I Want A Pet

It wasn't all that long ago that I stood in a K-mart check-out line on a cold Sunday night with a pregnancy test in hand. I decided to go to K-mart despite my hatred of this particular store and all of its employees and customers, because it's only a minute from my house. Why travel all the way out to CVS, I thought.

Well, I should have just gone all the way to fucking CVS because there was only one register open and a woman with about 7,000 jars up baby food and 6,000 little outfits for a baby boy, and an additional 5 people behind her.

And so this little jaunt to K-mart for a plastic stick to pee on took longer than it would have taken for me to drive further down the main stretch to a store that doesn't make me want to pull my hair out. That is a terrible sentence, and I am sorry.

And before you're all like, "Hey, congratulations!!!"....let me tell you that I've spent more money on pregnancy tests when I haven't been pregnant than I have when actually knocked up.

So yeah, and it's cool. I wasn't all brokenhearted. I was very relieved. But I am seriously about to write a letter-to-the-editor concerning my period, because it's fucking with me.

Do you know what my two main premenstrual symptoms are these days, besides a crazy lady rage that makes me want to climb skyscrapers King-King style and grab planes out of the sky to snack on?

Nausea and light-headedness!

I know. I know. Two of the main symptoms of pregnancy.

Also, after months and months of having my cycle be anywhere from 27-29 days, without fail...it suddenly jumped to 35. So you can see, feeling like shit and counting the calendar days, why I might jump in the car and make a trip to a place that makes me want to slit my own throat.

I'd rather place leeches on my skin than walk into that hell-hole, but I had to go. Because I was late.

And the funny thing is, if only I could have calmed myself down and reassured myself that, really, what were the odds, I would have gone to sleep and woken up the next day and gotten my period. And my husband wouldn't have been all like, "Oh my God, seriously woman. You are going to be the death of me."

So lately I've been okay with the idea of not having 3 children. Like I'm going back into my brain and revising the way I always thought things would be.

Like I've finally accepted the fact that this is about the max I can handle: two children, part-time job, part-time school, old house, volunteer booby-advice dispenser, husband that has an aversion to doing the dishes and vacuuming but likes to spend entire days working outside.

Plus, I like to drink. Really, I don't want to have to give that up for 2 more years. Last night I was pounding the white wine while making dinner, and it's great to cook buzzed.

And I got a really cool Jon Stewart shirt not too long ago, and it wouldn't look nearly as awesome with breastmilk stains on it.

Also, that telegenic efluvia that comes postpartum and makes your lustrous pregnancy locks fall out all over the place in heaps and piles? It lasted 2 years. I'm lucky I have any damn hair left at all. One more pregnancy and I'd be shopping for wigs.

Does it sound like I'm trying to convince myself? Seriously, though, it's like 90-10 now, whereas before it was like 20-80 and I was going off the deep end.

The problem now is that I've replaced baby lust with pet lust.

The other day I spent a good hour on Petfinder, ogling a bunny named Cashew.

I know...Cashew! It's the cutest thing I've ever heard. And the corresponding picture made me nearly weep with joy. Seeing that little rabbit body splayed out on a bed, looking all cozy and comfy. I could see she'd be a great companion. She and I could watch The First 48 together, and her little head on my lap would convince me that the world isn't really horrid and evil, but warm and snuggly.

And then the LLBean catalog had to come, and I'm going to write to them and ask them to stop using cute dogs to advertise their pet accessories and furniture. No more black and yellow lab puppies. No more goldens. Strictly chihuahuas. Or hairless cats. Or birds. I'd get the gist, seeing a parakeet on a pet bed. Okay, scratch that.

So I spent some more time on Petfinder looking at dogs needing a home. And falling in love.

And do you know what? My husband is every bit as anti-pet as he is anti-baby number 3!

Cats are out, for sure. He doesn't want rodents, and dogs are too much work.

(Powers of the internet, unite against my husband David. Heap scorn on him for depriving his wife of a pet to love and cherish. And housebreak. And kick out of the bed. And walk at 5:45am, in rain, sleet and snow. Shit!)

I'm going to keep working it.

I mean, at least we wouldn't have to get a new vehicle just to add a pet to our family.

Cashew...mama's coming!

You Deserve a Medal For Reading This

This blog is totally on life support. Concerned family members stand off to one side, wringing their hands and wiping tears.

"It's time," they say. "There's no brain activity, no sign of life." It's all very dramatic. Very Lifetime movie-ish. "Let it go. Pull it."

"Go towards the light of blogging heaven, where witty and lovely posts write themselves, no longer needing the attention of a stressed-out and overextended owner. Go on, it's okay."

Um, yeah.

Anyway, I'm not handling this multitasking thing well.

"Your blog is suffering," my husband told me the other night.

"I know. When do I have time to write?"

I've actually thought quite a few times of just letting it go: composing a brief message of gratitude and thanks and good-byes and just cruising off into the post-blogging sunset. It would be one less thing.

No, there's no requirement to blog. I could write one damn post a year if I wanted. But if you have one, there's usually a reason. It's something you want to maintain; a place to go and spill it, if you need. And I like to spill -- my hot eviscera onto this black page, steaming in the chilly air of winter.

Wow that was gross!

I've been walking around (or running, really, is a more adequate word for the way I've been moving) with this terrible knot in my stomach. Really high up, just under the ribs. It starts in the morning when I pour a single cup of coffee and retire to the couch for the briefest respite before the day begins.

"I cannot turn off my head," I tell my husband.

Getting the two girls ready for school is, some days, a monumental challenge. Who'da thunk it? There's fighting, potty-time (now with privacy required!), arguments about socks and tights, and a running commentary on what I do to get ready. (For instance: "Mom, are you trying to brush away your pimples?")

And speaking of pimples...my face looks like a fucking pizza. I don't want to leave the house. I'd prefer to just lie under my covers and cry a bit.

And of course, I think medicine might be the answer.

Bad Kelly: You just need a little Trazadone and Xanax.

Goog Kelly: Yoga.

Bad Kelly: Make a call, pay the co-pay, fill the prescription.

Good Kelly: Take care of yourself.

Bad Kelly: Those drugs will chill you out. You need them.

Good Kelly: Take a b-complex.

Bad Kelly: Fuck the b-complex! Bring on the anti-anxiety pills!

(Sigh.)

Anyway, I'm not feeling my best. And instead of writing regular posts and looking for support, I really feel like running away.

To break or not to break. I suppose that is the question. I appreciate that you're even here, since I've given you nothing, really. I appreciate if you check in to see if I've updated. I do, very much.

I just have to figure out this balance thing: kids, house, work, school, volunteering. Quite frankly, a tunnel in Pakistan sounds really appealing. I might run in to what's his name, but I can totally take him.