Back when I was pregnant with Harrison, there were a few moments that convinced me I was carrying a boy (and I was right!). I was working at California Pizza Kitchen (AKA Hell’s Kitchen) at the time and there were times when I was filled with irrational rage disproportionate to the stimulus. Despite my good feminist, academic training, I just knew that my rage could be attributed to the testosterone building up inside me because of the boy baby. The ultrasound confirmed my suspicions.
So, if that logic, faulty as it appears on the surface, follows, this baby is a girl and will be a DRAMA. MAMA. I cannot tell you how many times in the past three days I have burst into tears at the slightest provocation, how many times my teeny little lizard brain has convinced me that my husband is an EVIL, EVIL brute WHO DOESN’T LOVE ME and is acting like a COMPLETE JACKASS just to SPITE ME and make me cry, or that the world in general is out to get me. I swear, it’s like I’m 13 again, all teary eyes, sulky pout and slamming doors.
This morning, my OB was running late, so I rescheduled the appointment for next week. However, I did not make it under the wire for the 15 minute grace period for the hospital parking garage, so I had to write a fucking check for a fucking dollar. “You’re charging me $1 for a cancelled appointment?” I asked the attendant. “Hey, it’s a different company,” he said, unsympathetically.
Seriously, I’d been parked for about 17 minutes, and it took me 5 of those minutes just to get to the damn exit gate. So, I wrote the check, having given my last cash dollar to an overheated panhandler in traffic yesterday. And yes, I did write “YOU SUCK” in the memo line of the check. And then I called my husband in tears over the whole kafuffle. I swore then and there that not only would I not give another dime to the parking company (I WILL park and walk to the next appointment!), but I will also deduct $1 from the copay next week and explain to them that they do indeed owe me that dollar, dammit. “I’m glad you’re handling this so well,” said Matt.
Fortunately, I was laughing by the end of the conversation, AND I made it to the early prenatal yoga class on time thanks to the cancellation. And then I had tacos and tried to let myself into a car identical to mine afterward … while the owner of said car looked on from about three feet away. My car was two spots down. I need a bumper sticker or something.
This post brought to you by too much caffeine and a lack of ability to concentrate on my diss chapter revisions.