It’s true. I’m a cranky girl and that’s the reason I’ve been crankily ignoring my blog, giving it sideways glances, knowing that if I tried to write anything at all it would all come out as one long cranky-girl whine.
So I thought I’d wait a bit before writing anything, see if the crankies didn’t resolved themselves perhaps after I ate a whole lot of chocolate or won the lottery (even though I don’t play the lottery) or found out that it really wasn’t true what they said about Tommy Hilfiger punching-out Axl Rose at a New York night club.
Oh, Axl. You just broke my heart in ten different places.)
But no, even after a large piece of bananas foster cheesecake, I’m still cranky.
And just when I was on a roll. Just when I was gaining some notice from the blog-reading public. Just when I was getting actual hits from someone other than people looking for naked photos of David Suzuki. (Click the link, scroll down, and shield your eyes.)
Will you still love me all cranky and complaining?
Will you love me, just as I am?
Please don’t make me go eat worms. Long, thin slimy ones. Short, fat, juicy ones. Itsy, bitsy, fuzzy, wuzzy worms. Just humor my misery for this entry, and I promise I’ll be all sunshine and cupcakes from here on out. Really. Just one cranky post and then never again. Agreed?
(Okay, I crossed my fingers.)
Number One Reason Why I Am Cranky: I am big and pregnant.
I am big and pregnant and I am way past the “Oh! Look at you! Look at how cute you are with your little pregnant belly!” stage.
I am now in the “Whoa. I mustn’t have seen you for a while. Boy, you really got… big…all of a sudden. You must be due any day now. No? Two more months! low whistle” stage.
Even the fetish guys who hit on pregnant women in the grocery store have stopped flirtatiously asking if I need help carrying my sack of potatoes and lifting my bag of kitty litter.
I look big and mean and big. In that order.
I am in week 30.
I have 10 more weeks to go.
Tommy Hilfiger better not mess with my shit.
Number Two Reason Why I Am Cranky: My husband is messing with my shit.
First, you need to know that my husband has been especially wonderful lately. Really. He lets me take naps just about whenever I want, makes dinner, does the laundry, and jumps up to fetch me a jamocha shake whenever I look as if I’m about to kill someone.
This past week, I’ve been drinking a jamocha shake about once an hour, on the hour.
What a guy! I loves you, Honey. It’s all good.
So what’s my beef?
Today, I stepped out of the shower and caught sight of myself in the mirror.
I really got…big…all of a sudden. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise to me, right? I’m pregnant. Bigness happens. Bigness all over. Big bursting, oblong belly. Big squishy arms. Big wobblish thighs. Big - way big - butt. Big puffy face.
I know that my body is just packing on a few extra pounds, just in case the summer rice crop fails, just in case I fall down a well (a well with, of course, a very wide opening) and need to live off my body fat until this baby is born. Insurance weight. “Baby fat.” It sounds so cute.
But I’m big and mean and big.
So anyway, what does my dear husband wander-in and say to me as I'm squeezing my ample butt into a pair of non-maternity underwear because I can't bring myself to buy underwear which are larger than my bedspread?
My intelligent, darling husband - a man, mind you, who has lived through a combined 27 months of cranky-pregnant-wife and so should know better - announces his learned and oh-so-sensitive observation of
“Whoa. You’re big.”
Okay, not so, so bad. But wait for it….
“You know, this time I don’t think you're going to lose the weight. I think this is it for you. You're going to stay big.”
And then he immediately went out and bought me five jamocha shakes.
I still love you, Darling. If you continue to remain contrite, maybe - just maybe - I’ll let your mother know where I buried your body*.
Number Three Reason Why I Am Cranky: I have head cold.
I hate head colds. They always start in my shnozzle, work down to my guzzler, then work all the way back up until every sinus in my face is filled with what I can only guess is a lot of mucilage and one small vole trying to gnaw its way out of my head through my molars. And the negative pressure - every time I bend over, my eyeballs begins to implode to the tune of a crushing “WHAAAAA-WHAAAAA-WHAAAAAA” sound inside my brain. It’s like constantly diving to the bottom of a very deep swimming pool with a 20-pound vise around my temples. That about describes it.
