So I haven't written for a while, mainly because I don't know how to write about my life without censoring. As I work in a library field I can say I'm supremely against censorship.
So I had a problem. A growing problem that keeps getting bigger. I didn't know what to say about it, what to think about it, or exactly what to feel about it.
So I didn't say anything.
Also, I felt like shit on toast. Day old-shit on moldy toast, to be specific.
Like a walking zombie with an eternal hangover.
Some of you can see where this is going...
I've told several people now, so if you don't already know, now you will.
Matt and I are having a baby...(crickets chirping in the background)
The new Moo shall supposedly debut around November 7-12. So I'm told. It will most likely be a Scorpio, which means that the Virgo and the Taurus are royally screwed. So are Junebug and Bee, who I both imagine will welcome this hairless, screaming creature with the same exuberance they reserve for getting baths. It should be interesting.
Bee, coincidentally, is such a nervous cat already and licking herself bald because of her mental tics (her hair is gone on her stomach and insides of her legs) so she will probably end up looking like one of those hairless Sphinxes by the time the baby shows up.
As for me, my attitude hovers between blissful denial, abject terror, impending doom, frantic bargaining, and stolid acceptance. I'm experiencing all stages at once. That, plus crippling nausea, which MAKES IT EVEN BETTER!
A word on nausea. To me, nausea is the worst kind of pain, in that I fear it more than getting my fingers slammed in the door, or a bone broken. Why? Because pain goes AWAY. Nausea lingers. And lingers. It was with me constantly, a stomach-turning spectre that shadowed me with hot and cold sweats, trembling limbs, an acidic tidal wave in my gut, and bone-crushing fatigue.
I would merely have to walk into the bathroom in the morning, see the toilet, and commence dry heaving. It was like being Pavlov's dog. No bell required. My mouth would fill with saliva like a faucet, all in preparation for giving my stomach a workout equivalent to 100 abdominal crunches.
When I went to the doctor for the first appointment I wanted to cry. Except I had no tears. My pee was the color of apple cider. Thankfully, they immediately gave me a prescription for Zofran. I had been prepared to plead for it; I'd done research before going and knew it was expensive and knew some doctors didn't like prescribing it. I had already rehearsed my speech in my head. There was no way I was leaving that room without it; I was ready to do violence with the Sphygmomanometer if I had to.
Fortunately, I didn't have to.
And now I will sing the praises of Zofran. Whoever invented this drug is a genius in the first degree. Screw Einstein and stupid relativity, this stuff is an absolute miracle. It worked instantly and made me forget that a few days ago I was contemplating how to slit my wrists with my Schiek soliel safety razor whilst vomiting orange Gatorade and stomach bile on myself in the shower because the water smelled like a dirty chlorine pool in the hot August sun. A dirty pool that many people had peed in.
Do you want to know what regurgitated orange Gatorade and stomach bile tastes like? No, you don't ever want to know that. And I can live my life happily without ever experiencing that again.
So when Matt asked me what we were going to call the baby I already had a few choice names.
1. Hellspawn Braun
2. Shitmonkey the Third, Esq. (Bug and Bee are Shitmonkeys 1 & 2, respectively)
3. Nimsloth the Destroyer
But I was really gunning for Zofran.
Then I realize that with a name like that, the future occupational choices would be somewhat limited. I could only think of three.
1. Entertainment Tonight television host
At least careers one and three are an honest way to make a living.