Preggo Psycho

The American Medical Association needs to start defining pregnancy as a mental disorder.  I had an epic pregnancy breakdown last week and I am just starting to recover.  Obviously, I blame you for this meltdown.  And when I say you, I mean the same women who offered up a barrage of suggestions when I got married.  Those bitches are back and they have a lot to say about pregnancy.  I was able to ward these shrews off for a while but I’ve just recently crossed the bridge from fat to pregnant and now literal strangers are on my jock.  I get nonstop unsolicited advice from co-workers and transients at the grocery store.  It’s literally terrible and it finally resulted in a full-blown panic attack.  I tried to keep it together for a while but eventually it was more than I could take.  Without access to birth control, alcohol or cigarettes, I have lost the ability to think rationally.

    

The suggestions started slow, and for a period of time I was able to respond reasonably and then move on with my day.  In the beginning the comments I received from previously pregnant women were seemingly innocuous, but of course I found them to be wildly insulting.  And, once again, I was faced with society’s desire to register for gifts — my worst nightmare.

Rich Coworker: Make sure you register for a gate.

Me: Excuse me?

RC: You don’t want your child falling down the stairs.

Me: Right, well I live in a tiny apartment with no staircases so I don’t see this posing as a problem.

RC: Oh.  That’s nice.  What about a rocking chair?

Me: Again, tiny apartment.

RC: Surely you have room for one more chair.

Me: Lady, I understand how chairs and space work and I have to imagine that my unborn child will be able to thrive without a chair created specifically for rocking.  You do realize it’s an action we can all access at any time, right?  A chair solely designed for this function isn’t the only way to rock something.

RC: Well I’m sure you’ll have a swing for her.

Me: Oh boy…

RC: I mean you’re going to need a place for the baby to go.

Me: What’s wrong with the floor?  I mean I’m not a total barbarian, we’ll be buying a crib, obviously.  But between the floor and the crib, it seems like I’m all set.

RC: Listen, I realize that having a child can be overwhelming.  I mean…when my nanny had to quit last summer, I wasn’t sure how I’d survive.

Me: OMG.  You’re not getting it.

RC: Have you hired a doula?

Me: STOP IT!  I AM NOT A RICH PERSON!  From what I understand, children have been able to survive in small spaces for millions of years and without hired help.

RC: No, of course ... Have you tried Target?  They have really inexpensive rocking ch…

Me: I DON’T NEED A ROCKING CHAIR!!!!

But the damage had been done.  I started to obsess about how I was clearly a terrible mother for not allowing my unborn child to be rocked.  Surely she would turn out to be a drug addict because I didn’t have the room to appropriately rock her.  I mean her odds aren’t great to begin with.  Her dad’s an ex-junkie and her mom’s a drunken slut.  It’s possible that my refusal to buy a rocking chair is the thing that’s going to send my daughter straight to skid row.  At this point, I started throwing all of our furniture away to make room for a rocking chair.  Unfortunately, Husband caught me in the act.

Husband: What are you doing?

Me: Just throwing away these dressers and bookcases.

Husband: Where are we going to put our clothes and books?

Me: We don’t need books.  You have a kindle.

Husband: Not all books can go on a kindle.

Me: HOW DARE YOU TRY TO TELL ME HOW BOOKS WORK!  I WENT TO COLLEGE! 

Husband: Why are you crying?

Me: *Hysterically sobbing* Our daughter’s going to be a crackhead!

Husband: Honey, that doesn’t make any sense.  Neither of us liked crack.  I’m sure that’s gotta be a genetic thing.  If anything, we should make sure she doesn’t like getting shots.

Me: BUT WE DON’T HAVE A ROCKING CHAIR AND SHE’S GOING TO KNOW THAT WE DON’T LOVE HER!

Husband:  *Stunned silence*

Me: YOU HATE ME!

Husband: What is even happening right now?

Me: I’M TOO FAT TO BE LOVED!

Husband: You are great and reasonably sized.

Me: WE NEED TO BUY A HOUSE!

Husband: Oh boy…

Me: I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS!

Husband: Ok.  Here’s what we’re going to do.  You're going to take a nap and I will let you know when you can re-enter society.