Now any of this wouldn’t be half so bad if I could just lay in bed for a week all doped-up on over-the-counter shnozzle-draining drugs and drinking pots of hot tea spiked with lemon and grain alcohol.
But I’m pregnant. I am a sacred vessel. What I eat, the baby eats. Cornflakes, a pound of grapes, an entire 15-piece box of Toffifay, even though it’s too good for kids. (Does anyone remember that commercial?)
The baby gets it all.
So even though my midwife says, “Oh sure, any of the over-the-counter Tylenol decongestants are fairly safe,” she also adds, “and if you really, really need to take something, you can.”
And so of course, I take nothing. Because to my twisted pregnant mind “really, really” is enough to convince me that there’d better be some dang-gum good reason to risk a Pregnancy Category C medication and we’re not just talking the piddling pain and pansy-ass discomfort caused by a little snot and a peckish nasal hamster. No siree! “Really, really” means 1,000 consecutive sledgehammers to the bridge of the nose and a feral weasel ripping at my soft palate. That’s the kind of risk-benefit we’re talking.
(I’d insert the cover of the Mothers of Invention album Weasels Ripped My Flesh, but I’ll have some mercy after the creepy smiling tomato photo below.)
And get this! I figure, well, if I can’t take the hard drugs, I’ll at least try the kinder, gentler, natural healing route. You know: vitamin c and zinc, saline spray, organic cotton hankies pressed against my self-righteous albeit put-upon and suffering nose. And then - then! - in a last-ditch effort to Google some research somewhere which finds that taking a decongestant while pregnant increases your unborn child’s IQ by 75 points and makes him strong like ox, I came upon this tidy tid-bit:
Recent attention has focused on the role of preservatives in topical nasal products, especially benzalkonium chloride, a preservative found in formulations of oxymetazoline.8,10-12 In a 1995 study, investigators randomized 20 healthy volunteers without nasal congestion to receive oxymetazoline nasal spray, either with or without benzalkonium chloride.13 Volunteers used the products three times daily for 30 days. Both groups exhibited rebound swelling and nasal stuffiness, but those taking the spray containing benzalkonium chloride had significantly worse symptoms. Later research suggested that shorter use times may increase the safety factor, but the authors still counseled against exceeding the labeled period.
Now, I’m not using the oxymetblahblahblah spray. I’m just using plain old saline spray. Salt water. Up my schnozz. A little saline helps the nose to decongest.
Except this saline spray happens to also contain benzalkonium chloride as a preservative. Benzalkonium chloride, the very same benzalkonium chloride which causes rebound swelling and - yes, yes, yes - nasal stuffiness!
That’s crazy talking!
Why the heck would you need a preservative in salt water anyway? Isn’t salt a preservative? Isn’t salt why a McDonald’s hamburger will still look like a McDonald’s hamburger after you mysteriously find one in the back seat of your car and realize that the last time you went to McDonald’s was three months ago? Isn’t salt why Lot’s wife looked so good at Sodom High's 20th Year Reunion (“Go Fighting Fornicators!”)?
Anyway, yes, reason for more crankiness.
Now, I could list about eleventy-twenty more reasons that I’m feeling miserable. But I think you get the gist of it.
Although, after tonight, I may have to write an entire cranky post about our neighbors and the motorcycles they’ve been revving in their driveway beginning at 9:00 am this morning and ending a few minutes shy of 11:30 pm.
Not nice, neighbors. Not nice.
And now that you’ve put up with me through this entire post, I shall indeed make good on my promise to eat a worm. I vented a bit and now I am feeling a little less cranky and, perhaps, tad embarrassed to have let it all hang out this way. Thank you for putting up with me.
Now, pass the worm.
Just make sure it’s low-fat.
And, of course, FDA Pregnancy Pharmaceutical Category rating of A.
Category A: “Go ahead, preggers! Eat’em by the fistful!”