Anne Nahm

This week of my life has been pretty much like every walk of shame I had in college: I wake up with greasy hair, some awesome overnight appearing acne, and bloodshot eyes. And you know, vaguely wondering what the hell I did to myself the night before to end up in such a sorry state.

From there, I spend the rest of the day stumbling around in a pair of sweats, wondering my goodness, what is that sweaty monkey ball sack smell? Around lunchtime it dawns: You Anne. That smell is you. Even if you took a shower this morning. PS: Look into some industrial strength soap. Good thing I am already pregnant, because there would be no way I’d trick my husband into doing that job now.

Hello. Welcome to my life. It’s terribly boring and hormone charged and filled with weird impulse decisions like “making tacos”. Which seems like a really good idea until tacos are on my plate and then? Bleh. Are we going to buy a dog to eat our leftover tacos? Because I am not going to eat any of this. Except maybe the tomatoes on top. OMG! Let’s get a dog. Yo quiero taco eating dog! I can actually hear my last two brain cells rolling around like two peas in an otherwise empty can.

More proof of probable brain damage: “Shia Labeouf” is my new curse word substitution. Try it. It’s nice. Kind of like “oh shit!” and also you get to puff your cheeks out at the end. Question: Should I name the new taco eating dog Shia Labeouf? I would. Except I’m pretty sure a new dog would smell like dog. Eww. Or possibly like tacos. Ugh. I don’t think I could handle either option. Shia Labeouf on toast! So… maybe no dog.

Also, for some reason, I have been taking pictures of gross things next to quarters this week. At the time, I think you’ll totally want to see what I’m photographing. It’s only later that I realize a hairball* and a giant dead wasp are probably not as interesting as I thought they were. But there they are, behind the links, just in case you are interested. Are you?! Hair! Wasps! Quarters!

God. I read this post back and want to cry at the lameness. If it were a derby horse or a taco eating dog, I would have it put down. But it is either post it or post nothing. And again, while posting nothing seems like the classy answer, I can’t seem to pull off “classy” any more than I can pull off “smart” these days. The End. If you don’t hear from me for a few weeks, you should know I’m saving you from more of this. You’re welcome.

* That’s the hair that I brushed out of my head this morning. There will be an equal sized hairball tonight. Until I go bald. Should I go for a comb-over or just cue ball it?

PS: As I was finishing this post up, my youngest daughter asked me something. I think I said “yes”. When I looked over, I found her clothes and shoes in a pile next to my foot. Child is gone. Hmmmm. Probably should go tend to that.

Christian Siriano look-alike checker, picking up my Value Pak Paper Towel Rolls with the tips of his fingers and inspecting the package carefully: “So….. That’s a lot of paper towels.”

ME: Shrugs

Christian Siriano Look-Alike, slinging paper towels into cart: “Paper towels are….. Worthless.”

ME: Raises eyebrow.

CSLA: “What? They just are. Hey, so you want help out or something?”

ME: “No thanks.”

CSLA, primping hair and walking off: “Oh, thank God.”

So far, this is the Pregnancy That Ate My Brain. Which is hella depressing since I am only five weeks in and my due date looms out there in 2009. Some people get morning sickness. For me, all the hair on my head falls out, my bush ‘fros, and I run around seriously pissed off about completely insignificant things. Poor parking that results in me to have to walk ten feet? MUTHAFUCKA ! I will cut you. I will cut your poor parking skills ass.

While I am frothing at the mouth and tearing up and seriously considering leaving an angry note (even if the driver is still there in the car, shuffling through her purse), there is this tiny voice of sanity from deep inside my brain that asks, “Anne, you are crying over a parking spot. Really?”

He sounds a little like Captain Kirk. I imagine his frontal lobe flight deck is slowly being overwhelmed with the tribbles of my hormones. Old C.K. is also bummed about all the sleeping and staring into space, and the fact that I have started saying “li-berry” instead of “library” this week.

I don’t know how to snap out of this. I feel out of control and like I am not getting anything done. I am so mad that I have nothing to talk about but stupid pregnancy symptoms because already screaming: Enough with bitching about this pregnancy. Which is chased by the angry yapping dogs of: you should appreciate what you’ve got and umm, if you can’t handle the pregnancy, you’re probably not mature enough to raise a baby.

But jeez, is it too much to ask for these last nine months to get some stuff done before I go back down in the trenches? And, hello, how did things get so overwrought over here? Why am I crying? And how do I get this pick out of my pubes?

* Ok, and even that is not the truth. Well, it is the truth. But what is getting at me is that my mom is leaving town for two months (gone three weeks, home one week, gone four) to help my aunt go through chemo across country.

Also, I woke up Sunday with a sugar cube sized lymph node behind my ear, which was going down but still painful when I saw the doctor Monday, who gave me antibiotics that I didn’t take because first trimester medicine scares the hell out of me, and I figured the infection was dissipating anyway. But now I have this lingering anxiety about disobeying medical authority.

Additionally, my ear is freaking out and demanding topical steroids**, which I am also not using, because first trimester. When I double checked with the pharmacist about both medicines, she said, “well anything you take in the first trimester risks birth defects. But so does not treating a medical problem like an infection.” And so I am just all damned- if-I-do- damned – if – I don’t cranked up and tearful with a hurty ear. And Captain Kirk has to stand back with a little amazement that I can squeeze that much melodrama out of a parking space and a puffy ear.

** my ear, like my cooter, has issues with getting a little angry and needing cortisone.  Is not infection related, just constant annoyance.  And hey, I bet your mental image of me got even sexier just now, huh?

PS: Thank you everyone for your well wishes – it means a lot to me.

I swore off caffeine once I saw there might be two lines on that pregnancy test. I know some caffeine is OK during pregnancy, but I have a problem distinguishing between drinking a cup of green tea and drinking an entire pot of coffee. Especially since my ‘pot of coffee’ is actually made in the espresso machine and simply poured into the pot because it is the only container big enough to hold my drink.  I will then drink directly from said pot, using a Big Gulp straw until I have my daily meeting with the Great Cornholio.

So I have been in a detox coma since Wednesday afternoon. It has not been pretty – only yesterday I had to restrain myself from french kissing a two-liter diet coke bottle my husband left on the counter. Also, I have woken up in a real and true puddle of drool twice in the past week. But the precaution does appear to have been worthwhile. I seem to indeed be pregnant as indicated by two dark red lines on the latest test. March 25th is the due date. Which has a reasonable chance at being an April Fool’s baby if I go late again.

All those familiar symptoms of pregnancy are present. Like today, I have spent most of the morning running around my house demanding, “What…. IS…. That…. Smell?” Also, I started a David Sedaris book two weeks ago that I thought was really funny. Now I just want to slap that guy. And tell my husband all the tiny reasons I hate that guy while refusing to quit reading or shut up about it.

We haven’t told our families yet, but today my mom made some comment about my pants fitting differently. Also, my sister-in-law called two nights ago ‘just to see how everything was going’ which she has not done in at least a calendar year. So either: 1) this blog has been infiltrated or 2) I am enjoying a nice bout of paranoia and am visibly popping out at five weeks. I’m not sure which possibility is more horrifying.

My head hurts from all the squinting. Or maybe it is all the obsessing. Damn it. What do you see? Besides the pee of a crazy lady. (Which I know you are totally enjoying while drinking your coffee this morning! You’re welcome.)

PS I am totally overwhelmed with the classiness of this post. I might have to go and put on some pearls and low heel pumps.