I feel bad for Husband because he married me.  On the days when Husband demands that I take a nap, I become convinced that my parents hired him to be my caretaker.  Regardless, he is doing a great job.  Thank God I’m having his child because if he ever tries to leave me I will have our daughter to use as leverage.  Yesssss….

Sadly, the rocking chair was just the beginning.  Recently, people have been asking if I can feel my baby moving.

Horrible Stranger: Have you felt her move yet?

Me: Unclear.

HS: Really?  My baby moved constantly.

Me: Cool story, bro.

HS: Maybe lay on your side and drink ice water.

Me: It’s just weird because I never asked you how you thought I could overcome this dilemma.

HS: Sometimes if you’re not super small to begin with, you’ll have a harder time feeling anything.

Me: Um…did you just call me fat?

HS: No!  I was just saying that smaller people feel their babies.

Me: Do you happen to have a cigarette on you?

HS: *Blank stare.  Slowly walks away*

After like the eighth person asked about baby movement, I became convinced that my baby was dead.  I decided the best course of action would be to stay home from work, Google my symptoms, cry nonstop, download apps to try to hear my baby’s heartbeat, and have a pizza delivered every three hours.  Husband was home from work on this particular day and remained nonplussed.  He quietly worked while this tornado occurred around him.  Of course my doctor was on vacation that week and eventually I had to be sedated.  This was accomplished by eating nonstop carbs and crying hysterically.  At around 5 pm, Husband rocked me to sleep and told me that I was emotionally unstable but that our baby was just fine.  Usually his reasonableness makes me want to throttle him but on this particular day, I was grateful that my parents had hired him.

When I finally got to the doctor a week later and told her about my dead baby-meltdown, she laughed.  That bitch laughed right in my face.  I demanded to be medicated and she told me there was no need, “Oh please.  When I was pregnant, I used to think my baby was dead like once a day!  If it ever happens again, just come in and we’ll do a Doppler but your baby is just fine.  There’s nothing to worry about.”

So apparently this is a thing?  I’m not sure if it’s all pregnant women or just irrational pregnant women but terrifying things happen to me on a daily basis that I guess are just normal?  I literally can’t even deal with this anymore.  I’m totally sure that I’m too poor to be bringing a child into the world, I know literally nothing about what my body is doing or how I’m supposed to be feeling and once I got over the denial phase I jumped straight to the dead phase.  I cry all the time and look more fat than pregnant and at the end of all of this, I’ll be faced with the task of raising a girl who as we all know, already doesn’t like me.   I was sitting at work thinking about all this when all of a sudden I felt a flutter in my stomach.  I knew immediately what it was — my daughter.  She was frantically moving around to tell me that it was all going to be ok.  And in that moment I touched my hand to my stomach and thought, “You fucking witch.  You couldn’t have done this last week when I thought you were dead?!” 

I don’t know a lot about pregnancy or babies but I can guarantee that the next thing I felt was not gas.  It was my God damn kid laughing her ass off.  Pregnancy is terrible.  I can’t wait to meet this broad.  We have a lot to discuss. 

                                                            

POW

After finding out I was pregnant, my brother opted to propose to his girlfriend.  They’ve only been dating for around a decade so clearly he couldn’t have had this epiphany any sooner.  God forbid the other Royer jump to any hasty conclusions.  My brother and I are quite different.  I’m more of a “take action now, think later” type of girl.  I’m not saying this tactic is without consequences.  Exhibit A: Full Blown Pregnancy.  But at least I get things done!  Regardless, between my shoot from the hip behavior and his “I’m sure we’ll figure this all out later” strategy, we basically ruined everything. 

Brother did a valiant job of trying to include me in his wedding.  He opted to shotgun the situation and planned the entire charade for April in the Dominican Republic.  This would guarantee that I would be just pregnant enough to look terrible in a bridesmaid’s dress but not pregnant enough to not be able to go.  It was the perfect plan. 

My mother, Mimi, and her three sisters are what I like to call “crazy.”  So when my mother called me and left the following voicemail, I deleted it immediately and moved on with my life.

Hey hun, it’s mom calling.  I talked with your Aunt Nancy and she says there’s a CDC warning that’s just been released for pregnant women who are traveling out of the country.  I wrote down all the info so that you can ask your doctor about it.  Call me back.

Now I love my mother, but this is the same woman who called me three months before we were leaving for Europe to remind me to bring a sweater.  I mean how does one even respond to something like that?

