Here are some things about me you probably don’t know.

*My middle name is Rae. I’m named after my Uncle Ray, who when I was a child, convinced me he had a bear living in a tree in his front yard. I have been afraid of bears…and trees…and men named Ray ever since.

*I slept in the same bed with my two younger brothers until I was 14 years old. OK, 15. Because I was afraid to sleep by myself. And I only stopped then because my parents made me.

*In middle school, if the teachers gave no homework I would make up work to do because I loved doing homework. I would show my teachers the next day all the extra work I did. They thought it was odd. My mom swears to this day that I was never dropped on my head as a baby. I was just a school nerd.

*If I didn’t bleach or color my hair I’d be almost completely gray headed. It’s been this way since I was 28.

*One time when I went scuba diving I was nearly eaten by a grouper the size of a two bedroom apartment. I’ve never been able to look at a fish in the face again. Not even our pet Beta, Douglas. His beady little eyes scream “I will devour you!”

*When I was 15 I faked a stomach ache to get out of going to church camp and ended up having my appendix removed. DO NOT TELL MY MOTHER.

*My grandparents named my butt cheeks, Precious and Adorable. And they would fight over which cheek was cuter. I think this might explain a lot of what’s wrong with me.

*When I was in elementary school I used to cry because I wanted to be a boy. Not because I wished I had a penis, but because my mom wouldn’t let me play football in the front yard without my shirt on.

*I like going to the movies by myself so I can sit in the dark and eat a hot dog AND nachos AND popcorn without feeling like people are judging me.

*I’ve never won anything in my life–except a Cabbage Patch doll–when I was 12. And then Avitable ate it. Cuz he eats the fuck out of those.

*I’m terrified of going to the dentist. They have to practically drive to my house and pick me up for my appointment. And there are usually promises of candy if I behave for the doctor. I don’t normally make it through without crying…or behaving.

I think this pretty much sums it up. It all makes perfect sense now doesn’t it.

Weirdos need love too.

***Please keep Anissa in your thoughts. For updates on her condition, you can go here.

*i like to integrate a little spanish in with my english. i’m a big fan of mexicans and the mexican language. i’ve found that they (the mexicans) really appreciate when gringos splash in a little espanol every once in awhile. i’m all about integration. adding an hola or a bueno into the mix kind of spices it up a bit. plus. the food. don’t even get me started on the mexican’s food. que rico. (that means “yay rick” in espanol–don’t ask me who rick is–maybe ricky ricardo?)

anyhoo, part dos of the story begins now. when we last left our heroine (that’s me, not the recreational drug–side note: why is heroine an illicit drug AND the name for a female hero? are all female heros considered high? or are we just running out of names for things so we have to recycle already used ones? if you know the answer please email it to idontreallygiveashit.com.

so i woke up in the hospital after having surgery for a twisted ovary that wasn’t. ooh. new movie on lifetime? the twisted ovary that wasn’t, starring judith light and john stamos. i can so see it now. must make mental note to write treatment (that’s showbiz talk for “screenplay”–you non showbiz people kill me with your naivete). anyway, shortly after waking from the surgery and finding myself in a depressing, prison cell-like room, i wanted to cry out, “why me? why, why?” but it came out in babbly baby talk. shortly after, a nurse appeared, took my vital signs and then hooked me up to a demerol pump that was attached to a cord that had a button on the end of it. she placed the button in my hand and said “this is your pain medicine. you can press the button every 6 minutes”…or something like that. i think she actually used more technical, robot terms, but it came across in slow motion charlie brown style…you know, “whaa whaa whaa, whaa whaa…” so of course i’m completely zonked out of my mind from the anesthesia but i can understand what she’s saying so i’m pressing the button then pressing the button, then pressing the button again. she grabs my hand and says, “every. six. minutes. you’re going to break it if you don’t stop pressing the button over and over again.”

