Go ahead, tell me my hair ain't luxurious when you know it is.

My body can’t see to decide if I’m sick or not. A terrible flu-like thing is circulating at work. Fevers, chills, weeks of wracking coughs, at least 3 of my coworkers have been taken out by it.
I desperately would like to avoid this illness, since I am not allowed to take my favorite meds these days (ah the sweet embrace of Nyquil! How I miss you!) and pregnant ladies tend to be sick for 3 times longer than non-pregnant ladies. Or at least, this is what WebMD tells me. (Speaking of WebMD, don’t ever go to it. Their symptom tracker always shows that I MIGHT have the rarest of rare diseases, and who am I to question WebMD?)
So, in an effort to avoid illness, I’ve been pounding more Vitamin C and supplements than are probably advisable. And so far, I’ve been doing ok. Then Sunday I woke up with a sore throat and a nasty cough. “Well,” I thought, “this is it. I’m finally sick. Time to hunker down, sip some tea and hide under the covers.”
Ah, but over the course of the day, sore throat and cough subsided. I awoke on Monday feeling, dare I say, chipper. “Ok, so I’m not sick. Fine, even better, not sick.”

BUT! Tuesday arrived with a low-grade fever, chills and general body aching hell. Of course, like a douche, I still went to work where I felt awful until I finally called it quits around noon. Ok, so sick. Got it, I’m sick now.

Nope. Today I’m fine. I woke up feeling fine, I’m still feeling fine.

What the fuck gives? One of the other, I don’t even care what it is anymore. Just make up your damned mind! This is ridiculous. Either let me wallow in my sickbed, or let me get on with it. Stupid body with its stupid immune system of inconsistency.


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I’m starving. All the time, every day, starving. But, I can only fit about a handful of food in my squished stomach. So this means, I pretty much need to be eating all day, every day. Pretty inconvenient, really. And also annoying, since I only have about 5 bites of chicken salad left, it’s delicious, but in no way will it fit in my belly. Stupid.

~~

My Mother In Law (you recall, the crazy one?) left a voicemail for Xtian last night. I will paraphrase it for you:

Xtian! Why haven’t you sent me pregnancy pictures of your wife, Coley? You dried up ol’ kid! Send me pictures!

Umm, what? Since when does she acknowledge my existence, let alone my name? And what in the name of all things wretched would lead her to believe that I’d ever let a picture of me get sent her way? Dude, the crazy just keeps coming. And what the hell is a “dried up ol’ kid”? I don’t get that at all. It’s just weird.

But I guess I can tell my family that they have to stop calling me the incubator, since, I HAVE A NAME FINALLY! So, there!


Lord, help me if that woman decides to travel here to meet her grandkid. While I’d never begrudge her the chance to meet her only grandchild, that bitch isn’t setting foot in my home, or within a mile of me.
Luckily, the odds of her traveling (without someone else paying her way) are slim.