C-R-A-N-K-Y, I Ain't Got No Alibi

7-13-09

Cranky, ornery, stink-eye tossin’ motherflipper = me. Maybe it’s the cumulative effects of my body’s delicate ecosystem being thrown into turmoil the past 11 (well 7, let’s get real, the first 4 weeks don’t really count) weeks, but my usual (mostly) even keel has gotten decidedly rocky. I mutter under my breath. (Actually my mutters are turning to loud utters. Yesterday I yelled “Fuck you” and flashed a middle finger to a driver who didn’t yield the right of way to my pedestrian ass. Usually I just think those things. This is certainly behavior unbecoming to the pregnant. Sorry, ladies.) I roll my eyes. I curse out loud at emails from coworkers (“I don’t give a rat’s ass if there isn’t AC! You aren’t on contract thus are not my problem, lady!!”), and the thoughts that I think are decidedly un-yogic. And since you didn’t ask…the top 10 things that are pissing off this pregnant lady (today):

1. Cigarette smoke. Since the indoor smoking ban passed in Portland, the sidewalks have become everyone’s smoking lounge. My lunch hour walk is spent dodging and weaving the nasty habit of the workers of downtown Portland. Yes, I am practically jogging to get ahead of you because I don’t want to stroll in the wake of your stinky cigarette. Baby on board, motherfucker! The increased sensitivity to smell does not help one bit. I hold my breath when encountering the smokers of the world and try not to throw them too obvious a stink-eye because, as you may know, I counted myself among their ranks a mere 11 weeks ago. (Although I limited my smoking to my front porch and back yard for the most part.) On the up side, it looks like my attempt at quitting smoking will stick around this time. Also, pick up your butts, people. I don’t give a shit if “they’re biodegradable.” Ahh, the perfect union of self-righteousness: ex-smoker meets pregnant lady.

2. Anyone who has the gall to arrive at the coffee shop before me, thus being in line ahead of me. The nerve!

3. I see my friend as I swoop in for my morning coffee at the local chain. “You’re not drinking coffee, are you?” She asks, horrified. “Oh yes, I am.” I know that she is only thinking of Purvis, but my ire is raised. I stutter out some explanation of how a little caffeine is not thought to be harmful (below 200 ml, FYI) and that I don’t even get close to that limit with my morning latte. As is the case with many preg-related tidbits, people who aren’t pregnant don’t read the fine print, they only hear the grand strokes. When people question my behavior be it coffee consumption or yoga, I automatically go to a dark place: they obviously think that I DID cause my last 2 miscarriages. It was my fault. I try to keep perspective. They didn’t say that or mean any harm.

4. Overuse of debit cards. See? There’s this amazing thing called cash, which works oh so well for purchasing the smaller things in life. Like coffee. (Notice a theme here? Don’t mess with me pre-latte.) I waited behind a long succession of 20-somethings and teens who paid for their $3 Caramel Whipped Nonfat Kremekulattes with a swipe of the debit card. Wastes paper and takes longer. Well-done, youth of today.

5. The freaking Greenpeace/Save the Children/Cause of the Day people who haunt the corners of downtown Portland. No, I will never ever in a million years have a minute for the environment. I am a selfish asshat. Now stop extending your hand to me. I do not feel guilty breezing by you, not turning off my iPod and saying the most insincere “Have a nice day” ever uttered in the history of speech. I know you have a shitty job, a job where idealism goes to die, and I try to have compassion…but I fail. Regularly.

6. My clothes are getting tight and I have convinced myself that it has nothing to do with pregnancy. I am merely getting fat from my relaxed eating standards. See, Mr. Crud? That one scoop of Willie Nelson’s Peach Cobbler has turned me into Hambone!

7. The Gauntlet of Stink. Every morning I must traverse a smelly minefield en route from coffee shop to office on an empty stomach. First I pass by the pizza shop, then the pizza shop’s dumpster where I, more often than not, fail to keep my gag reflex in check. I have a moment to catch my breath at the crosswalk then head down by the Catholic church, which serves food to the homeless (which is awesome.) Not so awesome is that many of these folks smoke so again I must stifle gags before rushing across the street to the safety and relative pleasant smell of my humble cubicle. I am so ready to relinquish my powers of super smell.

8. Against my better judgment I subscribed to several pregnancy tracker email updates. The the just-us-girlfriends feel and infantilizing tone grates. But I can’t unsubscribe, for how will I pass all the annoying time at work if not reading about the (hopeful) progression of my pregnancy?

9. The extensive list of foods I can’t eat is all that I want to eat. Prosciutto, smoked salmon, sushi (oh Gonzo Roll, how you taunt me), dirty martinis, blue cheese call to me with their siren song. Sometimes I almost give in then I imagine my sleepless night wondering if I blew it over a bit of (delicious, smoky) sliced ham.

10. My social life is reading books and watching TV. At first I surrendered and enjoyed my quiet time, but after 7 weeks, it’s getting old. We plowed through Season 3 of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” and I’m keeping up on my “My Life on the D-List” with scary regularity when I’d much rather be seeing friends, basking in the glory of the long Portland summer nights, and taking long walks in the afternoon sun. Mr. Crud tries to put some pep in my step. “Wanna go couch shopping? Up for a trip to Target?” But no, it all sounds like running a marathon to me. So I curl up with my book and throw a frown. “Sorry, hon. Too pooped.” I’m the energetic one in this relationship, g-ddamnit! At least I used to be.

Still reading or do you find me an unthankful shrew yet? After my scary week of lessened pregnancy symptoms, I am grateful that they are still here, reminding me that things are (hopefully) a-brewing in my lady parts. We have our first genetic counseling appointment on Thursday, which has been the appointment of doom for the last 2 pregnancies. The closer we get to the big day, the more I flashback to both times in the darkened ultrasound room. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’ve had what’s called a missed abortion,” said Dr. #1. “I’m sorry. Things are not going well,” said Dr. #2. I fortify myself with Dr. Awesome’s words of a week and a half ago “This is very good. Your chances of having a miscarriage are very small.” I look at our grainy photos of the tiny tadpole and say a hopeful hello to whoever is in there every morning after I’m done meditating. And I try to remember compassion for me and everyone else who is currently annoying me.

Dreaming is free:
I had my first dream where I was pregnant. When I felt my round belly it felt exactly like the times in my youth when I shoved a basketball up my shirt and hollered to my friends, “Look y’all, I’m knocked up.” Hardy har har. I’m thinking that an actual pregnant belly doesn’t feel quite as light nor echoes when you tap it.

Wacky Preg-incidences:
Blogger and miscarriage world compadre, Ruby*, emails me to tell me she too is knocked up again. Celebrate good times! Then we compare due dates: hers is one day after mine. Trippy. Keep your fingers crossed for the both of us.

*Names changed to protect the pregnant.