and then i swear she called me a junkie while smiling at me through gritted teeth. really? is that so? you think i would go through such theatrics to get pain medicine oh wise nurse with the power tools and the liquid gold? fake a pain so convincing that my brilliant doctor would slice me limb from limb to find absolutely nothing wrong with me? side note: no actual slicing. 2 teeny tiny incisions. one in my belly button and the other in my bikini line. side note #2: i take such issue with waking up with a half shaved crotch. i mean seriously, it had been awhile since i’d groomed that area, but please. if you’re going to start a job, then please finish it, i hardly have the time, what with planning fake surgeries and all. side note #3: my general rule for grooming is this: am i going to sit poolside today? no? then what’s the point? hair grows there for a reason. who am i to question it?

so after explaining the delicacies of the 6 minute demerol, i dozed in and out of sleep. every little while i was awakened by someone new shoving pills down my throat and asking me bizarre questions like, “where’d you hide the body?”*

*actually, that could have been the tv. it’s not a real clear picture, but i’m pretty sure i served 3 years in prison for a murder i didn’t commit.

the next morning i woke up in a fog. what had happened? it was all a blur. i touched my face. yeah, still me. i didn’t appear disfigured at all. nor was i a duchess. or a bull rider. note to self: when under the influence of controlled substances, it’s probably not a good idea to keep the tv on the lifetime channel–all night long.

breakfast (in the form of liquids) was brought to me by celangela. seriously, i can’t make this shit up. “breakfast” consisted of jello, tea, beef broth, and a popsicle. can i just say that beef broth is just wrong. who eats this? well, besides the russians. i smiled at celangela, thanked her for the bountiful feast, pressed the button and closed my eyes again.

when my doctor popped in around 9, she told me what i had heard before. no mangled ovary. in fact, she said i had the prettiest pink ovaries she’d ever seen. ovaries are pink? eewww.

we talked about what to do next and she asked me about the pain. i had to think about it for a minute. i couldn’t exactly tell if i was in pain or not. i was sore, that much was clear, but i had also just had surgery. i told her the meds were so good that i couldn’t tell if i was in pain or not–and then i asked her why the room was starting to spin. she laughed (i’m telling you, i’m hilarious), said she’d ordered some more tests and that i would see her the next day. and to not hesitate to press the button. so i pressed it in her honor and closed my eyes again.

later, my cell phone rang. although, i didn’t realize it at the time. in my drug induced sleep i thought it was a bee, buzzing around my head. i opened my eyes, saw the glow of the screen on the phone and picked it up. i answered, “hello?”

“mom,” you ok?

“who is this?” i asked.

“it’s riley.”

“who?”

“RILEY. your daughter?”

“i’m sorry. you must have the wrong number. i don’t have a daughter named riley. i have a shetland pony named mrs. wigglesworth.”

“MOM!”

“huh?”

i sat up in the bed and looked around the room. where was i?

“mom? you there?”

“yes. i’m here. what happened?”

“mom, it’s riley. i’m at school. i’m going to the cafeteria. i just wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“oh riley. my baby. how are you? you ok?”

and then i started sobbing.

“mom, i gotta go. i just wanted to tell you i hope you feel better.”

sniffing, “send whataburger. with cheese. no tomato. and fries. no, make that onion rings.”

“mom, i gotta go. love you.”

and then she hung up.

i pressed the button and fell asleep again. some time later (who’s keeping track of time? i barely know my name!) i woke up to find tommy sitting across from me, whataburger bag in hand. awww. he’d come through for me. he really did love me. i didn’t bother asking the questions i should have–like “when did you get home? how are you? how are the kids? when do i get to go home?” no. i looked in the bag and said, “no ketchup?”

i practically inhaled the food in one disgustingly non-delicate/ladylike fashion.

what? the girl was hungry.

after eating every last french fry and licking the salt off the bottom of the bag, i decided against pressing the button again for awhile. i needed to know what was going on with me and that required my being sober.

turns out i had been to ex ray and had a ct scan earlier that day. the likely culprit of my pain? a small blood clot in my abdominal wall–a side effect from having that tummy tuck last year. huh.

you know what? still. totally. worth. it.

i mean, have you SEEN how flat my stomach is?