Hey mom!  Got your message about how I’ll probably need a sweater three months from now so I went ahead, pulled out my suitcase, put one sweater in it and am just going to keep it there until we leave.  Also, I wanted to let you know that I have the internet here in Los Angeles and am also pretty up to date on different layers of clothing but thanks for the tip!  Oh, and thanks for identifying yourself as “mom” when you called.  I wasn’t sure who it was.

Sadly, the voicemails did not stop.  Aunt Nancy called next followed quickly by Aunt Naomi.  These bitches were relentless.  They were warning me against some purported virus that was sweeping third-world countries by way of mosquito.  It seemed sensational and suburban so I kept brushing it off.  I wouldn’t say my family is internationally friendly.  I went to Thailand during a coup once and my mother still refers to it as my suicide mission.  These women would not give up and eventually I was forced to Google their snoozy horror story.  Unfortunately, it seemed that in this particular instance, the witchy trio weren’t being as reactionary as I had originally thought.  I called my brother for a full debrief:

Me: Ya know how the women in our family are crazy?

Brother: Go on.

Me: They claim there’s a disease in Dominican Republic that’s specifically terrifying for pregnant women.

B: Doubt it.

Me: That’s what I said!  But I Googled it.  And it doesn’t look good.

B: What’s it called?

Me: The Zika virus.

B: Sounds made up.

Me: Agree.  I just figured they were being weirdo Americans.  But I looked it up.  The symptoms read like a sci-fi novel.  Basically if you get this thing while you’re pregnant, your baby will be born with a small head.

B: Who cares?  Nobody likes a big head.

Me: Right, but the head is like literally miniature. 

B: Like Beetlejuice?

Me: Exactly like Beetlejuice.

B: Oh my … Is that the only symptom?

Me: I think it starts with small head and ends with death.

B: WHAT?!

Me: I know!  It’s horrid.  It’s called microcephaly.

B: But it’s in like rural parts of the Dominican, right?

Me: Well here’s the thing.  I did a little research and this is what I just read in the New York Times, “On Tuesday, the Health Minister of the Dominican Republic reportedly advised women there not to have children.” 

B: Is this a joke?

Me: It doesn’t seem like it.

B: Why do these things happen to you?

Me: WHAT DO YOU MEAN “THESE THINGS?”  OH, NOW I’M RESPONSIBLE FOR AN ENTIRE CARIBBEAN EPIDEMIC?! 

B: Alright just calm down.  We’ll figure it out.

Well “we” did figure it out and apparently “we” all decided to go ahead and get married in Dominican Republic while Preggy McPreggerson stays back in California trying to find different objects to fashion into a noose.  Obviously it’s not my brother’s fault that a crippling shrunken-head disease struck a region at the exact same time of his wedding and at the precise moment that I had been knocked up BUT IT IS SEEMING A LITTLE RIDICULOUS THAT THIS SHIT KEEPS HAPPENING TO ME!  Hey, remember the time my whole spine fused together and then the drugs that I was given to fix it gave me Lupus?  THIS SEEMS LIKE THAT!

The rest of the week is a blur.  After I got off the phone with my brother, I was inconsolable.  I don’t know a lot about modern medicine or foreign diseases but it was obvious that I would not be attending his wedding.  I was super mature about it, in that I immediately turned to Husband and said, “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”  I then cried myself to sleep, woke up crying the next morning, went to work, cried at my desk, refused to speak to any of my family members and pouted for weeks.

This is going to sound harsh, but I don’t like my unborn child.  I found out it was a girl recently and I can tell you that she is not for me.  Basically she’s not even born yet and she’s already tearing my family apart.  I mean… I hope when she gets here she apologizes because to me, it’s just seeming like we’re getting off on the wrong foot. 

Everyone I know who has kids has told me that once that little bundle of joy gets here, I’ll immediately forget all the pain I suffered in creating her and I’ll just be so happy that I have a beautiful little girl.  I’m guessing those people have never been on a Caribbean vacation before. 

Creating life is a miracle sent from heaven lot like being a prisoner of war.  You’re totally isolated from your friends and family while forced to endure unspeakable psychological hardships.  I guess the only difference is that if I make it through this I don’t get a Purple Heart.  Instead, I’ll be rewarded with an entire person who’s forced into my custody for eighteen years which in some ways makes me its captor.  Ah… the circle of life.

