my own house.  Apparently though, according to my husband, I am supposed to argue with them because that is what southern women do.  They argue over who is going to clean, make dinner, and all of those other female things that only the females are supposed to do.  Keep in mind this is while the men sit on their asses and read the paper, watch tv or scratch man areas.  Men do not cook, clean or participate in obviously pointless conversations like birthing babies or mentral cycles or the stupid gossip that goes on in a small town like who just died, got married, had an affair, etc.  My point here, its like we just turned the clock back 100 years and the women are not allowed to vote or be involved in anything that is clearly manly.  Whatever.  Sidenote over***

 

So the women are in the kitchen and they told me not to help so I didn't.  I went into the living room to watch CNN and the coverage on Israel and Hazballah.  The men were discussing.  From time to time I would throw my two cents in, because I have lots of cents to share being the opinionated person that I am.  I would say something and it would be completely ignored.  Then, not a few minutes later, one of them would say the same thing and they would all go off on that topic or express agreement in what my husband had said (we often share the same opinions as we talk through these things on a regular basis).  This happened repeatedly, at least 6 or 7 times.

 

Now, if this had happened with just men from Alabama, then I would have just been really pissed, but I would have let it slide because time just doesn't move as quickly in Alabama as it does everywhere else.  However, the same damn thing happened when discussing alternative energy sources with my husband and his friend from California.  I would say something and they would look at me like I was just a dumb broad and then one of them would say the same thing and you would have though they just revealed the answer to the cold fusion.

 

Bastards.  All of you.  Bastards. 

Kay is contantly writing about random and weird things that go on in her tiny town, and while our lives are so different with me being in the big city and her in tiny town... my drive to work made me think holy crap we live in two different universes.  You see, Kay has scary neighbors that fish in their grass and use riding lawn mowers as a means to run and get a gallon of milk (or beer as it were, whatever).  I on the other hand, make my way to work through the city passing homeless people, crazy people and DEAD people.  Did you catch that?  Dead people.  People that are no longer living and just happen to be laying on the street. 

 

I live and work in downtown Atlanta, a metropolitan area of over 4 million people.  Traffic sucks, lines are long, everything costs twice as much as it does 20 miles away and apparently dead people are everywhere.  Look, I know about small town life, I lived it for 18 years.  Small town life does not involve a plethora of dead people on the street!  On my way to work this morning, I drive past Centennial Park (where the 1996 Olympics were held).  There is a huge cement/granite type block in one of the entrances, some sort of artistic monument hailing someone who did something in the city at some point, I am sure.  Atop of this block was a man, he was on his back with his legs hanging over the side and his arms spread straight out.  There were 7 policeman standing around him and he was dead.  Dead.  My office is located in a highrise that overlooks Centennial Park.  My office overlooks a dead man on a block.  The police were doing nothing to conceal his deadness.  The did however cover up his shoe with a bag.  Hmmmm....  I saw them do this.  It was odd, they did not cover up the DEAD man, but his shoe.  What was in that shoe?  Was his foot still in the shoe?  No.  Hmmm.... I would hate to see a shoe on the way to work, nevermind the dead man.

 

This is not an uncommon occurrence.  About a week ago as I was pulling into the parking garage under my office there was dead woman lying on the street.  The authorities had not arrived at the scene yet.  Dead woman, on street.  Just laying there, dead.  A month ago I walked to lunch with my coworkers and passed a man that looked as if he were asleep.  On our way back the police were standing around him because he wasn't just taking a nap, it was a dirt nap.  Holy hell.  Summertime comes and all the homeless people start dying on the street.  I am not kidding.  I would think it would be winter.  Nope!  Heatwaves grip the city and they drop like flies or get shot or overdose on drugs or stabbed or beaten or mugged. 

 

I keep forgetting why I love the city so much.  It is hard to enjoy the hustle and bustle with dead people all over the place.  Not that I have anything againgst dead people.  I just don't think they should be on the street, in the open, while their shoes are being covered up. 

 

On the other hand, some funny shit goes down.  Not too long ago a streaker took off through the park screaming like his hair was on fire.  Highly amusing since he was like 300 pounds and didn't get very far before the cops got him.  I would have hated to be the cop that tackled that guy!  Ew. 

 

Then there is the woman we call the crackerfarian.  She is an old, old white woman who has the most amazingly long dreads and dresses like a rastafarian.  She walks the streets until it is time to go to work and then she gets in her motorized wheel chair and begs for money on the corners. 