it’s good to be home.

i should have known the week would go badly when we got home from our relaxing anniversary weekend to sick kids. ethan had fever and was generally pissy and harley woke up in the middle of the night and puked all over me. the worst part was i never saw it coming so i couldn’t move out of the way in time. without getting too graphic let’s just agree that sour, chunky, regurgitated spaghetti feels pretty gross between your toes–and smells bad too. it’s a good thing my gag reflexes are made of steel. tommy better hope nothing ever happens to me because who in the world would clean up vomit? he might have to resort to hiring one of those disaster crews who cleans up after a catastrophic event. yes, vomit would fit in that category to tommy. he’s not good with puke, diarrhea, or snot. that’s where i come in.

luckily e’s fever broke and he got less pissy and harley only vomited the one time. i scored it a victory since i was sure we were all going to get the stomach virus. monday came and went and everyone seemed to be on the mend, so life was manageable–well, as manageable as life gets with four kids and a husband who was going out of town.

tuesday afternoon, i began getting pains in my lower left side that i can only describe as ‘labor pains.’ i did some math on my calculator and figured out that i couldn’t be in labor since a. i wasn’t pregnant, b. if i was pregnant, i would have a lot of splainin to do, and c. i had the smallest pregnant belly in the history of pregnant bellies and on top of that had just had my period. too much information? so sorry. you know we do that here. we talk about periods and vaginas and the mystery of the penis, and so on. it’s a teaching program. and i’m trying to do my part for the public. you’re welcome.

anyhoo, i ignored the pain because well, frankly, i didn’t have time for such nonsense. i popped 4 advil and tried going about my day. later in the evening, the pain became more intense and more frequent. i would get a stabbing right hook to my left ovary that would last for 1 minute or so and then go away. the period between each “contraction” would be euphoric. when the pain would fire i would try and breathe through it and then relax when it would go away. i swear to god had i not known any better i would have thought i was in labor–about to have a baby. i woke up during the night and had to fight back tears. i gulped down 4 more advil and tried to sleep. tommy left at 6 the next morning for louisville and i didn’t want to tell him what was going on with me because i figured it would go away. i kept thinking maybe i had some bad chinese food–even though it had been WEEKS since i’d eaten any. after i took the kids to school the pain was excruciating and the space between each “contraction” was getting smaller. i called my gynecologist who informed me that their ultrasound tech was out that day and i should go to the emergency room. oy vey. the er. what a fucking nightmare. i called my mom and asked her to drive me there. we arrived 45 minutes later and walked in the double doors to find a sea of “sick” people. i gave my name, was sent to triage and evaluated. i tried to convey to the nurse inspecting me that i was dying. she nodded her head (i guess it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that today) and pointed to a row of green chairs and said, “it will be awhile.”

it didn’t take long to figure out that the green chairs were for the losers. there was one woman moaning–she got taken back almost immediately. damn. why didn’t i think of that. i thought about moaning myself, but a dude sitting across from me (who was wearing the biggest diamond stud earrings i’d ever seen) started moaning and was taken away next. he totally stole my idea. it wasn’t fair. i wanted to be taken away. i was in pain. just because i wasn’t vocal about it didn’t mean i wasn’t just as pitiful. i thought quickly about falling down on the ground and making my body shake–you know, like i was convulsing or something, but i was afraid that my acting would be too convincing and i would be whisked off to surgery and have parts removed. maybe even parts that i wanted to keep but i wouldn’t be able to do anything since i’d started this whole mess by throwing myself down on the ground and acting crazy, so i decided against it. the couple next to me had their little boy with them and apparently he was the patient. my first thought was, why didn’t they take him to the children’s hospital across the street? why bring him here to this scary, nasty, crowded place? just then it was clear. i knew what i had to do. i stood up (and then almost fell to my knees when the pain struck again), called my mom who had conveniently dropped me off at the door, told her to turn around and pick me up, ripped the plastic bracelets off my wrists (i wasn’t sure if what i was doing was against the law or not–i mean i was technically in the system) and waited outside for my mom to get me while trying not to look suspicious. every few minutes i would have to put my hands on my knees to keep from falling to the ground in pain.

