Disclaimer: I AM NOT PREGNANT. I HAVE TWO CHILDREN, AND I. AM. NOT. PREGNANT.
A relatively normal, stick-bug sized woman, such as myself, can turn into a quite-a-bit-larger-than-a-stick-bug snarling beast who would kill you as soon as look at you if you didn't offer up your cheeseburger with fries fast enough. A relatively healthy woman can develop gestational diabetes, and be forced to not eat food for longer than an hour, which doesn't set well with the newly developed ravenous eating machine she's become. A relatively sane woman can begin sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of Wal-Mart while shopping for baby gear, just because she happened to find a tiny stuffed Zoe from Sesame Street. Also, a relatively whatever-the-word-is-for-not-having-an-ounce-of-guilt-about-what-she-fills-her-mind-and-body-with can succumb to tremendous pangs and an almost uncontrollable desire to flog herself because she 1) ate an entire chocolate cream pie in one sitting and 2) was caught reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and was accused of permanently damaging the baby's psyche. The chocolate pie seemed to have no lasting damage, (having 3 thumbs can actually be quite helpful). However, the gothic horror-induced psychosis may still present itself. He's still young. (Was
pregnant, but now NOT PREGNANT.)
However, none of these things are likely to happen in the next 9 months, because ... well, because I said so. (See? NOT PREGNANT.)
What is happening is that our lease will be up, (lease up, again, NOT PREGNANT) and we have decided that we are finally going to take down the Sex Pistols posters and neon beer signs, put on some clean clothes, become adults and purchase a house. I know, it's just so anti-Generation X to do anything even remotely productive or practical, but one can only play saxophone on the street corner for tips for so long. Especially since I don't actually have a saxophone...or any musical talent. (Or PREGNANCY. Because I am NOT PREGNANT.)
This presents us with a dilemma. We can afford a house (on one salary) in our present city of residence, if we don't particularly mind that it's all solar heat, and has the words U-Haul printed all over the exterior. Yes, I suppose I could
go back to work, but the prospect of putting on shoes and socks every morning and having to use words like ... um ... well, I can't remember any work-related words right now, but as soon as I do, I'll be sure and include them. Fortunately, I have found a loophole in all this. During the process of becoming adults
, I've done what I always do, and taken things to extremes. While I've been very busy dealing with the credit bureaus, and researching mortgage lenders, and knitting the kids's clothes out of used dryer lint to save money, I've also found various bits of helpful nuggets of information for prospective homebuyers. Some of these are: investigate the neighborhood(s) you are considering well before you commit, make sure the house isn't built on fault lines, crumbling cliff edges, or sacred Indian burial ground (unless you want to pay a shitload of money for homeowner's insurance that includes Demon-Children-Eating-Tree coverage). Then I found this particular bit of advice: 'It's best to not over-extend yourselves, and look for a mortgage that can be handled with one salary, in case one of you loses your job.'
SCORE! (Still NOT PREGNANT.)
So, that leaves us with a couple of options. We move back to our hometown where the cost of living is more manageable, and I continue my career as a professional slug/writer/keeper of the spawn, and expanding that job description to include the title 'Avoider of Mother and In-Laws.' Our other option would be stay here, I go back to work full time, my daughter is left in the hands of Miss Hannigan
, the world is denied my Magnum Opus and Minimum Bill the Cat, and I make an appearance on the 11:00 news for strangling my supervisor at Bastardco. with a phone cord. (Not for being PREGNANT. Because I am NOT PREGNANT.)
Decisions, decisions ... (None of which has to do with being pregnant. Because I AM NOT PREGNANT.)
Addendum to an already totally misunderstood and now really fucked up post because of all the disclaimers, clarifications, and legal fees resulting from said misunderstanding(s): I did not (past tense, people) actually develop gestational diabetes, which would necessitate my eating more (still past tense) than I already was. I was thought to have developed it, and had to not eat for a long time before the tests, which showed that I did not have G.D. I won't say anymore on this traumatic subject, except that I had to drink a choice of clear crap-flavored liquid or orange colored crap-flavored liquid before the tests, but afterward I kicked the blood-test giver (that's the technical term. Yes, it is!), in the balls. Then I had a sandwich, and half a gallon of milk.