 

A man in Little Five Points went crazy one day and decided to end his life by jumping out of the window.  Problem was, he was on the first floor.  He then proceeded to get extremely angry and had a fist fight with a holly bush.  The bush won I guess because he went to jail.

 

Not too long ago two women got into an altercation while stuck in traffic.  They got out of their cars and proceeded to have it out.  Finally, traffic started to move and one of them was so upset she laid down in front of the other woman's car to stop her from moving in traffic.  The other woman got in her car and ran over her.

 

Seriously, I could go on forever!

So, I completely doubt that anyone reads my site anymore.  I just haven't felt like writing anything.  I have, literally, had not one thing to say in about 2 months.  That is how boring and horrible my life has been.  Ok, so it hasn't been horrible, but boring definitely covers it. 

 

I honestly and truly hate being pregnant.  I know I should be cherishing this precious and wonderful time in my life, but really I just want my sexy, slinky body back.  I want to not heave a huge sigh every time I sit my huge fat ass down.  I want to not feel constant pressure on weird parts of my body as I try to contort into a comfortable position that will  never happen.  I now know about body parts I knew I had, but never really knew I had.  I want to enjoy sex again.  Which, by the way, if I ever find that woman who claims to love being pregnant and loves sex during pregnant, I am going to kill her because she is full of shit.

 

I also want this wriggling little creeper out of my body.  One because I am so excited about having this kid it isn't even funny.  I just can't wait!  I was so freakin' scared like hell when I was pregnant with my daughter and rightly so because I had no clue what I was getting myself into.  But this time, I do!  I also am just so tired of being kicked to death.  My daughter never moved this much the last time I was pregnant; I barely even knew she was there.  This kid is all over the place!  I must have bruises.  It is insane.  Maybe its because this time its a boy.  Not sure, but still.

 

I really wish I could enjoy this time more with my daughter.  She is in such a wonderful stage of her life right now.  She is so funny and silly and full of life and wonder and I just wish she will stay this way forever.  For instance, this is the conversation we had yesterday.

 

Isabella:  MOMMY! MOMMY!  Look! Candy!  There is candy on the grass!

Me: Baby, that's not candy.  Someone threw trash on the grass. 

Isabella: ***Shocked silence as she tried to comprehend why someone would do this, because... obviously trash only goes in the trash can***

Me: Baby, sometimes people do bad things and they throw trash on the ground.  They are not supposed to because it is bad, but sometimes they do.

Isabella: ***More silence as she digests this and tried to put words to her thoughts that just seem so jumbled at this point***

Me: Where is the trash supposed to go?

Isabella:  Oh, mommy.  Trash goes in the trash can.  Silly mommy.

 

There are many things one can say of my parenting skills, but one thing you will never say is that I have a litterbug for a child.  The reason for this was the severe time out she got when she threw a wrapper on the floor and I completely lost it and put her in timeout with a severe talking to.  Ever since then she is insistent that all trash goes directly to the trash can immediately. 

 

Time out must be a killer.

 

So, apparently you can go to Wikipedia and enter in the month and day of your birthday and it will fill you in on all the interesting things that happened on that day through the years.  And because I have nothing of interest at this moment in time... here is how interesting the day of my birth was.

 

On April 10th...

 

Events:

 

1633 - Bananas on sale in England for the first time.  (This may be the most important thing I have come across.)

1912 - The RMS Titanic leaves port in Southhampton, England for her first and last voyage.

1970 - Paul McCartney announces The Beatles have broken up. (A sad, sad day for Rock n' Roll... I would have wept if I had been alive.)

 

Births:

 

1847 - Joseph Pulitzer, American journalist and publisher

1932 - Omar Sharif, Egyptian actor

1938 - Don Meredith, American football player and broadcaster

 

Deaths:

 

1585 - Pope Gregory XIII

1823 - Karl Leonhard Reinhold, Austrian philosopher

1904 - Queen Isabella II of Spain

Seriously, this is icky girl stuff and you really don't want to know.

 

Ok, so my abnormal test was nothing, just like my denial told me it was.  I love denial.  It is what all the good in the world is made of.  Anyway, I had an abnormal pap, which usually isn't anything, but I have always, ALWAYS been normal when it comes to testing.  No bad results or abnormalties in this crazy girls life.  Except for my mind maybe oh and my daughter, who by the way is sitting next to me right now eating the fuzz off of her blanket.