  

I'm Probably Dying

In case you’re new here, I was recently diagnosed with pregnancy and everything is literally terrible.  I just visited my doctor for the first time since my diagnosis.  I was alarmed that she didn’t want to see me earlier but I guess we’re all just putting a ton of stock into stolen pregnancy tests.  They seem to be regarded by the medical community as wholly accurate.  Anyway, my doctor finally agreed to see me when I was 8 weeks pregnant and she did something called an ultrasound.  This is where they cover your stomach with Vaseline and then make you look at a fuzzy computer screen and try to convince you that the black and white static you’re viewing is actually your baby.  Obviously I wasn’t buying it.

After that charade, they let me see the actual doctor.  Our first visit did not go well.

Doctor: Alison!  Congratulations!

Me: On what?

Dr: Your pregnancy?

Me: Oh right.  Sorry.  I think I’m still in the denial stage.

Dr: What?

Me: You know: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.

Dr: Those are the 5 stages of grief.

Me: What’s your point?

Dr: Oh…was this pregnancy not planned?

Me: I mean…you basically tricked me into it remember?  You said I’d never get pregnant because I’m elderly and obese?

Dr: Well, since we’re on the subject, you’ve already gained 20 lbs. which is what you should be gaining overall throughout your entire pregnancy.  You’ve managed to reach that within your first 8 weeks.

Me: Why is it that you hate me?

Dr: Excuse me?

Me: I’m just wondering if you ever have anything nice to say.

Dr: Your baby seems healthy, so that’s good.

Me: Exactly.  Aren’t you going to give me any credit for keeping this thing alive for 8 weeks?

Dr: Good job.  Have you quit smoking?

Me: Listen lady, you don’t need to know everything.

Ugh…I’ve never been good with doctors.  She wasn’t wrong about the weight gain but it just doesn’t seem like I should be held responsible.  Horrible things happen to your body when you catch pregnancy.  For starters, my tits got enormous.  And not in like a fun, Pam Anderson kind of way.  It’s more of a horrific National Geographic situation.  Husband saw me naked one day and literally called the police. 

In addition, the only thing I had actually been looking forward to in the first trimester was constant vomiting.  I thought this would surely be my breakthrough moment into improbable skinniness.  I figured I’d be one of those anomalies where you actually lose weight when pregnant because you’re yacking the entire time.  I was more than willing to take one for the team if it meant justified bulimia and incredible weight loss.  Of course, I caught no such break.  Instead, I had nonstop nausea.  As we all know, pregnancy is a gift from God lot like food poisoning.  I spend most days curled up in the fetal position begging Husband to feed me like a bird because I don’t have the strength to feed myself yet food is the only thing that helps.  NO WONDER I GAINED 20 LBS. YOU GOD DAMN TWAT DOCTOR!  I was doing my best to keep the nausea at bay by eating nonstop and in the end all I got was a shaming by my medical professional.  I’ve never been a heroin addict (humble brag) but Husband was and he says that pregnancy seems a lot like being dope sick.  It’s so great being married to such a worldly man.

Every day I wake up, I experience a fun new pregnancy symptom.  I basically just Google whatever’s wrong with me followed by the word “pregnancy.”  “Bone crushing fatigue pregnancy,” “Mouth filled with canker sores pregnancy,” “Only have a taste for hot dogs pregnancy.”  And sure as shit, there is a world of women out there who have suffered the exact same ailments.  It’s excruciating.  I tried to bring all of this up at my doctor’s appointment but clearly, that bitch was not interested.

Me: Listen, it feels like there’s an alien growing inside of me.

Dr: There is.

Me: No, but I mean it feels like it doesn’t want to be in there.  Is it too early to induce?

Dr: You’re only 8 weeks pregnant.

Me: I understand it might be risky, but I don’t see any other way.

Dr: I’m not sure you’re ready to be a mom.

Me: OBVIOUSLY, YOU WITCH!

