Thanks, Ribeye...

You must have passed the seventh grade in order to understand my rage.

Merry F*&$#ing Christmas

Christmas shopping is not a concept that considers 8-month-pregnant women.

First -- I border on agoraphobic (fear of crowds) and hate being out in public in crowds more than I have to be... which I think either springs from, or is fueled by, my hatred of being touched. I don't like bumping into people, I don't like brushing against people, etc. It's not like a rabid hatred or anything, I'm just a person who enjoys her personal space, a lot. So take Christmas shopping into account, where everyone in this god-forsaken city is all in one place, plus the fact that I take up more square footage than an orca whale, and I get touched/bumped into/brushed against. A lot. I really don't blame my unborn daughter for kicking the shit out of me. After all, I'm causing her house to be slammed into on a regular basis. I'd be pretty pissed too.

Which yes, put crowds and Prego in one small space and I'm already irritated, PLUS getting kicked by my child AND having Braxton-Hicks contractions. I can only compare these to, imagine, if you will, walking around with your abs flexed and clenched as absolutely hard as you can. And not just a small flex and release. Flex and hold. For like five minutes. Wait an hour or so, and do it again for another five minutes. Yeah, it hurts, it makes you tired, and it kinda makes you pukey. And I'm stuck in the damn Gap or wherever around all these strangers who for one reason or another are just PISSING ME OFF... it's a bad, bad, volatile situation.

Speaking of people who piss me off -- old. Fucking. Ladies. You're old, I get it. Your time is getting closer by the second. And you're trying to shop for your grandkids, or nieces and nephews, or your 60 cats. I get that. But that does NOT mean you get to cut in line. Don't pretend you don't see it. The end of the line is back there. I know because I was back there about 15 minutes ago, and see, I'm still here. Don't you go up to that cash register like you don't see the 30 people in line waiting. And definitely don't try to squeeze in front of me. You're old? Fuck you, I'm pregnant -- very pregnant. I win. I will block you off with my unborn child. You can get behind me. Chinese cutsies. Learn it, hag, because it's the best deal you're gonna get.

Parking is another concept that does not consider the disgustingly-overinflated pregnant woman, especially Christmas parking. I see all these people getting in and out of vans in the handicap spots and think they get to park five feet from the door just because their legs don't work. That's crap. My feet are huge and swollen and maybe, MAYBE I'll be able to get my shoes off at the end of the day (my shoes that took me five minutes of grunting and struggling just to get ON). My legs are swollen and hurt just from my six hour shift of running my ass off at work. My back? We won't even go there. And I'm carrying this gigantic beach ball full of cement out in front of me, on ice, trying not to slip. Fuck you, handicap person, so you probably had your legs violently torn off in a war, or you were born without ever getting to know the joys of running through a field of daisies or something. It's sad and I'm sorry, but you know what, you can sit comfortably in your motorized Hovaround and park out in Bookooland. I have to walk. I think I deserve a handicap spot. You might think I'm being callous or insensitive, but the hormones give me an amazing sense of entitlement.

And traffic. Oh traffic. We know about my unhinged rage I have when I'm behind the wheel of a car, but put me in busy Christmas shopping traffic and I swear to you, I am amazed I have not gone into labor yet. Yesterday the traffic light in front of the mall went out, with no police officers to be found directing traffic. Common sense would dictate the need for operating like a four-way stop. Easy enough concept, right? WRONG. You would swear that society had collapsed and automobile anarchy was in effect. It was horrible. And by now, for the reasons I've listed and so many more, my patience is shot. You balk for one split second at a red light? Oh, I am honking my horn and I am furious. GO, ASSHOLE!!! And turn signals! Why is it NOBODY in the state of Indiana is capable of flicking the little switch and utilizing these things? TURN. FUCKING. SIGNALS!!!! I can feel my blood pressure elevating as I write this. I hate driving with other people on the road. I think it's probably a problem I'm going to have to overcome, but in the meantime... damn ya'll, damn.

I should really stop writing this before I send myself into labor. But if you're out shopping within these last few pre-Christmas shopping days, and see a pregnant woman, steer clear. You may think she looks jolly, but we're filled with a rage like you have never known. Approach at your own risk.

Newsflash: Spawn a celebrity, neglect responsibility, become a martyr!

Okay. I'm just going to warn everyone now. If you're going to read this blog and then get all pissy and offended and tell me I'm insensitive, move along. It's nothing I haven't heard before, so don't waste your time.

That being said, DAMN I am tired of hearing about Kanye West's mother and her death as a result (allegedly) of botched plastic surgery. It's everywhere. It's on Dr. Phil right now as I speak. It's on TMZ and Perez Hilton and my mother even talks about it. MY MOTHER. That is when you know it's permeated the media in a profound way -- my mom actually knows about it. I'm frankly tired of hearing about it.

But Prego, you might be thinking, that's wrong! That poor woman died! Her son is crushed! This is very very sad and blah blah blah!

