Tums and Tantrums

"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.

There's a Baby in my tummy, so yummy, so yummy yummy.

Courtesy my talented Sister-in-law, the second coolest Rebecca Price.

Yeah it's in there.  And it's working on making its way out.  The baby is about 4lbs and I have a little over 7 weeks to go, I'm in the home stretch, but the final 200 yards is still ahead of me.  Sleeps with seven pillows is enjoying less gastric reflux but more personal invasion of my middle area space.  I'm eating so much and it's obviously taking more than its fair share, I get hungry 5 times a day, and if I don't eat, the baby let's me know that I should... and fast.

It's poking me, and if you look at it, you can see it.  Gross, I know.  The "magic" and "beautiful" blah blah of pregnancy can kiss my ass, at 33 weeks, my kid is working on its escape plan but hasn't yet figured out that it is NOT through my belly button.  Is this a precursor to producing a dimmer bulb in the box?  I'll keep you posted, but as long as it doesn't stop for directions on the way out, I'm sure everything will be alright on the night.

This kid has sucker punched me more times that I can count. And it clearly has the advantage of causing more pain from the INSIDE OUT.

I've not met one person that thinks this baby is anything other than a girl.  I'll give you a quick list of reasons as to why it very well could be a girl.   I'll just set you up for a major let down with it comes out with a twig and berries.

1)  I'm being a bitch.  More so than my regular self and more so than my last pregnancy.  You got a problem with that?

2)  I'm overreacting.  My new doctors office neglected to refill the paper towels in the rest room and it sent me into major flip out mode as I struggled with how to open the shiny silvery germ infested bathroom door handle that I would usually open strategically with my soaked paper towel using it as a barrier between the handle and my newly clean hands and exit the bathroom in a well choreographed slide through whilst simultaneously throwing the used towel in the bin.  Instead, I stood there and started adding it to my list of things I already didn't like about this doctors office including things like, only parenting magazines nothing trashy, stupid waiting room chairs and ugly people in the waiting room, not to mention, everyone was pregnant.

3)  If you just want to look at what's opposite about this time around and compare it to Joseph and say that this equals a girl, then you have a lot of ammunition.  No puking, only nausea, gastric reflux this time, and not last, carrying higher than last time, faster heart beat, not to mention all the bloody cooking and home economics crafts and medals I've been sewing myself and pinning to my chest. 

4)  I'm ready to fight.  This might indicate higher levels of testosterone, so a boy, but this could also be applied to a more red neck version of #1.  You wanna take a tumble?  Bring it.  Only problem is, this fight instinct is usually completely misdirected and caused by fact #2 above and Mr. Price is usually the only one accidentally finding himself in the ring.

5)  I've started cooking.  Not every night, not regularly, but I started, and it's kinda fun and I get in over my head and it usually tastes pretty damn good.  Cooking = home ec = estrogen right?  You people are so sexist.

6)  Did I mention I'm being a bitch?  I've lost that filter I often talk about, "blunt and honest" has turned into "rude idiot" but I find that most people are surprisingly kind and offer me an olive branch or just ignore me when they are able to take in my current state of discomfort.  God, quit looking at me, piss off, you wanna fight?

7)  I've started sewing.  Sterotypical bunch of narrow minded right wings aren't you?  Let me do the math for you again.  Sewing = home ec = girl.  Well, you know what buddy?  I could just be into sewing some glitter spandex and it could mean not a girl, but a boy.  And all the sewing could mean I'm having a drag queen.  So there you go.  How you like them apples?

8)  Ive put on weight everywhere.  Not just around my delicate little tummy, but everywhere.  Saddle bags are currently in season - what?  You didn't know?  Oh yeah, Saddle bags, not by Prada or Chanel, but by your THIGHS.  ugh.

9)  I already have a boy so surely that means I get a girl next, according to you.

10)  EVERYONE is having a boy.  Everyone who KNOWS what they are having, around me, is having a boy.  It's crazy.  So according to these odds, surely I MUST be having a girl.  And statistically speaking if 98% of people are having a boy that would mean that the other 2% should be a girl to keep the boy/girl ratio intact until the girl portion can keep up.  Also 88% of statistics are made up, at any given moment.

There you have it.  Reasons I could be having a girl.  All the reasons why the party is limited to inside my tummy, and noone else is invited.  I'm sorry, I'm full up, the invitation list has been sent out and you weren't on it.  One person was, and "she's" coming on July 2nd.  Thanks.

Sincerely,

-Sleeps with seven pillows.

No, no-one pissed in my cheerios, I'm just 8 months pregnant.

Now it's so obvious I'm pregnant and not just fat all over, I'm getting stopped by strangers who curiously want to know my due date.  I say "July 2nd" every time, hoping that the original due date, will actually come true (even though baby is measuring mid June) the more I say it, the more I make it so.  July 2nd is perfect for several reasons, it starts a long weekend, it's perfect for out of town family to be around when baby is born and I also get a $3,000 pay out from Aflac if I can hold the sucker in until then.....See, I signed up for additional coverage from Aflac when Mr. Price and I were going to go for #2.  Long story short, according to the policy I signed in September, I cannot deliver on or before July 1st if Momma's gonna get paid.  No need to go into it further, but us Price's are cutting it close. Duct tape and sedentary lifestyle are at my beck and call.  Walking from my car to my office chair is as much as I'm gonna do.  Keep your fingers and toes crossed.