No, but I’m being serious, how much longer does this last?  The other night I slept for 12 hours and then woke up to something called mouth ulcers.  This is a literal thing that happens to pregnant people.  I know what you’re thinking: “Alison, those are herpes.”  NO THEY’RE NOT!  THEY ARE MOUTH ULCERS, LOOK IT UP!  Sorry.  I don’t know why I’m trying to convince you that I have ulcers and not herpes.  Nothing makes sense.  I know none of us are surprised to hear that I’m not doing well.  And I know you would give me a hug right now if you could but it wouldn’t be a good idea because my jugs hurt so fucking bad that when people hug me it feels like slivers of glass are being dragged across my areolas.  As I’m sure you can imagine, my sex life is better than ever.  Pray for me.  I might not make it.  

Traffic...Am I Right?!

So here’s what happened: First of all, let’s just all agree that no matter what’s said here today, we’re not going to talk about it on my Facebook page.  The information I’m about to reveal is specifically designed for the elite group of devotees who get me like no one else ever will.  I’ve been sitting on this information because I don’t want a bunch of strangers hounding me but if you’re reading this, you’re no stranger.  If you really feel like you need to congratulate me, let’s agree that we do that here or that you call me, text me, email me, come over, etc.  Deal?  Deal.  It’s our little secret.

So anyway, December was a harrowing month for me.  For starters, Husband left me… for work… for a month.  He claimed this was necessary in order for him to make money for the team but it was obvious that he had fallen out of love with me.  He kept insisting that it was all for the betterment of our marriage and eventually I had to agree to his stupid plan.  Unsurprisingly, by day two of his departure, I was a total disaster.

I’ve become accustomed to many things since marrying Husband.  I no longer cook food.  I don’t know where any of our tools are.  I’m not entirely sure how my car works or how to put gas in it and I have no idea who my landlord is.  Basically, Husband does everything, I do nothing.  It’s kind of our thing.

Needless to say, by week two without him here, I had completely unraveled.  In addition, I was having hellacious cramps, thought I was dying, and didn’t know how to cope.  It seemed like the best course of action would be to spend literal hours looking up my symptoms on the internet, which I proceeded to do.  I came up with the following theory: I had just gone off birth control because of Operation Baby and this was my first period.  I was likely having horrific cramps because I was no longer being protected by the magic elixir that is birth control.  Clearly I needed to be coddled — but Husband was gone, so instead I bought a carton of cigarettes, a bag of Sriracha chips and proceeded to watch documentaries about ballet all weekend.  It was amazing.

Unfortunately, by the end of the weekend, I was feeling no better.  I decided to stay home from work on Monday because I still had a few episodes of Flesh and Bone to plow through.  So I did that and waited for Husband to call.  I knew once he heard I was dying, he would regret leaving me.  As usual, Husband was unimpressed, and instead of calling with concern he called to poke holes in my medical theories.

Husband: How are you?

Me: Dying.

Husband: But your only symptom is cramps?

Me: It’s probably my ovaries shutting down.  But don’t worry about me.  I know you have lots of “work” to do.

Husband:  It sounds like you just have your period.

Me: STOP TRYING TO MINIMIZE MY PAIN!

Husband: Ok wife.  Get some rest, we’ll talk later.

Me: OH, CAUSE YOU’RE SOOOOOO BUSY!

I was outraged.  Clearly Husband didn’t know the first fucking thing about menstrual cramps.  Who the fuck did he think he was?  As I sat there on a Monday night, surrounded by heating pads, I was hit with a horrible thought.  OH FUCK.  I haven’t actually gotten my period yet.

It was at this point that I remembered that not being on birth control has several side effects beyond cramping.  I was horrified.  I smoked a few cigarettes and mulled over my options.  I decided that waiting was not going to help my situation.  I had to take matters into my own hands.  So I drove to CVS and stole a pregnancy test.  I know what you’re thinking, “Alison, why would you steal one?  You have money, you’re married, it’s totally reasonable for you to need to purchase a pregnancy test.”  OLD HABITS DIE HARD YOU SONS OF BITCHES!  Seriously, I’ve stolen a lot of pregnancy tests in my day and they all came up negative.  I didn’t want to break my streak, so I just went with what I know.  STOP JUDGING ME!

Pregnancy tests are fucking confusing.  I was dealing with a plus-or-minus scenario and wouldn’t you know the minus sign popped up right away.  I was thrilled!  I knew my original diagnosis of full-blown kidney failure was accurate.  So I walked away to smoke a cig.  I had been through a lot and needed a break.  I came back about a half hour later and the negative pregnancy test caught my eye.  On top of the incredibly prominent minus sign was a very faint second line.  I suppose some would say this was resulting in a plus-sign situation, but it was impossible to tell because the second line was very faint.  I would have asked my husband what he thought about the situation BUT I COULDN’T BECAUSE HE HAD LEFT ME FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH!!!

