I might have made previous mention that I suck at being pregnant. I probably said it in passing, or made some joke about beached whales and trying to roll out of bed, or maybe I even named a blog category after this sad fact.
I suck at being pregnant so much that I cannot believe anyone who “glows” or whatever is doing anything other than trying to feed me a line of BS. Or to make me feel bad about myself for being such a whiny baby.
Pregnancy #1: Benjamin.
Was knocked up by complete accident at age 20, the same age when no one believes that you have enough of a brain stem to care for a child. The jury is still out on that one, but Ben is still alive and kicking.
This pregnancy was particularly sucky because of all the OTHER shit going on around me.
Take 1 asshole boyfriend who runs and hides his penis in other women when the going gets rough, add 1 mentally-ill mother who is convinced that you’re going to give the baby up for adoption that she asks your brother to take him if you freak out and you have a recipe for disaster. An appetite for destruction if I may (and I always may).
Physically, I was fine when I was pregnant aside from swelling up to the size and approximate shape of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (it was August, man). The only symptom that I had was that I was chronically exhausted, so exhausted that I would sleep 16-18 hours a day.
Escapism anyone?
Pregnancy #2: Alexander
After years of assuming uber-fertility, was astonished when I didn’t get easily knocked up. Apparently you’re more fertile when you’re young and stupid.
Upon being knocked up, became violently ill 24-7. Puked my brains out all day, every day and eventually had to quit my job, as I couldn’t drive 45 minutes in the car while puking. Ended up so depressed that my ever-widening ass made many dents in my couch. May have even worn some of the fabric off.
Was also incredibly paranoid of losing the baby. Worried like it was my job, made matters much worse.
Which brings us to…
Pregnancy #3: Link (aka Sausagebryo)
Pretty much remove the emotional issues, and you have my current pregnancy. I’m unbelievably exhausted, nauseous (but without the vomiting), and just sick. I have no energy for unloading the dishwasher, let alone trying to spend Quality Time with the kids (unless you count turning the TV to Noggin as QT, which of course, I do).
Between this and the spotting, my poor husband may not get laid again for many years.
I suppose that the upside of down here is that I’m finally feeling a bit more relaxed about the Link. I spot occasionally, but I’m fairly sure it’s related to the suppositories (oh, the joy of those bitches), so I’ve relaxed a bit. Between the intense sickness and the ever expanding poo-baby taking up residence in my gut (when someone tells you that they show earlier with subsequent babies, BELIEVE THEM. Especially when they haven’t shat in 3 days.), I’m more calm than I’ve been.
Until, of course, my US on Wednesday in which I will be reduced to a blubbering mess.
While I would have expected to find myself in a tin foil hat, hiding in the bathtub under the mattress I’d lugged in there after this second bout of spotting (third?), I’ve been pretty calm. THIS is my new normal, and until it’s been proved otherwise, I’m going to have to assume that all is as well as it can be.
As quickly as the dreaded spotting began, it stopped. And for once, well, EVER, the nurse at my doctor’s office made me feel better as she was as fairly unconcerned about the state of What Is Up Down There. I took this as a good sign.
All is well for now.
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I will now bring you another one from the vaults:
When I was 16 years old, I decided that I wanted a job (foolish, foolish girl), so I went ahead and got myself a job at a fairly upscale restaurant as a hostess, where my brother had at one time been the head chef (can you believe that *I* am related to SOMEONE WHO CAN COOK? Me, either). I worked dilligently as a hostess, until I turned 18, when I moved up in the restaurant industry to be a waitress. This is not, unfortunately, a rant about the Industry, but rest assured, one is in the works.
While working in the Gazebo, I met some interesting people: the biker who pulled out one of my hairs from my head because ‘œIt was bugging him;’ the old man who ordered a scotch, neat and a soda on the rocks and was angered that I charged him for the soda; and various German visitors who didn’t know to tip.
But my all time, most favoritist customer had to be Old Balls.
He came in and sat in my section with a small girl, no older than 3 or 4 who happened to be dressed in her kiddie swimsuit. Finding this a bit odd, I served them without any particular notice. They were as significant as the least significant of my tables ever had been. No compliments, no complaints, no nothing.
Until they left. On a $12 check, I had been left a whopping $2, no big deal. 18 % ain’t bad to me. Along with the credit card slip, however, I had a nasty shock.
HE HAD LEFT ME A NOTE.
Now, it happens now and again, especially with young waitstaff. Some overzealous customer mistakes your attention as a server for sexual attention, and thus I have gotten my fair share of phone numbers. Nothing too striking there. Anyone who has ever served knows to just ignore it, unless, of course you’re in the mood for a booty call. Other than the booty calls, people who leave you their phone numbers are not good for much.
I turned over the 3 X 5 card to read what he had written. Imagine my shock and horror when I realized that it was a pre-printed note, ala Penthouse stats, you know the kind on the centerfold. Now I don’t have the exact card anymore (but I wish like hell that I did; I’d have framed it and put it over our bed), but I’m going to try to reconstruct it from memory:
Hi, you’re an attractive woman who has caught my attention. My name is Richard, and I’m 56 years old. I’m 6’1′, 220, with grey hair and hazel eyes. I like to take long romantic walks on the beach, I love to play chess, and I like to read the Classics. I also like Mom’s Five Alarm Chili and spending quality time with the person I care about. If any of this appeals to you, call me anytime at (630)232-6578.
Hope to hear from you soon!
There are several things that bother me about this ‘œlove note:’
* It’s preprinted, and absolutely no thought has gone into personalizing this, not my name, no description, no nothing
* How can you feel special when you’re reading something Xeroxed?
* How many other random women have recieved one of these notes?
* I am 18 YEARS OLD. THIS GUY WAS OLDER THAN MY FATHER
* Wouldn’t you have tipped better (over 20%) if you were trying to pick someone up?
*The least the man could have done was to print this on nicer quality paper without the jagged ‘œI just cut this with scissors’ edges.
Needless to say, as I’m sure you all are shocked, I am totally the WRONG person to hand notes like this to. Not only am I 18, I’m also vindictive (some things will never change). I think poor, poor, pathetic Richard probably got about 459,005 phone calls to his private voicemail from both myself and my friends.
We’d all get in on the action, calling over and over and over night after night after night. Sometimes we’d be seductive, urging him to call us for a romantic rendezvous, sometimes we’d call and pretend to be scored women, hurt by our tempestuous love affair. I’d even get my guy friends to call and be threatening, ‘œHow could you proposition my girlfriend?’.
I hope that the oldest of the Uncle Pervy’s finally got the hint that picking up women with a shitty love note printed on crappy quality paper was just a poor idea.
Especially to 18 year old female waitresses named Becky.
Fucking spotting again. May be losing my mind.
Sounds like my cervix was irritated by the dildo-like suppositories. Apparently this is normal.
My mind may very well be gone.
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