Mmmmm, lunch with a side of tums, please.

I've got gastric reflux for the first time in my life.  I'm maxing out my tums allocation each day and the munching of the chalky pathetically flavored discs in my mouth, is marginally soothing.  I'm not sure if it's heartburn, acid reflux, or whatever, it's something that's supposed to be staying down, coming back up and stopping me from eating like a horse at all times of the day and night.  I want to eat, but reflux says no.  So mostly I just keep eating and complain all night long, along with sleeping with seven pillows.  Mr. Price has every right to be a jealous husband, those pillows (especially the ones in between my legs and my back) provide me with so much comfort and pleasure, the only thing they'd need to do to out rank my hubster, is offer me mini eggs on a platter and foot massages until I feel asleep each night.

I'm not going to get graphic, but I look down and only see my baby belly. Shaving... anywhere that I used to shave has become not only a hassle but a down right yoga type experience with legs and and things positioned in a way that would make the karma sutra look like sitting on the couch.  Oh yeah, and then I can't shave, so my legs are all over filled with unexepcted patches of tiny hair pricks, but also the dry party has come to town and there's not enough aloe or moisturizer in Bath and Body Works to satisfy my flaky skin.  I'm apparently part snake, as each day I shed old dry skin.  Gross.

The view from up here.  Nice for resting the Xbox remote on, not much else.

I need a pedicure so badly I think there's at least three different colors on my toes as I sheepishly try to cover up the previous coat with a darker newer coat, knowing that I have between 30 seconds and 2 minutes before I pass out from not being able to breathe by bending over my baby belly, so precious time cannot be wasted by removing a previous layer of polish, I only have time to do one or the other.  Nail clipping is a priority, I don't like those babies to get nasty, but it's tough and it makes me want to whine some more, more of what Mr. Price loves to hear.

I'm running out of clothes.  I'm determined not to buy clothes for only 2 months left, but my bump has a long way to go.  Stretchy dresses are a must have and there's nothing cute.  I can't go for cute when getting dressed each day, I can only go for what fits.  It's depressing.  Not that I was ever able to put that much thought into what I wore each day (sleeping was always a much higher priority) I just don't even have the option now.  I can always put more make up on.  But that's truly putting lipstick on a pig.

I actually want to exercise, like go walking and maybe work up a litle sweat, but I'm so convinced that sitting and watching Family Guy re-runs is my only golden ticket to my $3K, that I calmly sit my ass back down.  I WANT to lose some of that kankle fat, but money's more important.

There's cellulite in places I didn't think it could actually be.  It's devestating to look at your wrists and think that they're fat, but still the skinniest place on your swollen body.  That, along with my arm flap fat that could have me join a flock of geese at any moment but my less than aerodynamic shape and sheer weight would prevent me from doing so.

Sleep is for people who have nannies.  Waking up 7 or more times a night to pee, or getting back in bed, then immediately turning around again to go back as baby decides to rest on your bladder again, is a common occurence.  I'd be great for my neighborhood watch program if I wasn't so forgetful these days.  I could see my police report now.... "It was 2am, no, wait 2:30am, no, the fourth time I got up to pee, which would have been around midnight, but it wasn't a long pee, just a short one to help get me back to sleep, so it was definitely the second time I went at 2:30, because the blue, I mean, red, well, it could have been white Honda, or wait, was it a silverado truck, squealed out of the driveway before delivering donuts to my mother's house...  oh wait, sorry officer, that was a dream I had.  I'm not really sure I saw anything... ..."  On a night I get up to pee only 4 times, is the closest I'll ever get to a good night's sleep for a long time.  Of course it doesn't help with the five gallons of water I have to drink after my nutella sandwich midnight and 3 am snack, but still, life is cruel at this moment.

If anyone is going to write "It's all worth it in the end."  I'll drive to where you live, maybe knock on your door or ring your doorbell, before punching you in the throat.  Of course it is you moron. I know that.  Life's about the journey, not the the place where you get to when you're done with 9 months of puking, feeling miserable, and fat and taking everything in general out on your usually mostly undeserving husband.  But I don't care.  I'm pissed, I'm 8 months pregnant and it's all so close, but still so far away.

I've reached the home stretch, but the last mile is all uphill gravel and I lost my shoes and will to live about 3 miles ago.  Somebody carry me.  Please.

Working with Clowns.

Do you commute to a place everyday, that may or may not have children present, that may or may not have windows or walls, but there ARE chairs and office equipment present, pens, computers and paper?  You have a job.  And it doesn't have to be in a cubicle, or even at a register, it's a job and clowns walk amongst you.

It's like the silent serial killers, everyone knows they're next door (and if you've been proactive enough to detective-style "scout out" sex offender websites, you know EXACTLY where they are in your neighborhood and you've eye balled them from a distance..) but the clowns, they walk amongst us everyday, in the hallways of our offices.