 

So my damn husband started to freak me out and insisted on going to the appointment with me to make sure I ask all the "right" questions.  Like he has a fucking cervix.  I told him, frankly until he grows a uterus and mammary glands he needs to shut the hell up.  Don't get me wrong, I love that he loves me so and worries for my health and safety, but don't scare the crap out of me just because you see hundreds of cancer tests all day long.  Cancer is some scary shit.  I know so many people who have fought it and while most have prevailed, it is still scary shit.  Anyway, enough of that. 

 

The doctor lady opened up certain body parts, coated me with vinegar and inspected some private and dark areas with a microscope... I am not even kidding.  Why do I always feel like a douche bag when I go to the doctor's office.  So humiliating... and my husband was there to witness it.  I know he has seen some very unflattering areas of me as I was pushing and 8 lb 4 oz baby out of my body, but that is clearly not the point.  It is still gross and I don't care what any person says.  I am not really modest or anything, but some things should just remain private and I would like to keep my vagina in my pants thank you very much.

 

Other intersting news of late... Oh!  There is none!  Because I am a boring ass sleeper these days.  I want nothing of house cleaning and my husband is trying to keep the place from molding over, but he is falling behind.  For instance, he left his suitcase from a business trip open in the middle of the floor.  Now, for a very accident prone person this just spells trouble or at the very least a trip to the emergency room.  I was trying to sneak around at 5 am to get ready for work and think I will just turn off the light and sneak to work without waking up my sleeping, darling of a husband.  BAM!  The suitcase jumps under my feet and this pregnant woman went down for the count and I mean down.  I was sprawled on my hands and knees with my nose in the floor.  Then I hear a little giggle coming from under the bed covers.  What an ass... I didn't know my husband could giggle.  He will pay dearly someday... when I get over my laziness.

 

That is about it.  I have to do homework now.  As if I am not tired enough.  And there isn't anything good on TV tonight.  I will have to just sleep.

What the flying fuck is wrong with people?!  I amble my pregnant ass to the bathroom to take a leak and there are no seat covers, so I sit my ass down and obviously did not look hard enough in the dim damn light because I sat in a puddle of someone else's piss.

 

This really just... well... pisses me off.  I work in a very nice office, in downtown Atlanta.  There is some pretty posh shit here.  So, please tell me why in the hell an adult cannot wipe their piss off the toilet seat after dousing it?  This is not kindergarden, this is not jail, this is not a gas station, nor is it the men's room.  This is a place of business jerkoffs!  I am too pregnant and too lazy to hover.  I get tired bending over to put on my shoes, let alone hover for the 5 minutes it takes for me to pee.  I don't even zip up my zipper anymore.  However, if I were to urinate all over a toilet seat, I would damn sure wipe it off because I am a curtious bitch and I don't think anyone, even the cleaning crew, should have to clean up someone else's nasty ass piss.  How rude, self absorbed and ignorant are you to think that you don't have to clean up after yourself? 

 

ANOTHER reason why I hate people.

I am so sick of dealing other people's shit.  Honestly, if I have sign on my forhead that says, "I will do your shit," someone needs to tell me and I will take it down and shove it up their ass.  I am in such a bad mood.  I feel like nobody is handling their jobs and I end up doing it for them because I am an asswad and I will miss MY deadlines if I don't and even if I say I didn't get this done because some jerkoff didn't do his job, I still look like schmuck slacker for not getting my shit done.  This is the precise reason why I hate people.

 

Anyway... I have actually lost a few pounds because I have decided that eating enough food for an elephant on a daily basis really isn't the best idea given that I am now prone to stomach cramps and indigestion.  I love food, but I have lost that need to eat everything in sight.  Dammit!  I guess because the little leech is growing now and taking up the space that normal organs used previously.  This leaves much less room for my stomach and large amounts of food. 

 

I got some scary news the other day.  Apparently some of my test results came back "abnormal."  I am trying not to be freaked out because I know that usually these things work out on their own.  My husband works for a medical lab and I can't count how many times he has had issues with the test results.  Usually when they call a patient in for more tests it is because they screwed up the tests they had or lost them or dropped a jelly donut on the smear.  Lots of crazy things happen resulting in more tests.  However, I also hear the horror stories of cancer patients due to my husband's line of work.  So, I know this is probably just routine and they fucked up my test and I need to go in for another looksy... but then I know there is a chance that I have something wrong with me.  A little freaky, but I am going with the "don't worry until there is something to worry about" approach and even then I am great with denial so even if there is something wrong with me I am going to pretend that life is dandy until I end up kicking the bucket.  I may not be the most sound and sane person, but I like to pretend that everything is ducky and that works for me so screw off if you don't like my approach to life.  It is my life and I will dwell in denial until I die or explode and take everyone out with a 9 mm.  Either way, my problems will be solved or multiply and either way I will still be in denial.  It is a vicious fucked up cycle, but mine nonetheless.

