WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER, 16TH
7:15am
ME: My nipps and boobyberries have been hurting for about a week, now.
The Husbster: Want me to rub them for you?
ME: Want me to kick you in the balls and then rub those for you?
The Hubster: No. (blank stare) I will be gentle, like a baby…hey maybe you’re knocked up!
ME: Hahahahahaha…hahaha….haha…ha….h….I can’t be. I have the Nobabynobabynobabyimpant, remember?
The Hubster: Isn’t that only, like, 92% effective?
ME: I don’t know. If your super sperm penetrated my implant, then I really will kick you in the balls.
7:45am
(internal monologue on the way to work)
Is it still callled a pregancy scare when you’re married?
Oh, sure now that I’m losing weight I fucking get pregnant! Stupid, stupid sex.
If I am pregnant then I can’t drink on my cruise. Balls! Wait…if I am gonna be someone’s mom, then shouldn’t this be my last thought?
I am not equipped in any way, shape, or form to be someone’s mom. I mean, I don’t know why the caged bird sings. Or algebra. Or why people want to prevent same sex marriage.
What if the little bastard is weird looking? I mean, you see people all the time with weirdo features and I am sure their parents are all ‘Honey, you are the most perfect beautiful thing in the world and I love you. Muah!’ My chronic impulse control deficiencies are boundless. If I can tell my cousin’s best friend that she’s a bitch on Thanksgiving Day, then there is a chance that I my little piggy may ask if she looks pretty in her lacy new party dress and I may just ‘Hmmm….not really’.
Premature Panic. I need to take the test and have a response then. Who knows? Actually holding a urine stick of death may change this all. A pink plus sign could flip my Donna Reed switch. It’d be a like a movie where I look up from the test to see my hair beehive on it’s own, my clothes morph into a poofy polka dot dress, and I’d stop cursing.
Just keep it to yourself until you know what’s what.
8:00am
ME (to my colleagues): My boobs hurt. I think I’m pregnant.
5:00pm
Ugh! Where do people go for strength and comfort in times of great stress, where they are understood and accepted unconditionally? A place of worship!
5:30pm
Ahhh…the mall. I have to kneel (for the pedicure), make an offering (to Sephora), eat (at the Japanese place in the food court), pray (that I can still wear THOSE shoes after I have the baby).
7:45pm
I still can’t go home. Hey that new Tyler Perry movie is showing now. I’m sure that won’t jerk any tears, dance on any frayed nerves, punch me in the face with a moral, or drown me in value of family.
10:00pm
OK, Drama Queen, this is NOT the hardest thing you will ever do. I know that you are scared, but the non-existent kid is not the only person you have to think of. The Hubster may want this moment. He may have visions of reclining in a leather chair in a Ward Cleaver argyle cardigan and walnut pipe with a tossle-haired toddler in footie jammies curled in his lap, asking The Hubster to read the evening paper to him. So suck it up. For both of the men in your life. Take the test and grow the fuck up.
10:20pm
Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore. Dontcryinthedrugstore.
10:30pm
ME: Hihoneyhowwasyourdayiamgoingtotakeashower!
10:33pm
2 out of 3 ain't bad
