Icky Tummy does not = pink lines

May. 16th, 2008 at 8:32 PM

My Mother's convinced, absolutely convinced, that I'm pregnant.

I think she's simply being repugnant, but as she didn't ask me, I wisely decided to keep mum. Pardon the pun.

For the record, I am NOT pregnant. Not even a little bit. Not even late. Or kinda bitchy. Nada.

Save for the continuous vomiting, the unbearable stomach pain and nausea, did I mention the low iron? The lack of full size platelets? Perhaps, I may just have mentioned my holy shit depleted blood count? Okay, so fine. The bloating isn't doing anything for me esthetically, but then, let's be honest, does it ever do anything postivie for anyone?

It STILL doens't mean I"m expecting.

Plus also? I've done the pregnant thing. I think I know what it feels and looks like. I've news for you: just because the Holy Very Unfair Tummy Fairy has visited, let me assure you, the Titty Fairy has been strangely absent. Sure, they're still kinda saggy, and overbearingly not perky; but they're not changed in the .... you know....kind of way.

I go back to the doctor, on the first of many trips, only to find that yes, I am indeed expecting. Only it's not a stork that visiting; it's the Poker Gods having a great old laugh on my behalf, delivering me a Peptic Ulcer. Or, for those of us to whom that means very little, other than it sound spicy, a bleeding ulcer. Now, originally, as my doctor, whom I adore, FYI, is from ENGLAND, I had thought he meant fucking. You know, like bloody hell, and whatnot.

Only..........he didn't mean that. He meant, literally, bleeding ulcer.

In case you were curious? This does NOT coincide with say, a pregnancy. Just, ultimately, a horrendous diet, a supposed lowering of indigineous stresslike conditions, and perhaps, if I can handle it, a strict avoidance of anything alcoholic, spicy, seasoned, peppered, stressful, dangerous, or upsetting. So does that mean I can avoid Mommy Dearest for a while?

Did I mention, the immenent career change? Or perhaps, the fact that my crazy, over the top I should write a book about it nuts ex husband has decided (because his mother told him so, a direct quote, I shit you not) that he and I were meant for each other as I was the only one of his three important relationships that ever took good care of him, so we should get back together? And he should move in with me? Oh, right, and then? Because we're back together? He wouldn't have to pay child support.

My comment that he wasn't currently living with me, and I still wasn't getting any child support fell on deaf ears.

My statement that we would NEVER, as in over my dead body, get back together also seems to have fallen on deaf ears.

Shocker.

He always did, and does, have a knack of only hearing what he wants to hear, and deciding that he's always fucking right....oh wow. Does anyone else notice a comparison with my ex, and say, Mommy Dearest?

Me too.

Thus, I'm closing the chapter (and verse) on the both of them. At least for tonight. And maybe, tomorrow.

Because, hello, I'm supposed to be resting, taking it easy, and not being stressed out.

So me, my silent phone, my comtemplative thoughts of where my life is going, along with my tumbler of Thinking Milk (as clearly, a Thinking Scotch is so off the menu) are going in to bed. To think. Or whatever else most people do at this time of night, when they're not working, cleaning, or taking care of small unruly children.