 

The husband has been great lately.  I think he secretly reads my blogs and realizes what an ass he can be.  Then again if he wasn't an ass sometimes our lives wouldn't be as funny.

 

Nothing else to talk about.... Life is super boring these days because all I do is eat, sleep and do other people's work.  Kill me now.

 

That is all.

When you park 5 miles from the grocery store, after passing 12 million empty parking spaces that are actually on the same block as the grocery store, do not be suprised when I make a smart ass comment about finding the very last parking space in the city.  In addition to this, making silly comments like "it won't hurt you to walk a little" will only produce fire enduced spasms of screaming crankiness.  THEN!  Following the conversation with something like "You need to calm down" will only end with me screaming like a banshy in a grocery store, in front of my innocent little daughter and a million strangers.  And you will end up staying up late and sleeping on the couch, probably drinking Jack Daniels and wondering how in the hell you ending up with a crazed, maniacal, sane, pregnant angel while you are such a complete and total, moronic jerk.

 

That is all.

It is 85 degrees in Atlanta.  My day will be filled with sunshine, discolored eggs, and this little girl... running mach 5 through the house because my mother-in-law keeps feeding her chocolate even when I ask her to stop.

Monday was my birthday.  Don't get all excited and start wishing me a very merry 27 years... it sucked.  My birthday sucked.  Not that this is anything new because my birthday always sucks.  It is the one day that I want so badly not to suck and it always sucks.  My husband is partly to blame.  I don't know how he manages to do it, but every year he fucks it up somehow or another.  It really pisses me off, if you want me to be quite honest, and you know, why wouldn't I be?

 

The first year we were together for my birthday we had only been together a month and really didn't know each other that well.  He went to dinner with a heap of my friends and one of the friends was rather nasty to me and I spent the entire night crazy drunk and crying.  I am actually rather surprised he continued to date me after that.  He didn't actually do anything that night but stare at me like I just landed in a spaceship, but considering the birthday track record since then I have to say he might have fucked up that night but I don't remember because I was wasted. 

 

The next year our daughter had just been born and my mother-in-law came and picked her up and took her away for the night.  This was the first time I had been away from her and she was only three weeks old.  I was so upset.  However, my husband did take me shopping which is something he never does.  Ok, ok.... this year he did well.  No screw ups, it was rather nice.  We even had lunch and beers at the place we went for our first date.

 

However the next year totally blew.  We went somewhere for lunch, I can't remember... anyway.  Then I started feeling a little sick, must have been what I ate.  So we went home.  I didn't get anything for my birthday.  No gift.  No flowers.  No card.  Just a hey, I thought I would take you shopping for your birthday again but you didn't feel well and I don't have anything to give you for your birthday.  Nice.  I got my gift the next day, but the damage had been done.

 

Anyway, on and on and on to this year.  We went out with my friends on Saturday night.  We had a fantastic dinner.  They all had alcohol and me being in my condition, I had water.  Then they all wanted to go to a club afterwards.  The night just went downhill from there.  You know what it is like to be the only sober person in a club full of drunks?  Well, it sucks.  Plus everyone there looked like they were 12.  Am I getting that old already that everyone looks so damn young?!  I felt ancient.  Blew!  So, I told Matt we are out.  I am so not staying for this.  We leave, get in the car, go home.  On the way home we get in a massive argument and he ends up sleeping on the couch.  Great!  The next day just gets worse because we were supposed to have lunch with my mother and he takes his sweet and precious time picking up our daughter and basically ruined any chances of having a lunch.  My mother took me shopping (that was great) and I continued to not speak to him the rest of the night.  Monday comes around and I am so damn tired that I left work early to go home and take a nap. (Hey!  It's my birthday!  Can't be tired, cranky AND pregnant on your birthday).  My dear husband calls me at noon to ask me what I want for my birthday because apparently he couldn't remember from the week before and apparently he didn't want to talk to me while I wasn't talking to him.  Whatever.

 

Birthday sucked.  On to the next year!

I have been thinking lately.  Not thinking so much that I have lost any valuable time eating or sleeping, but something has really been on my mind. 

