Is That A Chip On Your Shoulder Or Do You Just Want To Hurt Me?

Jon said to quit talking about it. Said I would loose my readership. Said they'd get bored reading about all the crappiness that IS my pregnancy. But you know what? I'M the pregnant one. I'M the one that scares people simply walking into a restaurant. I'M the one who gets the "Dear LORD, is she going to give birth right here in the post office? Right in front of me? She looks like she's going to POP!" looks. I'M the one being trapped between the birthday cards and some lady's shopping cart as her hand flutters giddily toward my belly. I'M the one who has to listen to endless stories about all things birth and baby related (which either freak me out or bore me). So, naturally I'm a little grouchy. And if I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT IT I CAN! BECAUSE, GOSH DARN IT, I'M THE ONE WITH A HUGE BELLY THAT GETS CAUGHT IN BETWEEN THE PASTRY CASE AND THAT BUS DRIVER AT THE COFFEE SHOP!

OK, very grouchy.

True Story:
I have a friend that I've known since college who posted on Facebook that she couldn't find her motivation. I, in my ill-tempered, crusty, petulant, cantankerous way told her it was "In her butt." I'm sure she totally appreciated it too because apparently she found it PANTS shopping. Which can only mean one thing: my irritable pregnancy hormones have given me PSYCHIC POWERS!

Now I'm awesome. Because I'm a super hero with super powers that give me the right, no, the DUTY to walk around town with a huge ill-natured, obstinate, testy chip on my shoulder, because I might find your keys or your great Aunt Gertrude's pink pearl necklace or something. My grouchiness is for the good of all mankind.

True story:
I'm having lunch all by myself at this little cafe down by the waterfront. Katie is spending the day with Daddy and I'm trying to savor what little time I have to sit by myself not feeding, wiping, or trying to fake enthusiasm for another conversation about Fancy Nancy with someone else. Then I notice the woman in the corner. She's staring at me. "What?" my eyes shoot back sarcastically (because I'm a super hero and my eyes can totally talk) "Do you not like my taste in books? Do I have salad dressing on my chin? OR COULD IT POSSIBLY BE THAT YOU SIMPLY CANNOT BELIEVE THE SIZE OF MY BELLY AND ARE DOING THAT DEER IN THE HEADLIGHTS THING BECAUSE YOU'RE CONVINCED I'M GOING TO DROP A NEWBORN RIGHT HERE AND GET PLACENTA ALL OVER THE PERFECTLY POLISHED HARDWOOD FLOORS? HUH, LADY? HUH??" (I said my eyes could talk, I didn't say they were good at telling people off.) Then, the staring lady got up, picked up the leash for her SEEING EYE DOG and threw her trash away.

Crapazoidal. I may not have super psychic powers after all.

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