finally, she pulled in the emergency parking lot and picked me up. i phoned my doctor again (who if i haven’t mentioned before is a total rock star) and she sent me to get an ultrasound at a less crowded/depressing place. the sonogramologist studied my insides and made lots of ooh, ah, yep that’s a doozy kind of sounds and i became worried that something was wrong with me. i left after 30 minutes, drove home, and was met at the door by patricia (my nanny) who said, “the doctor just called and wants you to come to her office right away.”

oh my god. this was it. i was officially dying. i called my sister in law and asked her to go with me. i didn’t want to get bad news by myself. i’ve always felt it best to get other people involved in your misery. poor tommy. i didn’t have the heart to call him and tell him he’d have to call in the catastrophe squad the next time ethan had diarrhea. he’d learn that soon enough when i hired that plane to write “i won’t be around to smell your farts anymore, but hey that sure was fun, love shauna” in white smoke above our house. all the way to the doctor’s office i apologized to the universe for being a bitch. all of the sudden i was sorry. i was sorry for being mean to people i didn’t know, i was sorry that i’d been so hard on tommy (even though he never knew it since i always did it behind his back–or on here), i was sorry that i didn’t eat all the chocolate cupcakes or the rest of the key lime pie that was in the fridge. what did calories mean now–with me dying and all. i just hoped i would go fast. but the universe, she’s one cruel bitch. maybe she would drag it out. one fingernail at a time–or something dramatic like that.

we pulled in the parking lot where i was to meet my fate. i took a deep breath and walked inside. i was called back shortly after that and i grabbed my sister in law by the hand and said, “c’mon. i can’t do this alone.”

my doctor came in the room with my chart and said, “your sonogram looked perfectly normal.”

huh?

i was stunned. “are you sure?”

she read over the report. “no significant findings,” she read.

i was baffled. and a little disappointed. “but what about all the oohs and ahs and oh my god sounds that the sonogramologist made? and why did you want to see me ‘immediately?’”

my doctor put her hand on my knee and said, “i wanted you to come because you never call me unless something is wrong. so i need to figure out what is going on with you.”

just then the pain stabbed me in my left ovary.

“there. right there,” i screamed. “that’s where it hurts.”

she examined me–thoroughly–i might add–with metal tools and gels and cotton covered spatulas.

when she finished she said, “you have two options. and neither of them are good. and both require surgery.”

“surgery? when?”

“today.”

i was speechless. and then the pain struck. “yow. ok. i give.”

she started writing in my chart, describing what she thought was going on with me (torsion) and then spouted off instructions. “i’ll meet you at the hospital in a little while. go on over and get checked in. i’ll tell them to start an iv and give you something for the pain.”

now she was speaking my language.

as i hobbled back to my sister in law’s car, i was stunned. surgery? in a little while? wow. this was happening so fast. and then i started panicking. who would take care of my kids? who would take e-man to gymnastics? who would pick up the big girls–and get them to soccer practice? oh my god, what would they eat for dinner? nothing had been planned. this was a monkey wrench in my day and i was not sure what to do. how can the family possibly function without the glue (the glue is me in case you’re wondering)?

thank god was sister in law was driving because i might have ended up wrapped around a tree. my brain was working overtime and i was feeling overwhelmed–and was apparently in labor with a twisted ovary. we both got on our cell phones and made arrangements for the kids. then i figured it was probably best that i call tommy and tell him the news. was it too late to hire a plane to write in the sky over louisville? something light like “hey tommy, hope your meeting is going great, by the way, i’m having surgery in an hour.” what do you think? a little too impersonal? maybe i should call him myself. he might need to hear it from the horse herself.

she pulled up to the hospital and dropped me off. suddenly i was scared. i was going to have surgery and i was alone.