 

I don't want any more kids.  After this little leech is born, that is it for me.  Not that I don't love my kid(s).  I most definitely do.  I just can't take any more.  I am exhausted.  Thinking about how exhausted I am makes me exhausted.  Anyway, I don't want to procreate anymore.  I have filled my quota.  Done.  I didn't have to think about that.  I am worried about how to stop the madness.  I could just stop having sex, but I really don't think that is a good idea and my husband really won't be interested in that.  In fact he would kill himself.  Birth control is always an option, but I have been on birth control when I conceived both children so I really don't think that is the most reliable option as far as I am concerned.  Let me just say, I was taking my birth control correctly both times my children were conceived.  I never missed a dose and I was not on antibiotics.  I know how the pill works.  I was not slacking.  I am just ultra fertile.  I have the napa valley in my pants.

 

I am also a little worried about medical intervention.  I am not getting surgically altered to prevent the kids from growing.  That is a major operation and as far as I am concerned having the kids is bad enough.  I have dealt with enough pain in this life, I am not inviting more.  But you know, I am not that keen on my husband getting his balls operated on either.  Granted, it is much less painful for him than it would ever be for me.  He just has to walk into a doctor's office, get a little local and have a laser pointed at his jewels.  No big deal, he gets an ice pack and in a few days everyone is happy again.  If I do it there is cutting and lots of drugs (which is cool), and not driving and being doped up (again, cool) and not picking up heavy objects and pain, lots of pain dulled by meds.

 

The thing is... what if this isn't supposed to be.  What if I die and my husband marries some hot little number who is 22 and wants lots and lots of babies?  The procedure can be reversed, but it isn't always effective.  Then I have just ruined his chances of happiness with his hot new wife.  I am not rooting for his new wife, but does he deserve to have his happiness squished because his dead wife didn't want anymore ankle biters?

 

I know this is morbid and you all probably think I have lost my mind because I am worried about my husband's new wife, but it isn't about that.  I don't want to jeopradize our future happiness because of my selfishness.  I don't want to make a mistake here, because this would be a huge mistake to make.  We are blessed with this amazing gift.  We can create life.  It is the closest to God we will ever get.  I am a giver of life and that is something not to be taken lightly.  I have the ability to create and mold and shape a life.  I can create a person.  One that will grow up and move on and hopefully do greater things than I am even capable of.  That is a huge responsibility.  Is it in my power to sever that?  Yes, I can do it.  But do I have the right?

 

Is that as bad as having an abortion?  It is not ending an actual life, but it is ending a potential life.  I don't know if I have the right to do something like that.

If I worked at TGI Friday's, I would have no pieces of flare on my uniform.  I have lost it.  I have none left.  I am boring.

 

Seriously,  I have nothing interesting to say.  I am the same every day.  Tired.  Exhausted.  Sleepy.  B.O.R.I.N.G.

 

We told the in-laws about the impending bundle of joy this weekend at my daughter's birthday party.  We put her in a little shirt that said "im going to be a big sister" written in a kid's handwriting.  It was very cute and a total Kodak moment.  I have very few Kodak moments in my life so this one was nice.  It's kind of nice being the center of attention for a few minutes.  Even if it was in Alabama. 

 

The most exciting thing I can think of is that I was taken home in a limo on Saturday night.  That is how lame I am right now. That was the excitement of my month.  Is it just me or does the inside of a limo always look cheap?  Perhaps I just haven't been in the swanky, P. Diddy limos or something.  But this one was just sort of cheesy.  It had leather seats, but the roof had the sparkly lights on the inside and on the bar there were acrylic holders for all the rocks glasses and champaign flutes.  I just felt like I was in an 80s movie and I was supposed to hang out the top with the song "Hot in the City" playing in the background.  I do think; however, that I need a personal limo now.  It would be so lovely to ride in the back watching TV, eating strawberries and sipping on Fanta (the champagne is off limits and Fanta just seems trashy enough for this limo).  I could live like that.  I could install carseats for my kids and just spend the traffic filled time enjoying the right.  I think it was even big enough to do yoga in the floor if I were inclined to do such a thing, which I wouldn't, but I always like the option to do things that I wouldn't do anyway.  I definitely don't want a SUV limo though because they just don't ride as smoothly as the Lincolns.  I am now a limo snob.  I have been in a limo like 6 or 7 times... what do I know...

