"Houston... we have a problem." I can no longer indulge in my daily 3 pounds of Cadbury mini eggs. HOW? WHY? WHAT HAPPENED? What kind of cruel and twisted fate is this, that has been so un-deservingly bestowed upon me at 9 months pregnant in my most crucial time of need?
It appears that the mini eggs give me fierce reflux. Not just any kind of reflux, but, (sorry Beyonce) Sascha FIERCE, reflux. I've never had gastric or reflux issues, but during pregnancy, there's a first time for EVERYTHING. On the SLIGHT upside, I can still consume my regular 4 milky ways or 2 bars of regular Cadbury chocolate a day, but my deep and personal connection with Cadbury mini eggs has been severed or at least put on hold at this moment in time.
I discovered my recent intolerance for mini eggs while consuming 3-4 fistfuls for dinner and then not being able to sleep for 2 days, this was 2 weeks ago, I notice since then, how my quality of life has slowly declined. Sitting up didn't help, a generous 11pm run to the grocery from Mr. Price for EXTREME RUSH TUMS at Extra Uber Super Duper strength didn't help, only time, and no more mini eggs. It was like getting drunk and suffering a hang over. I sure had fun getting there, but the copious amount of alcohol, competitive tequila shot drinking or slamming fistfuls of mini eggs in my mouth for a substitute for dinner certainly paid off in a way I never want to do that again.
Of course I do, but I still feel like I should know better.
Any traffic school video will tell you, there's no cure for getting rid of drunk, only time. Just like mini eggs reflux, there's no cure, only time and rest will help. Breath freshners, tylenol slammed with a morning after beer, gum or telling the officer that your eyes are red because you're just "tired" doesn't work. Time and no more mini eggs. Brutal. For the record, I've gone to my fair share of traffic school for minorly moronic offenses, like speeding or "pausing" at a stop sign, I've done that three times and gotten caught. Sheesh.
We still don't know what we are having. Boy or girl, who knows? At this point, whatever it is, it's not exactly giving me a great first impression. I mean, it's not like I don't think this kid is right for the job, long term, but inhibiting me from consuming my beloved Cadbury mini eggs, well, let's just say this kid is getting a talking to once it decides it wants to meet me face to face. It's definitely a (Family Guy) Stewie "Victory shall be mine" and "Vile Woman" vibe I'm getting in these last few weeks. The baby has developed a competitive sense for our relationship pending our actual first weigh in and it's bringing out the guns. No more mini eggs? I'm already pretty miserable. As it turns out, when I was not sleeping and peeing 11 times in a night (and still am), IT CAN ALWAYS GET WORSE. That's what I tell my employees at work.....I'm a great boss, obviously.
Tantrums, there's lots of them lately. I honestly don't know how Mr. Price puts up with this, I can't stand myself, I hope I'm not permanently scarring my first born, he's NEVER going to want a sibling again, if Mummy's gonna be like this. Not being able to find my car keys is suddenly Mr. Price's fault, the dogs are in on it and it's now going to be bad day for EVERYONE. It's a four alarm fire if I can't find something completely random and and not urgent, but at the same time I realize I've lost my check book for the last 3 weeks with my drivers license in it and I've completely given up on all hope that I should do any kind of looking for it, after all, it doesn't seem like anyone's writing and bouncing checks to an account that has at most, $3.57 in it at any one time and frankly, I'm expecting it to fall in my lap out of the sky because I'm so emotionally drained I just can't handle another nuclear, post nuclear meltdown, from going psycho over my lost keys that I found laying on my desk 3 hours, of a red eyed puffed face, later.
So, I sit here, slamming Tums, like the bitter old dude that sits alone at the corner of the dive bar pondering what can only be extremely bad life choices or three too many ex wives who have taken all but his will to live, to consume the barely drinkable/paint thinner equivalent standard quality of whiskey shots, as he says with slurred speech "gimme another" to the bartender, one after the other, verging on the edge (always) of another tantrum/complete nuclear meltdown, unable to indulge in mini eggs AT ALL and walk around dubbing myself not unlike Charlie Sheen's "Tornado of Truth" but my own "Walking Emotional Catastrophe" ready to burst into tears for any issue at any moment because, not sleeping, not cleaning, dogs, work, stupid people, nothing to wear, is just too much for me and my delicate emotional/mental state to handle at this point in time and since I cannot console myself with mini eggs, crying until I have no idea what started it in the first place, has been my go-to sanctuary. 4am or 4pm, I'm a walking emotional catastrophe and there's still at least 4 more weeks and 4 days to go.
I just re-read this and it sure makes me look like I'm a total mess.
And I am.
I bet your day instantly looks better. Enjoy.
No comments:
Post a Comment