Yeah, okay. She died. That's unfortunate. She seemed like a great woman when I saw her on TV, and she was a beloved mother, friend, aunt, whatever. She could have cured cancer and rescued millions of kittens from a meteor. Great woman, very sad tragedy. I get it. But what I don't get is why nobody in the media is putting ANY sort of responsibility on Ms. West herself.

So the doctor she went to has had a history of medical malpractice and alcohol problems. Yep, pretty darn shady. So he's got all these cases of women scarred, deformed and "ruined" from his procedures, his interpersonal skills suck, and maybe he likes to fart in the car with the windows up and the heat on. He's a bad man. Okay. So why, WHY would Ms. West go to such a doctor without consulting... oh, I don't know, his medical history? Wouldn't it be wise to look into the person that's going to be, you know, SLICING YOU UP? I don't even trust the girl in the McDonald's drive-thru handing me my double cheeseburger, let alone a doctor that is going to be taking a knife to my flesh. You research shit like that. It's what grown-ups do.

Furthermore, before going to Dr. Shady, Ms. West had been advised by, ya know, GOOD doctors not to go through with the surgery because of cardiac issues. Should've been a red flag to probably not have surgery. But no, she was so driven by her own vanity and selfishness that she HAD to have the surgery done RIGHT NOW, regardless of who was doing said surgery. And instead of going to a responsible medical professional, she went to this guy, who obviously had no problem operating on a woman whom other doctors did not feel comfortable performing surgery on.

And now she's dead.

Like I said, it's sad. It's unfortunate and tragic whenever anyone dies, regardless of the reason, because it's tragic to someone. I'm not sitting here mocking Kanye West for losing his mom. I'm not mocking anything, actually. I'm just being the voice of reason here -- she made a choice to go to a doctor, without researching his medical history (or maybe with it, and still chose to go forward), and then died as a result of shoddy plastic surgery. PLASTIC SURGERY -- an elective surgery that nobody was putting a gun to her head to have done.

But you know... if you can spawn a celebrity out of your crotch that actually likes you, rather than suing you for bad management and money embezzling or whatever... you don't need to be held accountable for your decisions, even if they might result in you dying.

That being said.... flame on.

Supermoms break rules too.

It has amused me for quite some time now that my blog is featured on a blogring of pregnant and expecting blogs... namely because when I've visited other blogs from this ring, I realize that I am NOTHING like these women with the exception that I have a fetus in my uterus. Yeah, sure, you have your general pregnancy stories -- the baby kicks my ribs, thinks my bladder rocks as a pillow, I'm a fat orca whale, this child is eating my soul, etc. etc. -- but then you get to the very root of it. I'm so not a pregnancy role model.

I tried to be. When I first got pregnant, I delved into all the web sites telling me what not to eat (hot dogs, soft cheeses, deli meat, sushi, fish in general, peoples' heads, etc.) and diligently abided these rules, along with all the other stuff I had to give up, including alcohol, smoking, marijuana (whatever, don't look at me like you haven't smoked your share, too), caffeine and over-the-counter painkillers with the exception of Tylenol. Which, by the way, if you are a fellow sufferer of chronic migraines like myself (yay for genetics!), I'm sure you'll join me in a hearty FUCK THAT for anyone who thinks Tylenol will curb a migraine. It doesn't. It doesn't do shit. I want my Vicodin, I want my Imitrex, and I want it NOW. But because I don't want my child to come out looking like Vishnu with six arms and three heads, I had to give it up and suck it up when migraines came around. (Which they did, frequently and with a vengeance when I gave up caffeine.)

Anywho. Eight months in, I've pretty much quit being Supermom. My sister-in-law was one of those who basically abstained from any kind of vice and any kind of potentially hazardous food, as I am frequently reminded by my mother-in-law, who advocates it and looked like I killed a kitten when I ordered a Coke -- a REGULAR COKE, OMG!!!11! -- the last time A and I went out to eat with them. You know what, fuck it. (Yeah, I'm going to be a mom and I say fuck sometimes. Or a lot of the time. What-the-fuck-ever.) I'm tired of following rules. And so I've hit the caffeine with a vengeance, stand in front of microwaves, eat fish, LOVE goat cheese on croutons at work, and you know what? According to every ultrasound and heart check to date, this baby is 100% healthy. Totally fine. Fuck you, Google and WebMD.

I'm still a good mom, as good a mom as you can be to a fetus. I mean, I let her have marshmallows whenever she wants. And key lime pie. And chocolate. A lot of chocolate. Whatever, the baby makes me eat it, I swear.

But yeah, my original point? I forgot it a while ago. Oh. Yeah. For anyone stumbling across this page from the Perfect Pregnant Woman blogs, or from Google blog searches for pregnant role models... continue your search, it ain't me. I'm just a kid livin' a dream... and downing a LOT of sugar and caffeine in the meantime. Go eat veggies or something -- there, there's my public service announcement for the day.

The Prego has spoken.

Santa Claus is the devil.