 

I think while I am thinking of luxury living, I may try to convince my husband to move a bed into the living room.  That was I can be comfortable at all times and never have to leave the bed.  Wait, then I will have to intall a microwave and mini fridge stocked with burritos and frozen pizzas.  THEN I would never have to get up.  Life would be grand.  I guess the pregnancy lazies have crept in.  I have no desire to do anything, go anywhere or where anything that isn't baggy and cotton.  I broke out the fat clothes this morning.  I knew my regular clothes wouldn't last long because they are itty bitty and form fitting.  I must invest in something new soon.

 

Ok, I am done boring everyone.  I am boring myself and that just won't do.  I am going to go home and eat a pizza and fall asleep.  I will try to post more often with interesting things to say.  Really...

I am now afraid of my ass.  I think it is stalking me.  Seriously.  Here is the thing, I am a little person ok.  But my ass has always been prominant.  It isn't huge, just a little bigger than the normal person my size.  I can usually fit it into my size zeros, but anyway.  Now, I think it has been adding a few layers.  There is no stopping this ass.  It is going to eat Manhattan or something.  My ass will now not fit into my size zeros.  I had to pull out the fat pants.  I am several sizes up to accommodate my ass.

 

This is normal, I am sure... or at least I am trying to convince myself.  When you are pregnant is it necessary for your ass to grow to ensure enough cushion when your big, fat body needs to sit?  Am I storing up for winter?  Winter is 9 months away!!!  I am going to have to haul this monster around in the summer!  I will have to fit this huge fucker into a bathing suit!  I am scared.  My ass is fucking scarying me.  It isn't like it is obese huge, but for a person of my very tiny stature it is monstrous.  I am 5'1 for crying out loud, there is only so much this tiny body can take. 

 

I know what you are thinking... or not... but here is what I am thinking... I need to lay off the burritos.  I need to fight the urge to eat nasty, frozen, 2 dollar pizzas.  I need to walk away from the sandwiches!  Step away from the pasta, bitch!  Right.  I agree.  I do.  BUT I CAN'T!  You don't understand a pregnant woman.  She can't stop herself.  She can't put down the frozen pizza.  You want to know why?  Pregnant women are fucking crazy and they really aren't themselves.  I am not a rational thinking person here.  I can't make myself stop.  I MUST HAVE BURRITOS!  Don't tell me to have some will power.  Will power doesn't exist in this fucked up amusement park!  I AM EATING THIS FUCKING PIZZA AND THEN I AM GOING FOR A BURRITO AND IF YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING TO STOP ME THEN I SUGGEST YOU TRY BECAUSE I CAN RIP YOUR BALLS OFF IN A SECOND AND I AM NOT AFRAID TO DO IT!  Crazy!  Pregnant, fucking crazy!

 

Moment of rationality coming (very short moment):

 

The normal Jenn, the non pregnant Jenn, can stay away from burritos.  In fact, the sane Jenn hasn't eaten a frozen pizza since the last pregnancy.  It never enters the normal Jenn's mind to eat fast food.  Normal Jenn goes to the gym and keeps her tiny physique in check.  Normal Jenn likes to look good.  Normal Jenn drinks gallons of water and takes her vitamins.

 

I am not Normal Jenn.  I am pregnant and I am fucking hungry.  I am tired and I feel like shit 80% of the day.  The only time I am not tired and sick is when I am eating and even then it is a little dodgy.  I don't want to work out because I feel like shit.  I don't want to eat your nasty baked chicken and rice with steamed vegetables.  You want to know why?  It takes like shit.  If you want me to eat that slop then you need to drench it in Ranch dressing and fucking fry it.  Then I might consider eating healthy food.  Fry it! 

 

Pass me the ketchup and the cheetos and put a fucking pickle on it because I am starving!

This has been a time of avoidance.  I have been avoiding everything.  Exercise, blogs, pregnancy, cheese...

 

Maybe its denial.  Well, whatever my problem is, now is the time to get the hell over it.  I have been shoved back into reality and guess who did the shoving.  My own personal midwife, the modernized version of course.  She basically told me to get my shit together and face the world.  Since I haven't blogged for 2 weeks, nobody knows what I am talking about.

 

Here is the low down.  Jenn is pregnant.  Surprise Jenn!  Birth control is a crock.  Doesn't work for this working girl.  I found out an interesting tid bit of information today.  When you buy control pills, there are 21 lovely green (or the color choice of the birth control gods) pills and 7 pinks.  The wonderful little greens are a mixture of hormones that go to work to keep the little eggs of the female from being implanted by man seed.  Then there are the pinks that are only sugar pills and there only function is so you can continue to take pills and keep on a schedule.  What I didn't know is that the manufacturer of the said wonder pills arbitrarily picked 7 days off of the hormones based on the average female's cycle.  THE AVERAGE!  The average cycle, which arguably, could amount to a whole lot of squat.  Raise your hand if you are average.  I just don't see any hands.  The only way to know that you match up to the 7 day average is if you have oodles of tests that say you are average.  These bastards have no idea if you need 7 days of reminder pills or 4 or 12!  Fuckers.  And THAT is why they put the little warning on the package that says the pill is only 99.95% effective.  It would be nice to tell you WHY it may possibly not be effective. 

