Okay, so some women in this world are cows.
And no, I don't mean that as an insult. I mean they are cows in the fact that they LOVE being pregnant, and they LOVE having babies, and they LOVE raising kids.
I do not see how they do it. Srsly. I don't.
I've made it to the home stretch, folks. I got two months left to go before I pop. I feel as big as a god damned house, I'm bloated, and I must say, jeans are the bane of my fucking existence. I'm cranky and I'm sore and I'm sleep deprived, and when you combine all that with the general hormonal ZOMGWTFDIE-ness of the situation, it's... It's not pretty. Here in the past few weeks I've turned into one of those women I despise, going from zero to screeching harpy in the blink of an eye.
Dishes are a big issue with me right now. I don't have a microwave (which makes me sad in the pants, trust me), so if I want something to eat, it either needs to be a bowl of cereal, a sandwich, or I need clean fucking dishes and cookware to be able to make myself something to eat.
Redhead used to bitch and bitch about not having food to COOK, all we had was microwavable junk food and it was soooo unhealthy and wah, wah, waaaaaah! Yeah, well, now we don't buy any of that crap, LIKE HE WANTED. We don't have a microwave, and we don't have any baking sheets so I can't just toss some pizza rolls in the oven anyway... yeah. I've gotten pretty good with putting together a meal on the stove top. I'm actually kinda proud of myself.
My bitch right now, though, is when I spend an hour in the kitchen making spaghetti like my father taught me how, and it gets SWELTERING in there, because for some reason the heat will NOT flow down the hallway to the rest of the apartment... anyway. The agreement is if I cook a full meal, he'll do dishes. He agreed to this when I suggested it. Now, if I just make something quick, that's no big deal. But like I said, I spent an hour on the meat sauce for this stuff, and it turned out fantastically, and yada yada yada... That was last Monday.
Still ain't done the fucking dishes, though. And if I say anything to him about it, the reaction I get is... quite stereotypical, I think.
"Chill the fuck out, I know, I'll do the damned dishes, you don't have to remind me every five minutes."
Apparently, I'm turning into my Granny in this sense. I've been riding his ass about the dishes all week. Why? BECAUSE I'M FUCKING HUNGRY AND WOULD LIKE TO COOK! Every damned day, I remind him that he's still yet to do the dishes. And every damned day, he gets a snippy little attitude about it. I don't need to remind him, he says. I think I do, cuz... he still ain't done them.
Whoo. Okay. Breathe. It'll be okay, Snarky, it'll be okay. Just... take a deep breath. Relax.
Yeah, I know. I'm prone to ranting (read: screaming my fucking head off about stupid shit that used to not bother me... before I moved in with Redhead and/or got pregnant). I also didn't think that this blog would turn into one long bitch-fest about the domestic side of my life. But, alas, it has, and I'm sorry.
But I sure as hell ain't done yet. So, I apologize, for this, and for the blog posts to come (because I know they're lurking there in the back of my brain, scratching to get free). My loyal readers... The handful of you out there (and how I love you!)... It will get better. I promise.
Also, on the pregnancy thing... I miss sleep. Our bed isn't exactly the most comfortable thing in the world, and I will be the first to admit it. But there just isn't the cash to get a new one (or even a better used one) at this time. So we deal with it.
I would deal with it a whole lot better if I could get some sleep at some point in the night. As it is now, I get to sleep whenever Redhead isn't in the bed with me. This gives me a couple of hours at night, because I turn in earlier than he does. He stays up listening to music and watching MASH, and whatever movie strikes his fancy that night on my hard drive. I'm cool with that, just so long as he's quiet.
Once he comes to bed, though... Ugh. He passes out instantly, and he sleeps like an unholy zombie. He smacks his lips in his sleep and clicks his teeth together. What the hell is that all about? But that's not what bothers me. What bothers me is when he rolls over into the middle of the bed and sprawls out, sending elbows into my spine and knees into my hip, smashing me up against the wall and chasing my poor cat out of the bed.
Yes. The poor kitty no longer crawls into bed to sleep next to me, which is what he's been doing for years. He either sleeps NEXT to the bed, or on my pillow, because otherwise, he ends up getting crushed under my bulk. Poor Ping!
Due to the massive size I've achieved with this unborn spawnling of mine, and the joys inherent with being pregnant, sleeping positions are... limited. I'm not supposed to sleep on my back, apparently. Even if I can get comfortable on my back, it doesn't last long, and I end up shifting again. I can't sleep on my stomach for the obvious reason, which makes me cry because before I got pregnant... Yup. You guessed it. I slept on my stomach all the damned time. Arms shoved up under the pillows, face buried in the fabric of pillow cases, legs sprawled out and tangled up in blanket, snoring and drooling. Pure bliss. Can't do that either.
So, the only options I have left are sleeping on my sides, with my legs curled halfway. And if I sleep facing Redhead, I usually try to snuggle up against him and lay an arm over his side, and slide the other one under his pillow. THAT is comfortable for me.
Too bad that he tosses and turns like nobody's business. It results in him rolling over ONTO MY STOMACH AND BOOBS, which wakes me up in pain. OWOWOWOWOWOW GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU ANDROGYNOUS HOBBIT BASTARD! (Thanks, AD, for coining that nickname. You've created a monster, and I'm amazed that I haven't actually CALLED him that in a fit of rage.)
So I lay with my back to him. Which means I don't get flattened under him when he rolls over, but it DOES mean that I get pointy elbows to the back. A lot. I spend most of the night now dozing when he decides to lay still, and staring at the ceiling or wall when he's shifting around. And I can't just fall instantly back to sleep.
Whine, bitch, moan.
I'm just ready for it to be over already.
On a completely unrelated subject, fuck global warming. It ain't working. We're nearing the end of March, and I spent all day yesterday watching it fucking SNOW, instead of hitting up the pawn shops to look at all the pretties that go BANG and scary liberals into heart attacks.
Hey, I turn 21 next month, and if I can't drink, I gotta have something to look forward to, right? Right!
So, in keeping with tradition and bitching about Missouri's fucked up weather, I leave you with just this little tidbit.
Fuck Missouri's tarded ass weather. Fuck it in the ear. Wearing a shark skin condom.
TAKE THAT, BITCH!