Clowns, man.  With or without makeup, they're still creepy.

I worked for the circus.  True story.  I really did.  For about 3 months, I worked for Feld Entertainment, Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey and Disney on Ice.  It was totally great.  My immediate supervisor and I had a personality conflict - meaning that I was much more interested in going about my work day in an un-orthodox manner and she was amm..err..ammm..(God, I wish there was a way to say exactly what you feel without not worrying if you could get sued...(like people actually read this blog anyway)). not cool like me..... but I digress. I have largely  nothing but fantastic things to stay about my 3 month stint there and the other people I worked with.  To put it professionally, the timing was not right, I was newly married and living the high flying life (for someone terrified of flying, not really a good mix), based out of Atlanta, working from home in Lexington, KY, was not ideal for me, or them, so we parted ways, sooner, rather than later.

Getting through a week on average where I flew four times and on one occasion had to hold a flight attendants hand on arrival one night because of bad weather and turbulence, would grab one of them pre-flight and ask for a bottle of wine, before first class and there was an extra $5 in it for her, along with talking incessently about my fear to random strangers that immediately regretted being sat next to me and wondered when it would be appropriate to tell me to shut up or to ask the attendant if they could switch seats away from the crazy.... which ALSO meant at least the equivalent of 4 bottles of wine and 8 Xanax, left me not only exhausted, excited and confused, but with a loss of my short term memory that I still to this day, can't seem to get back.

...What are we talking about again...?

Oh yeah..

I worked with Clowns.  I had them in my office when the circus was on tour.  I went drinking with them, in their half arsed attempt to wash the white cake make up and red lips and sad eyes from their faces, usually only ever one female clown and mostly male clowns.  Funny how that seems to resonate in the real work place.  Clowns are usually of the male disposition, the females, are largely, just bitches.  And I know, I'm one of them. (the bitch kind)  They acted like clowns when the lights came on, then they acted like serial killers when the lights went down.  Clowns with and without their make up are just creepy people.  Oh and they're also mainly Russian or Eastern European, so creepy clowns with inaudible accents with knives in their pockets (I'm making that part up but I swear I can see them there) is who they are.  There's that one guy that's from the U.S., that was probably the class clown, never said a word to the moderately attractive girl he had a crush on all throughout High School, but could make everyone in the room laugh through slap stick comedy and just offend or make their math teacher sigh as she/he tried to get the attention back of the classroom on less exciting topics like fractions and algebra.


I work with clowns.  Only these guys have no sense of humor.  They actually aren't around to MAKE me laugh, but they do, in a pitiful kind of way. They're the Sad Face Clowns.  Business is bad, let's make cuts.  I'm half expecting one of them to walk in with a cheery yellow flower on his lapel, honk the horn he carries around and then squirt me in the eye with water with the "trick" flower.  (Wow that whole sentence was a "that's what she said" arsenal!)  The sad face clowns, you don't feel sorry for them, they're just pitiful.

The Happy Face Clowns.  Both types of clowns are morons.  I started to type "intellectually challenged", but isn't that the nice term we give to much cooler people who actually have a disability so we don't call them retards anymore?  I didn't want to offend them.  They too walk around the hallways, their curly red hair disguised under a fake black sharp business hair cut.  Their tiny little bicycles are crammed into the secret compartment they have in the trunk of their brown buicks.  Their large feet stuffed into normal looking shoes (think Roald Dahl Witches here...) and they have flesh colored make up on to hide their painted on black large cartoon looking eyelashes.  They stride the hallways like they're walking into a crowd filled room ready for their first banana peel slip-and-fall opening act.   They're mainly in management positions, and in charge of making decisions, which means a lack of, or the wrong ones.  These clowns always get the high paying jobs.  Why is that again?  Probably because they're busy getting a cup of coffee which LOOKS like work, while I'm sitting here blogging.  Dammit.  I gotta work on my faking techniques.

They SEEM Harmless....

Working with clowns has it's challenges, since they aren't really around to make you laugh, but sometimes you just can't hold it in out of the sheer unbelievable nature of their statements.  You've got to recognize them, in the hallways, their big yellow flower isn't going to give them away, they're smart enough to wear disguises to the office.  You've got to be careful.  But clowns are silly, before you need to detect them, they will make themselves known to you and you'll have to work on working with them.  Just like you would when public speaking, imagine everyone naked, you'll have to gaze through their clown conversation they're holding with you and envision them juggling bowling pins, or better yet, chain saws and the juggling act going horribly wrong.

But you don't want to get distracted.  Stay wary of the clowns, and don't ever feed them.  That's what their storm-drain homes are for and lost puppies.  Working with real clowns or real decorative fake clowns is what we all face everyday, elephants or not.
But I've got a pie.
I've got a pie with extra whip cream saved for the day I get to hurl it at a clown and get away with it.  I'd jersey shore fist pump the sky with satisfaction that it hit not only hard, but rest in true self assuredness of the cream pie in facial orifices that will take weeks to get rid of the sour cream smell.

I've got a pie and an extra can of Reddiwhip.  Just in case.