 

It isn't that I am upset that I am pregnant.  I will admit that I was taken aback at first.  All in all I am quite happy to have another little one on the way.  Getting excited even, if I could stop throwing up...  I am upset on principle.  I guess if I had done a little research I probably could have figured this out myself, so I suppose I am partly to blame for this lack of input.  However, I feel that these jokers have a responsibility, even the doc's office has a responsibility to educate its consumers on the effectivness of prescription medication.  Fuckers.

 

So, anyway... Kay just left me a message...  Thank you Kay for reminding me of burritos.  I was thinking Quizno's for lunch because they have this delicious, toasty, chicken goodness that I love.  But a burrito sounds much better.  I am so on the burrito!

 

Anyway, I got off track.  So, the deal is... there is no deal.  Nothing interesting has been happening to me.  I have been going to bed at 8:30 every night.  That is how cool I am.  I am so tire that I nod off at my desk.  I yawn audibly in important meetings and inform everyone every five seconds about how hungry I am.  I got the evil eye at at the doc's office when I told her I don't get enough calcium.  I even got lectured on liver (you know... iron).  I am not eating liver!  There is only one kind of liver that is getting anywhere near me and that one is already in my body.  No spinach either.  If I wanted to eat foliage I would snack on my lawn.  I will get my vitamins and minerals that way God intended, in a vitamin.  Something interesting you may not know, if prenatal vitamins make you sick, which they do to me, you can take 2 Flinstone chewable vitamins instead.  Who knew!  They are pretty yummy too if you like chalky, badly flavored candy.  I have even taken part in the gummy vitamins which taste a little medicinal, but all in all not all that horrific.  They don't make me yak, which I find highly important.

 

Mmmmmm... burritos.  Yummy, ooey goodness covered in a flour tortilla!  I am so excited about lunch!

 

P.S.  I have gained 8 lbs since the fertilization.  This is not a good start.  I gained 45 lbs my first pregnancy.  There was no pizza I couldn't conquer.  I was hoping to gain a little less this time, but it doesn't look as though I am doing very well on that front.  Oh screw it... pass hogies!

I went to bed last night at 8:30.  I didn't sleep the entire night, but most of it.  As much as I would love to say that I enjoyed it, because I never get good sleep, the truth is I still feel exhausted and cranky as hell.  Sleep is overrated, but I am still going to nod off every chance I get.  Frankly, I can't keep my eyes open most of the day.  I dozed off at my desk the other day.  My computer woke me up when it started beeping because I was hitting 2 keys at once.  I think I was out for about 10 seconds.  This is just the beginning.  When I was pregnant the last time I fell asleep on my desk and actually drooled before I woke up. 

 

A new phenomenon has begun.  I am sneezing every 5.2 minutes.  Not sure what this about, but it has never occurred before.  I am blaming it on the little leach that has attached itself to me.  I don't have allergies and I don't feel sick, nor is my nose even running.  Fetuses cause sneezes.  It’s the new catch phrase.  Go with it.

 

The Almost thinks I am making everything up.  He doesn't deal with pregnancy very well.  He thinks one day I was fine and then I found out I was pregnant and began sleeping.  I think last night was the kicker.  I was falling asleep on the couch when he came home.  He slammed some dishes around, took the little lovely for a bath and bed and then stomped downstairs to work out.  I went to bed.  I don't care if he likes it or not.  I am sleepy, drained of energy and trying my best not to be Super Bitch.  It is going to take all my energy not to rip his balls off most of the time just for good measure, let alone curb my exhaustion.  The good news is that I haven't thrown up yet, although I came close last night.  It feels like seasickness, not that I have ever been sea sick, but that is the best way that I know how to describe it.  Strange.  It isn't your usual nausea.  Basically, it blows.

 

If I could just get past the shittiness of pregnancy, I might actually enjoy it.  I love the part where you get to eat whatever you want.  My cravings last time were cheap frozen pizzas and anything that involved tomatoes.  This time I am feeling the burritos and cookie dough, which I am not eating because of the raw eggs, but I want it so so bad.

