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Praise Jesus, the rabbit died, Jupiter aligned with Mars, peace will steer the planet and love will steer the stars! Yep, folks, you heard me right, I am once again Pregnant. To those of you who read this and I haven’t had a chance to personally inform, I suck, but I am a recluse and the likelihood of me seeing you BEFORE I got the chance to pop this kid out is slim. To none.

Although I already have one five year old, and have therefore been pregnant before, I never gave credence to the statement ‘œevery pregnancy is different.’ I (in my normal fashion) scoffed, laughed and made snide remarks. See here, Internet, I will claim to you all that although I might not ever be considered ‘œnice’ I am usually considered ‘œbitchy, but in a good way.’

With my first, this is what I felt:
1. HUNGRY (you don’t gain 90 lbs without trying. Period. And PS, it was glorious putting it on)


2. Tired. I was so bone crushingly tired that I would frequently wake up with rug burn on my face from passing out after trying to tie my shoes.

(To be fair, everything else was a total mess in my life at the time, so don’t be jealous or make snide remarks. Although the pregnancy was not difficult, I often remark that it’s a miracle that I didn’t kill myself during it. This is saying a lot, as I am not often suicidal and I am not kidding for once. Thankfully, this is not *that* kind of blog, so I will spare you the details.)

Life has done what it does best, and has pulled the rug out from under me with an old ‘œone-two’ punch. THIS time around, my symptom list would be more like:

1. Tired. So tired that I cry about it often. I.E. ‘œI’m SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeedddddd!!!!’

2. Nauseous. In this weird way, I am both famished and nauseous at the same time. BUT ONLY FOR CERTAIN FOODS. I can only eat very specific things and if I *try* to eat something else, whatever it is will be returned to me in a slightly wet manner. I have eaten (besides wings, natch) about 4 bites of food (THAT I HAVE KEPT DOWN) since August 2.

3. Fat. No one told me that the second time around you begin showing the minute the test says ‘œPREGNANT!’ It took quite awhile to show with Benner, so I assumed that somewhere around Thanksgiving, I’d have a pooch, but no! EVEN WITH MY WEIGHT LOSS I HAVE A POOCH. AND MY BOOBIES ARE HUGE. AND PENDULOUS.

4. A huge bitch. On top of all of this, I have turned into an even NASTIER person. I happened to be dragged into a Wal-Mart with The Daver a couple of days ago and began to use the phrase ‘œwhite trash’ WITHIN EARSHOT OF THE PEOPLE I WAS TALKING ABOUT. Dave was horrified and tried to put me back in the car, but haha! even pregnant, I am STILL stronger!

Poor Dave is absolutely at his wits end (and who could blame him?). It’s one thing to slip down into madness while being totally unaware, but it’s a total other thing to WATCH yourself slowly going insane. *I* even know that I suck right now.

I think he’s getting ready to take a ‘œbusiness trip’ to ‘œSouth America’ for ‘œ7 months,’ to which I replied, ‘œSend Wings’ and money and ‘œgo ahead’. I mean, the only way he’s gonna knock me up again is if I ‘œgo off the pill’ and ‘œhave an accident’ or if he doesn’t see me going off the rails on the crazy train.

Shit, if I were him, I’d have moved out weeks ago.

The list (by no means exhaustive) of things I was NOT allowed to do for the wedding (primarily because Dave is ‘œboring’ and for some reason thinks that I’m ‘œbeing disrespectful to the institution of marriage’ or some shit. I wasn’t listening):

1). Wear half of a fat suit

2). Have the nuptials performed by Elvis

3). Sport black eyes

4). Dance our first song to ‘œYMCA’

5). Dance myself down the aisle to ‘œThat’s The Way (Uh-Huh) I Like It’

From this list, you are likely able to determine that I am not typically considered a ‘œwedding’ or a ‘œmarriage’ person. Growing up, in fact, you’d be more likely to find me playing ‘œCommando Doctor Becky, Zombie Hunter’ or teaching my cats to box than you would catch me planning for my future wedding. Never honestly thought–or cared much, really–that I’d be married. Like ever.

I found myself in the unique situation of planning a wedding I wasn’t too thrilled by (not the marriage, mind you, The Wedding).

Shortly after booking the venue, I was dragged into David’s Bridal with my best friend, maid of honor, to make fun of the dresses. Let’s get this straight. I *love, love, love* clothes. I do not like white dresses. I have a child, which means I obviously was NOT A VIRGIN when I got married.

We made a beeline to the most hideous dresses we could find. My first choice was a long sleeved, high necked, 567 foot train monstrosity, straight out of a scary 70’s movie. My second and only other choice was a simple A-line, champagne trimmed dress. Fucking boring, really.

I sweated out about 32 gallons of water simply by looking at the first dress. It was lace covered, pearl encrusted, beaded, and weighed–not exaggerating–at least 25 lbs. The sleeves alone were each larger than my head. While I struggled with the huge line of buttons in the back, Ashley went to find me the perfect shoes to go with them (clear plastic stripper heels, natch!), which she shoved under the door.

