The Old Man and the (Pregnan)Sea

GET IT?! I crack myself up.

For the past decade, I’ve believed I was a 80-something year old man trapped in a female body. Starting in college, I became hooked on Tums and then later, Zantac. I have a beer belly. I have strokes. Okay, so they are really migraines, but the first 30 minutes of my migraines are signature stroke signs – droopy face, loss of sight, loss of speech, numbness in limbs, etc – so it counts.

And the biggest old man tendency of all? My favorite cocktail is a Manhattan. Which is apparently an old man drink, judging from reactions I continuously get from friends, acquaintances and bartenders. And I suppose it sort of makes sense because I am 89% sure my love of Manhattans started at grade school age, when my Dad and Grandpa would both give me the bourbon-soaked cherries from bottoms of their consumed Manhattans.

But lest I ruin my computer with drool because I would kill for bourbon right now, enough about that.

So, I have an inner old man who has strokes and wicked heartburn and enjoys bourbon-based cocktails. And while I thought nothing could bring him out further, I was mistaken. Pregnancy has awakened the old beast.

I have to pee all the time. All. the. time. I gazed longingly at a pack of Depends the other day, thinking maybe that crazy astronaut who wore diapers on that road trip to confront her lover or whatever was more brilliant than nuts.

Artist Depiction of me in the morning. With added sea hat.

Mornings are stiff. Now, get your minds out of the gutters because I am talking about my back. As I hobble to the bathroom to pee for the 10th time of the night I find myself wishing for a cane or a walker.

I chug Metamucil every night before bed. Fiber supplements aren’t just for the elderly, my friends. But truthfully? This is one habit I will continue postpartum. This shit is awesome…pun partially intended.

My driving skills have become less than aggressive. While I have been trying to keep my foot from being its usual leaden self, because at some point I am going to have to drive a little more conservatively with a tiny being in the backseat, I have also caught myself zoning out and doing a leisurely Sunday driver 30 MPH down the 50 MPH road. Which is the exact thing that gives me road rage on an almost-daily basis. Whoops.

I have a new love for Preparation H. I’ll leave that at just that.

I am ridiculously grumpy. Now, some people may say that is a standard feature of me, but I am seriously curmudgeonly. Everything is irritating, I want to punch everything in the face and everything is young and vibrant and douchey. I yelled at some birds to get the f%^@ out of my tree, for ^&#!s sake. This is possibly working out to my advantage, though, as my mean mugging stops the stranger danger interactions so many pregnant ladies complain about. Random stranger advice? Random stranger belly touching? Random stranger questions? None of the above.

At least I don’t have a beard. Or ear hair. Yet.

Thoughtless Thursday

I don’t feel like thinking of anything to say. So here’s a photo.

Some things you may or may not need to know:

1. This is what I look like after an 11-hour work day.

2. I am wearing red stilettos.

3. That sweater is pregnancy hiding magic.

4. Black really, truly is slimming.

5. I am 26 weeks as of…now.

6. I took a side photo to prove I had a belly but my phone decided to delete it and I didn’t notice until right now. Not last night when I could have retaken it. SO USE YOUR IMAGINATIONS.

7. And that’s all I’ve got.

Shit Just Got Real

Dearest Doughhead,

You really do exist. There you were, on-screen, in black and white and shades of grey, having made yourself a nice little squatter home. You look like a hamster.

There was only one of you, thank Taco Bell.

Now, if I was a normal, excited mommy-to-be, I would post this lovely image of fact:

But I’m not. I am a Bourbon thirsty crazy woman who thinks ultrasounds look like blobs with no discernible features which require no squee-ing over. So, to help those like me who can never find the head, butt or anything in between and find regular ultrasounds to be a yawnfest, I am posting this:

Party over heeee-re!

But I swear to god, tiny little doughhead hamster, if you pull the Full House Aunt-Becky-and-Uncle-Jesse-are-having-twins thing I will f$@^ing RAGE. You know, the episode where Becky had all her tests and everything and then BAM! Seven months into it SURPRISE MOTHERF@$%*S, you have two in there lol one must have been hiding. I love the shit outta Full House, but don’t you dare suddenly morph into two and pretend it’s funny to make that episode my real life. You got it, dude?

But holy hell you’re really in there. #cuescarymusic