 

I have sneezed 3 times since starting this post.  Don't be jealous.

As you can all imagine, I am cranky as hell.  My brain is about do explode from the grenade that went off in my head.  My muscles feel as though they are about to fall off my bones.  And I do believe I can now vomit on command.  This seemed to have happened overnight.  One day I was feeling bitchy and PMS and the next minute I was throwing up.

 

I am torn between being selfish and being secretly excited and happy.

 

Part of me says "YOU WERE GOING TO GO TO MIAMI IN JUNE!"  That part of me is super pissed.  I have been looking forward to that trip for almost 9 months.  I love Miami.  Miami is where I was meant to be.  Now, it will not happen.  I may never make it back.  I will not be wearing a bathing suit this year.  I will be eating burritos and smearing my face with pizza sauce.  I will not be getting the best tan of the year award.  I will be digging out the unmentionably large clothes out of the attic.

 

But then there is that other part of me.  The little voice that reminds me of how much I love my daughter.  The one that sings when she cuddles up to me.  When she holds her little skinny arms up, begging to be held.  When she gives that little evil grin and goes flying down the driveway on her little car.

 

I am secretly happy.  You all know I am.  However, I refuse to cute and rosey cheeked.  You deal with me, you deal with the surly bitch that you have all come to know and love.

Um... Holy shit?!

 

 

I am freezing my ass off.  I work in sub-arctic temperatures.  I get the distinct feeling that my company is operating a freeze-out.  The thermostat is set at 62 degrees.  Now look, I can take the cold.  I don't mind keep my home at a comfortable 67 degrees.  But 62?!  That is just crazy talk.  WTF?!  So... what gives?  Do they want me to quit?  Because I will!  I am not scared!

 

I am in my wool coat with gloves on, working diligently at my computer, having to retype every other word because these gloves weren't made for typing.  I wish I had some ear muffs.  Or a big fur hat made from the skins of helpless baby rabbits.  However, then I would have to deal with protests by Pamela Anderson.  I don't think I could handle those ginormous breasts in my face.  I like a good boob job just like the next person, but honestly those things scare the hell out of me.  I feel as if they are going to jump off the screen and eat my face for breakfast.

 

My lips are now officially blue.  I am about to set my desk on fire and stick my ass in it.

 

On another note, there are about 50 people around me that have some sort of sickness.  I know I am going to get the Ebola.  This fucking freezing environment is not helping.  I feel the fluid seeping into my lungs as we speak.  On top of this the hyenas won't shut the fuck up.  I just listened to a "birthing" story 5 fucking times over.  If I hear the words "3rd degree tear" one more time I am ripping off my fucking head and fucking throwing it at them.  Or I will take the snow shovel that I am using to clear out the snow in my cube to beat the shit out of someone, anyone.  Bring it bitches!

 

That is all.

I got into an argument with the vacuum yesterday.  An argument that ended with me on the floor trying to strangle said vacuum.  It was brutal.  I have battle scars.  We bled, we cried, we fought over screwdriver.  I won. The vacuum is no more.

 

My goal in life right now is to have a Roomba.  These little miracles of the modern world are a wet dream for me, even if I secretly fear the world is going to be overcome by robots.  I had a dream that the little fucker was stalking me.  I still want one.  Just think!  While I am toiling away at work doing important work things, this little cleaning god will be sucking up all unwanted dirt from my sterile floors.  The next step would be a scooba!  So that while the roomba is sucking, the scooba will be mop, mop, mopping its little heart out.  I am on a mission, a mission from god.  God wants my floors to be vacuumed every day while I am at work; I know it.  The down side is that one day I will return from a hard day's labor and the little fucker will have changed the locks on me.

 

So, back to the vacuum debacle.  The Almost and I realized the detrimental situation we were in.  We have two vacuums and neither will suck.  So they, in fact suck, or blow if you will.  We can't clean!  Oh lord, what shall I do?  Watch TV?  Read a book?  Rearrange the q-tips again?  Or just tackle the vacuum cleaner.  I chose to take a running start and tackle the piece of shit.  I was on the floor wrestling with it, trying to dig out the dirt clog that was so obviously obstructing my sucking action.  Nothing came out of the colossal fight except for a pair of dirty hands and a dismantled vacuum.  I tore that bitch apart.  She went off to the junkyard this morning.

 

Up next!  The cleaning wonder, Roomba!  I will Roomba my way into happiness.  Life is grand!