after 30 minutes of filling out paper work at the same time trying to explain to edna, the hundred year old deaf woman who typed with one finger, that i was in excruciating pain and could we do this later, i was in the system and now on my way to the surgery floor. i was poked, prodded, and asked questions like, do i do recreational drugs for recreation or am i an addict? did i engage in dangerous activities like sky diving or driving without my seat belt? how many sexual partners was i presently engaged with and did my husband know?

my head was spinning. i just wanted this whole thing to end. and i really wanted a chocolate cupcake in the worst way.

finally, a familiar face popped her head in the room. she’s a friend of mine and a crna at the hospital. i almost jumped in her arms when i saw her. i said, “how’d you know i was here?” and she told me that she saw my name on the board. she introduced me to the crna that would be handling “my case” (all the sudden i felt very important–i was “a case”–how cool was that?) and then i was like the most popular girl in the hospital. when they wheeled me up to surgery, 7 or 8 nurses surrounded my bed and stood over me, staring at me. all of them had huge smiles on their faces and i was like, ‘what gives?’ my friend said, “i told them how funny you are.”

i smiled and said, “oh.” and then laughter ensued. man, i AM funny.

and then i felt obligated to entertain them. it’s like they were waiting for some hilarious epitaphs to fly out of my mouth. i certainly didn’t want to disappoint them. so i tried to focus but the room began to spin. one of them put a hair net on me then and i tried to form words, but all i could do was babble like a one year old. my tongue was thick and i felt sleepy then and…

i woke up to find people standing over me. i remember asking, “can i see my mangled ovary? is it a boy or a girl? does it look like tommy or my side of the family?”

there was laughter. apparently when i’m on drugs i’m hilarious. i closed my eyes again and when i woke up i was in a room. a depressing, puddy colored room. it appeared i was staying in the hospital. before the surgery my doctor had said that if all went well i’d get to go home a few hours after, but by the looks of things, it hadn’t gone well. i tried placing my hands on my belly, but they were heavy and uncooperative. i was sore and i was tired and i was confused. i closed my eyes again and the next time i woke up monika was standing over me. i was able to get out the words this time. “what happened? am i going home?” she nodded her head and said, “it wasn’t what the doctor thought it was. you got to keep your ovary. she’s going to run some more tests so you’re not going home.”

great.

and then, “what about my kids?”

“they’re fine. everyone is taken care of. don’t worry.”

and so i didn’t. i closed my eyes again and cursed the blasted universe. why couldn’t this be easy? you know, cut and dry. bum ovary? yank it out and be done with it. but no. nothing was ever easy with me. it’s always vague and requires investigative coverage.

damn those chocolatey cupcakes sitting on the kitchen counter. what i wouldn’t give for 3 or 4 of them now.

~stay tuned for part 2 of the story tomorrow~

ok, first of all, i can’t be held responsible for the title of today’s post. last night when i was going to bed, i came up with it and thought it was brilliant. and no, i wasn’t drunk OR on drugs. i can’t explain it, but for some reason i thought this was the most clever title ever. EVER.

i wanted to get up and at least write it down, but my body wouldn’t follow. i was insanely exhausted. so as i drifted off to sleep, i repeated the title over a hundred times in my mind so that i wouldn’t forget it in the morning. when i woke up, i reached in my memory bank in search of the “greatest title ever” and this is what my brain spit out.

so, “greatest title ever?” no. not feeling it. i’m not even sure what it means. but i felt it necessary to post it anyway since my brain worked so hard to keep it in queue. i think there’s something wrong with me. i know i say that a lot, but i’m serious this time. is this a new development? probably not. maybe i was hungry for chicken nuggets when i went to bed?

