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Hi Internet, how are you?

It’s been awhile since we’ve last spoken, I know, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call. See, the thing is, I’ve been a real raging bitch for the past 6 months or so, and have been terrified to let you see my wrath. I seem to piss people off without meaning to, and if I’m meaning to, I guess that I’m afraid that I’ll ruin any chance of Ben and Baby G-Unit having a normal life. You know, because the Internet can tell him how horrid I really am.

Either way, Internet, I have something to tell you: I’m pregnant! And it’s not yours, it’s The Daver’s. It also appears to have a comically large weenis and enjoys tap dancing on my bladder. Just like his daddy.

This pregnancy has not been without peril, Internet. I had a tear in my placenta causing some frightening first trimester bleeding then I was stricken by a mild case of hyperemesis graviorum. It was fun. It still IS fun.

But last night, something NEW happened.

See, Internet, I feel I need to be honest here. One 1.5 pound baby tap dancing on your bladder often = a little bit of pee in your undies. It’s not hot, no, but it is normal.

Now last night, there was a significantly greater amount of pee in my knickers and I began to get worried. The baby had been mercifully (probably due largely to the fact that I promised him a ‘beat down like no other’ if he didn’t give my bladder a bit of rest) kicking my colon and/or trying to escape through my belly button and avoiding my bladder.

Of course, Internet, this had to happen on a Saturday night when my doctors were out of the office.

So, off we trundled to the ER to make sure I did not have a small tear in my amniotic sac. After having my cervix and/or vagina examined for about 2 hours I was released to get my McDonald’s Carmel sundae and Diet Coke.

Diagnosis: Female Urinary Stress Incontinence (thankgod) r/t pregnancy.

That’s right, Internet, I peed my pants and then made the hospital tell me so.

Guess the giant box of ‘Oops I Crapped My Pants’ I bought for The Daver is going to be used by me.

5 Things:

1. I played concert cello for 10+ years. I toured all over Europe and the States. I was actually quite good, but I quit in college when I decided that smoking reefer took much less effort. Actually, that’s a total lie. I quit because I was tired of it. And honestly? While other people have lamented it loudly, I haven’t looked back once.

2. I spent my entire childhood sickly. I had an ear infection at 2 weeks when I was a newborn and was sick ever since. When I was 14, I had my tonsils out. It was only then when I was introduced to my sweet, sweet friend Vicodin. When the surgeon made the initial cut, the black necrotic tissue trapped within poured out into my mouth.

Heh. Wanna make out?

3. When I was an ickle kid, probably about 3 years old, I got lost in the grocery store. Some clerk found me wandering around and brought me back to the service desk. When the bat-faced old lady asked my name, I told her it was ‘Smurfette.’ She didn’t believe me. I insisted.

Finally, she got so pissed off with me that she got on the PA and announced that they had a small girl at the service desk with ‘pink shoes, pink socks, pink pants, pink shirt, and curly hair.’

I totally dressed myself that day. Because OBVIOUSLY.

4. Although I have successfully given up coffee, alcohol and smoking, I have been immersed in the most irritating and painful addiction to nose spray. I cannot function without it. Dr. Google and I had discussed this at great length and have decided to let things be. I’m all ‘rebound congestion’ and he’s all ‘you’re an addict’ and I’m all like ‘yeah, but what else do I have left to be addicted to?’and he was all ‘ADDICT.’

He’s an asshole.

5. Babies ‘R’ Us and I have always had a horrible relationship. I have always hated it, what with it’s hugely tall shelves and inability to hire anyone with more than 4 or 5 functioning brain cells. Having had what only can be described as ‘premature nesting obsession,’ Dave and I trekked out to EVERY OTHER CONCEIVABLE STORE THAT MIGHT HAVE BABY FURNITURE LIKE A DRESSER OR AN ARMOIRE. We even went to Baby Depot (which is s.c.a.r.y.) and Wicks.

In the end, we were defeated, especially after learning that the internet charges $70+ for shipping furniture, so onward to Babies ‘R’ Us we trudged. And we were in and out within 20 minutes with a changing table, chiffenrobe (whatEVER that is) and a glider. It was un_fucking_real.

And as for me, these days I’m neither here nor there.

Now you may have NOTICED it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘Hollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating

(whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).

Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘Baby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.

This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.

I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course because I happen to look quite like a hippo these days, and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?

The waist fit.

The hips fit.

The calves fit.

Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?

Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.

What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.

So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them.

Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go. Grumbling and grousing the whole way.

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