Ensemble complete, I threw open the door and danced the Maniac for Ashley, who is rolling on the floor, and the distressed sales clerk, who is all but choking on her tongue as she sputtered ‘œDo you like dresses with sleeves?’ When I realized that the lace was of such poor quality that I immediately began to chafe and blister, I squeaked out ‘œI feel like a cupcake’ and ran back to the dressing room.

Here’s the boring part. I bought the second dress, thereby having to eat all of the snarky comments I had made while walking in. I won’t repeat them, for fear of the wrath. Suffice to say, I am an asshole. An asshole with a big mouth.

Several weeks before my wedding, I realized that I had nothing to wear under the dress, and was forced back to the eerily white and un-delightfully tacky world of David’s Bridal. I grabbed the bra thing-y and the big poofy thing (yes, those are VERY clinical terms) that you wear under such dresses and headed to the back, husband to be in tow (don’t feel too sorry for him. The night before, we’d had a long talk about the proletariat vs. the bourgeoisie. I won’t go into the details here, but suffice to say I told him in no uncertain terms that I would never be the proletariat to his bourgeoisie. It was my convoluted way of complaining about the ever-fucking wedding that I was planning for him).

Realizing that the best way to exact my revenge upon Dave was public humiliation, I decided to show him what I’m *really* like when I’m getting even: embarrassing. I put on my combo of weird undergarments (no, neither nipples nor beaver were showing) and pranced out of the dressing room singing ‘œBuild Me Up Buttercup.’ I really looked choice, have no doubt.

To Dave, who was sitting against the wall looking uncomfortably at the gaggle of fat pimply bridesmaids to his right. I proceeded to sing the whole song (extra made up verses, too) before I darted back into the dressing room. Then I handed Dave the garments to pay for, his face a lovely shade of cranberry.

To this day, that dress remains in a garbage bag in my parents basement, slowly yellowing and molding.

I am not, never have been, and likely never will be an Underwear person. I dislike wearing, owning, washing, and buying them. I hate how much they cost, I abhor their function, and I think the stupid little patterns on them are, well, stupid. Given my own choice I would–and frequently do–practice the gentle art of Free-balling.

Bra and panty sets are equally offensive to me. Maybe I’m insane here, but if any man is less likely to hump me because my bra and panties don’t match, they don’t deserve to see my sweet, sweet box. To me (who is actually colorblind, remember) it’s just another thing to coordinate.

My best friend Ashley worked in lingerie for many years, and spent the majority of those years attempting to convert me to the matching underwear/bra side of life. Much as I can kinda see the point, I usually went along for the ride and to make her feel accomplished (plus, I felt guilty that my son had peed on her). I’d pop by to see her, pick out some perfectly functional drawers (not panties. NEVER panties. What a sick word!) and leave feeling relieved that I didn’t have to buy more undies for a couple of months.

When she quit working there, I was left in a bind. Gone was my bra/undies hookup. Gone were the kick ass boxer-like drawers, having gone back to the great Maker from which they came.

Left to my own devices, I discovered that Victoria’s Secret runs a kick ass sale a couple times a year. The Underwear Gods were smiling down upon me once again! Many more years passed in this manner, stocking up quarterly on undies, never thrilled, always satisfied.

In January, my time for fresh and stain free drawers lured me back to Victoria’s Secret. Hopelessly, I trudged forth into the store and in the same manner in which I always have, grabbed about 50 pairs and ran back out having dropped a small fortune.

In March, once the boxes were unpacked, I rediscovered my newest cache of drawers. Thrilled by the fact the I had thought ahead, I greedily pulled a fresh pair on. And on. And on again, By the time the pair was completely unrolled, my boobs were resting just slightly above the edge of the underwear.

Confused, I double-checked the tag for both the size (Same) and the Maternity Moniker (none). I checked myself out in my full-length mirror. Yep. I looked like a bandanna printed Erkl.


I tore through the remainder of the bag. Yes, indeedy. I had certainly bought 500 pairs of grandma panties, in all whimsical colors and patterns. AND THEN REMOVED TAGS AND WASHED THEM. No, siree, Vicky’s won’t take THOSE back.

Thankfully by a stroke of luck for my sex-life, Dave happened to be out for the day and I was alone, otherwise I’d have pranced around the house with Hawaiian print undies up to my nipples for him to see (ala buying the poofy shit for under my wedding dress. You bet your ass Dave had to watch me prance around David’s Bridal looking like an extra for Little WhoreHouse on the Prairie. Then he gave me my Thorazine and wept quietly into his hands).

As luck would have it, I was stuck at home alone, breasts being cut into by underwear band laughing softly and wondering how the shit I didn’t realize that each pair that I bought had about 187 extra yards of fabric. Victoria’s Secret apparently makes a version of The Granny Panty. Who the fuck knew?

Also, I really need to get the fuck over the cost and buy some damn underwear that’s not on sale.

As a post script, I would like to add that my shear stubbornness has not allowed me to get rid of these, so I am wearing them as I write this. Nipples chafing and all.

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