moving on. i know many of you have been wondering where i’ve been (mostly because of the oodles of harassing emails that all begin with WTF?) and i’ll tell ya–i’ve been busy. you know tommy and i escaped for an anniversary weekend sans the kids. i learned a lot on the trip. i learned that i really like tommy. i learned that away from the kids we have fun, we get along, and i enjoy his company immensely. (shocking, i know) even when we’re by ourselves his farts aren’t nearly as noxious–and his shuffling feet, his slurping and gulping and his obsessive throat clearing don’t have me plotting his untimely and accidental (wink, wink) death. the common denominator in all these scenarios? the kids. or rather, lack of kids. it seems that having the kids around and my noticing that i do most all the work has me resenting him–and therefore not appreciating all his little quirks/eccentricities/annoying habits. (we’ve only been home one day and my left eye has already begun twitching uncontrollably–the feet shuffling has GOT to stop!) when it was just the two of us it was easy to let go the fact that when the clock strikes a certain hour, his ability to function (other than his thumb fashioned on the channel up and down button on the remote control) turns to something that would make a coma patient appear mobile. in fact, it was downright adorable.

but we’re not alone at the beach anymore. and no, his letting me know how tired he is from his long day of returning emails and talking on the phone doesn’t make me feel sorry for him. it makes me want to run over him with my car. on accident, of course.

god love him. i just think it’s a man thing. and if you’re one of those lucky few who has a helpful husband, do not comment here. no one wants to hear how great he is with the kids or how he does most of the work–or even some of the work. odds are you’re lying because such a man doesn’t exist. well, except that i personally know two. and one of them is my little brother. he makes all other dads look bad. i mean REALLY bad. when i’m around him and i see how he is with my nephew it makes me want to punch tommy in the face–just once, really hard. i think i would feel so much better if i could do that.

but wait. i meant for this post to be about how much i appreciate tommy and how much fun we had on our trip. oops, i guess i got off on a little tangent there. so as i was saying, tommy’s awesome and we had fun. there. i said it.

on saturday i got a pedicure from this spa down the street from our house. i’d never been there and wanted to try it out. the actual pedicure was just so-so (actually it sucked–it was the worst pedicure ever) but what i enjoyed was the girl who *performed* the service. she told the most fascinating, heart breaking story i’d ever heard. i think i’m even going to write about it. it’s a sad story–probably the saddest, jaw dropping tale of a young woman’s life EVER on the planet, but somehow also a testament to the tenacity of the human spirit. the problem with me writing her story is that normally i write funny. and this ain’t no funny story. so if i do it, i may have to inject humor–like maybe the story takes place in a town where nobody wears pants. pants are not worn because zippers and elastic waistbands have been outlawed or haven’t been invented yet. it’s rough–definitely a work in progress, but you get the point. it’s a fucking sad story and it needs fart jokes or vagina talk. i’ll let you know what i decide. i may scrap the whole idea and just tell you the story here. one thing is for sure– i’ll never forget cindy as long as i live. i’ve thought about her every day since i met her.

and that’s about all i got for now. oh, there’s more don’t you worry. but i have to go. my real life is calling.

so, tommy and i left town this morning. we’re at the beach house in florida (it’s our anniversary). so we have four glorious days of doing nothing–except right now, he’s on the sofa with his laptop and i’m at the desk on mine. we haven’t spoken to each other in like 10 minutes except when he walked by a minute ago, stopped, and then started reading over my shoulder. i yelled, “get away!” and he retreated back to his side of the room. please, people, everyone knows that reading over the shoulder is grounds for murder. no jury, anywhere, would convict me because that’s like common knowledge. it’s one of the facts of life–or a 10 commandment (thou shalt not readeth over thy spouseth shoulder-eth?), or something like that. it’s basically the law.

anyway, on the plane i took off my wedding ring and asked tommy to hold it so i could apply lotion to my alligator-like skin. once successfully lubed, i held out my hand for him to put my ring back on my finger. i smiled at him and half expected that he would jokingly say something corny and weddingish like, “with this ring i thee wed,” blah, blah, blah.

but, as he placed the ring on my finger he looked into my eyes and asked, “did you fart?”

and no, i did not fart.

we have no idea what to do. i’m used to having an afternoon filled with kids and carting them to their various activities; and tommy is used to being on the phone and bossing people around all day, all the while giving sage advice and enlightening direction.

so…..our plan is to see a movie. and then eat. eating is a main priority for me. and then maybe…i don’t know. i’m completely lost here.

what do people without kids do for 4 days?

besides THAT!

tommy’s way ahead of you. don’t worry.

perverts.

oh, and happy anniversary to me–and tommy.