I'm married to Santa Claus. Did you know this? No really, I am. For the children of my mother-in-law's daycare, my husband, A, really IS Santa Claus. As he gears up for his yearly jaunt with strangers' children on his lap, it brings back memories of my own encounters with Santa at the Ames store my mom took us to every year.

I never trusted Santa. I was never a fan of excess celebrations, or the notion of grown adults in costumes. Santa always made me uneasy, but not quite so much as the Easter Bunny, who did not talk, and whom I was more than aware was an adult in a furry costume. I felt the same mistrust toward Mickey, Minnie, Goofy and company when I went to Disneyworld. Probably why today the notion of furries is so disturbing to me.

But anyway, years later as an adult myself, it's nice to know that I wasn't the only one ill at ease with Santa. With that, I now present the best that Google image searching has to offer...

Yeah, so from my family to yours... merry Christmas.

Road rage

I've discussed it before, but to reiterate to anyone not familiar with my driving style -- I drive for shit. I can openly admit it -- I'm a horrible driver. I weave through lanes. I'm regularly driving 20+ mph over the speed limit, I obliviously cut people off, I roll through stop signs. If I'm feeling especially saucy on any given day, I might, might use my turn signals. I'm that car on the road that when I pass a driver's ed car, I can count on looking in my rearview mirror and seeing the instructor in the passenger seat pointing at my car and telling his student that I'm an example of what NOT to do. I know. I'm a horrible, horrible driver. I'm amazed they let me on the road, too.

HOWEVER... I am convinced that I am the only person in this entire city that has even the remotest idea of how to drive in the winter. I grew up about 45 minutes away from the city in which I currently reside, where the weather patterns are assumably similar. That is, every December, it snows. It's winter. This white, frozen precipitation falls from the sky onto the earth. It's the damnedest thing, because you'd swear every single resident of this city is completely new to the concept of snow. At least the ones in cars. Because every December, without fail, once it snows, everyone in this god-forsaken city begins to drive 20 miles per hour, regardless of where they are -- side roads, main streets, mother-effing interstates... A few small flurries are cause for alarm here. By "alarm" I mean MASS PANIC AND HYSTERIA.

We had our first major snow here last week and there were over 90 accidents that night reported. You want me to venture a guess? Because everyone was freaking out and driving 10 mph. I am that asshole that drives maybe 5 miles under the posted speed limit, passing said idiots. Because it's the damnedest thing in the world -- tires are actually created with traction to handle snowy roads. Oh yeah, AND THE ROADS WERE PLOWED THREE DAYS AGO!!!

I am swearing to you right here and now, folks, I'm going to go into labor while I'm driving because my blood pressure and my patience are inversely related when it comes to the dumbasses behind the wheel in this city. I come from a small rural town where maybe, just MAYBE the roads would get plowed after a snowstorm. Huge maybe. You learned to drive in winter quick and after you hit a ditch once or twice, you learned the limits (I only did it once, thank you very much). Maybe I'm lucky because I'm not a complete fucktard when it comes to winter driving...

...or maybe it's a curse because I'm stuck behind fucktards that think "Snow = Driving 5 mph."

Gah... I need to get out of this city.

MIA... sorry...

Yeah, I'm not exactly the most "regular" blogger in the blogosphere to begin with, but even I am disappointed in my recent disappearance from the blogger dashboard. Sorry kids. I have a few things in "drafts" that I get about halfway through and decide, "You know what? This sucks, and it isn't funny," and then move on to do more important things, like bitch over at Bitter Waitress and fill out MySpace surveys. I'm sorry. I suck.

I'll start up again soon, pending I live through Christmas. Christmas always stresses me out, most likely because I've never really been filled with Christmas joy to begin with. So faking it is one thing, but faking it despite the usual holiday stresses is even harder, especially when you're a hormonal, emotional train wreck like me lately. I'm still in the middle of trying to finish up the baby's room -- we've got that painted and now it's a matter of setting everything up. I'll post pictures once it's finished, but in the meantime my goal was to have it finished before Christmas. I don't see that happening anymore, but at least we have finished painting the room and clearing out the majority of the random crap sitting in there (it's been the second bedroom/crap storage room for years). It's just a matter of getting everything set up, but seeing as a lot of the furniture probably won't happen until Christmas as gifts, there's just bags and baskets and boxes of things just hanging out in there.

I pray to Vishnu and whatever pagan gods that this kid is not early, because I have the feeling we're going to be cutting it close as far as finishing up the nursery.

Other than that, it's just a whirlwind of shopping for Christmas presents and working my ass off to afford said presents and still pay off the bills I've got hanging over my head. The whole "grown-up" thing is overrated. I have not begun shopping yet, but at this rate it's a matter of actually getting a day off work and having money in the bank account to do it. Not such an easy combination. Like I said... the grown-up thing? Totally overrated.

So, that being said, sorry I haven't been around lately... but trust me, all of the aforementioned experiences are making me extra bitter and cranky, so expect me to be back in a big way once I get around to it!