…not with a baby! Jeez, you tell someone you’re pregnant and they immediately assume you mean you have a human growing in your uterus.

No worries here. I’m not going to give birth to another mini me anytime soon—or ever again. I shudder at the very thought of that. I mean, I don’t want the kids I’ve ALREADY birthed sometimes. What makes you think I would want another one? They’re not that cute!

So anyway, as I was saying, I’m pregnant…with overflowing emotions right now. I’m tired—scratch that—I’m exhausted. I’ve had the same headache for 3 weeks now. I’m fatigued, I’m weepy, and most days I haven’t the energy to do even the most menial of tasks. Hold the phone, it DOES sound like I’m pregnant with a baby. And I might even think it’s a possibility if A. Tommy hadn’t had a vasectomy THE DAY AFTER ETHAN WAS BORN!; or B. I wasn’t on my period right now (too much information?).

No, not pregnant. Maybe I have mono? Maybe I’m dying of some weird disease that makes you think you’re pregnant? Maybe the universe is about to exact its inevitable revenge against me?

Or maybe, I’m just tired. I do have four kids after all. And those four kids are involved in endless activities. During the day I might have time to sew that baby blanket or work a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, but come 2:30 I’m a slave to the people I once considered to be absolutely adorable. I mean I used to think these little creatures were little petit fours of ooey goodness that I hardly deserved. Now it’s clear, I’m getting exactly what I had coming to me. Call it the boomerang effect, or Karma. Whatever it is, it’s fucking annoying. And now I’m up to my earlobes in shit—which translates to soccer, field hockey, art class, gymnastics, and ballet.

I actually went to the doctor 2 days ago and had them do blood work to see if what afflicts me is real or just a figment of my overworked and underpaid imagination. I haven’t gotten the results of the blood tests yet, but I imagine they’ll tell me that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, followed with a hearty have a nice day, to which I will follow up with “suck it”—after I hang up the phone, of course.

I’m afraid my pregnancy is only the result of having too many things to do, places to be, people to please. Think I’m complaining? Well, hell yeah I’m complaining. Are you new? This is what I do. Deal with it. You’re just pissed that I’m not REALLY pregnant and you can’t point your fingers and laugh at me. Please, I’m not that big a schmuck.

I calculated the number of hours per week I’m in the car driving the crumb snatchers around. You want to know what that number is? 42 (42!) That’s 2,184 hours a year!

So really, it’s no wonder I’m tired.

Yesterday afternoon around 3 I was starving. So I called Mama’s pizza up the street and ordered 2 medium pizzas (1 sausage, 1 half pepperoni, half cheese), 2 dinner salads, and extra ranch dressing (we Texans eat our pizza with ranch dressing—you gotta try it). Then I stopped at the convenience store and picked up a 6-pack of beer. I went home, piled 3 slices on a paper plate, popped open a cold beer, sat on my bed and inhaled every bit of it. I had exactly 30 minutes before I had to be somewhere, so there was no time to waste. Just then I heard the back door open and it was Tommy. He saw the pizza buffet laid out on the counter and looked at me, puzzled.

“Are you having a late lunch? Or an early dinner?”

I tossed the empty beer bottle in the recycle bin and put the rest in the fridge for later. “I was starving, so I got a little afternoon snack.”

“Wow. Does this happen a lot? Maybe I should start coming home early more often.”

Please God, let him be joking.

“No, not all the time. Sometimes it’s cookies and milk. Sometimes it’s nachos. Sometimes it’s a happy meal from mickey d’s.”

His eyes widened. “You eat like this all the time?”

I guffawed and said, “Have you just met me? Of course I eat like this all the time. Why do you think I work out like a fiend?”

He lowered his head and then got a weird, worried look on his face. “Are you pregnant?”

I picked up my keys off the counter and walked towards the back door. He was watching me, waiting for my answer. I opened the door and yelled over my shoulder, “yes, but not with a baby.”