I called him and tried to be reasonable. 

Me: Have you ever seen a positive pregnancy test?

Husband: What?

Me: I’m just saying, do you have any experience with a faint second line?

Husband: Are you pregnant?

Me: HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW, THESE THINGS ARE GOD DAMN RIGGED!

Husband: But you’re taking a pregnancy test right now?

Me: Yes!

Husband: I thought you had your period.

Me: WELL MAYBE IF YOU WERE HERE, YOU’D KNOW THAT I DON’T!

Husband: So you lied?

Me: I didn’t know!

Husband: You didn’t know that you didn’t have your period.

Me: STOP TWISTING MY WORDS!

Husband: Are you pregnant?

Me: I don’t know.  These tests are unreadable.  It says it will either be a plus or a minus but mine has a faint line.  Who’s to say what shape it is?

Husband: Text me a picture.

This is what it had come to.  I was resigned to texting pictures of a pregnancy test to my husband while chain-smoking in my bathroom.

Here’s the thing:  It doesn’t matter the faintness of the second line.  If you see a second line, you’ve been knocked up.  So it seems that just a week or so earlier, when I wrote a blog entitled “Hi, I’m not pregnant,” I was, in fact, pregnant.  Yowsers, it’s amazing how often I’m completely wrong about things.

For the record, I am not supposed to be telling people but I’m not too worried about it.  Blogs are a lot like diary entries — they're a private place for me to sort through my thoughts that no one else will ever read, right?

I had to wait two more weeks until I could actually see Husband.  He promised to never leave me again and I promised to stop stealing.  These are the kind of life lessons I hope to teach my unborn child. 

Holy shit, this is happening.  

Hi, I'm Not Pregnant.

I could not have anticipated the epic fail that was my most recent blog post.  I merely intended to display the horrors of potential childbirth.  I felt the content was fairly straightforward but committed a major misstep when posting to my Facebook page with the title, “I suffer from a disease called Impending Baby Syndrome.”  I anticipated that people would click the link to find out more.  I did not anticipate a barrage of congratulatory emails and texts from well-meaning people who are apparently incapable of clicking on links or reading my blog.  

No one was more surprised by my fake pregnancy than my mother who heard about it through the grapevine and called to find out why I didn’t love her anymore and how I could have treated her so coldly.  Here’s the thing.  I’m zero pregnant.  And if I’m ever to become pregnant, you can bet your ass I won’t be posting about it on Facebook.  I like to keep those details sequestered to this very private and intimate blog.  Unfortunately, no one seemed to be aware of my views on Facebook announcements and now my mom literally hates me.  Whoops.

Despite being literally not pregnant, I have taken some hefty strides in the “let’s get pregnant” department.  As mentioned previously, I have no experience with getting pregnant but lots of experience with the rhythm method, the Nuvaring, and Plan B — the most effective of plans.  

So I thought it best to visit my gynecologist and get her on board with Project Baby.  I had heard lots of horror stories about women attempting to get pregnant over the age of 30 and felt confident that all those scenarios would surely work their ways into my life based on the fact that literally nothing ever goes well for me.  So I was suspicious but optimistic because, at the end of the day, I’m slutty.  And it seems like a slut would have no problems procreating, right?  I should be a doctor.

Needless to say, my gyno was an epic shrew.  I shouldn’t have been surprised because I have never, in my entire life, had a good experience with a doctor.  They typically point out my drug use, or call me fat, or reveal some sort of horrific disease that had gone unnoticed but was seemingly destroying me from the inside out.  Over the years I have seen rheumatologists, nutritionists, and terrifying young people doctors that probably couldn’t get served booze at a bar and none of those interactions ever went well for me.  So I had no reason to believe the Vag Doctor visit was going to be successful, but also had the wherewithal to understand that this was the person who would be tasked with ripping a baby out of me, so I felt I needed to get her on board.

I was in a pretty good mood when I went to see the Vag Doctor.  Half the world already thought I was pregnant because of my Facebook post, so I was feeling fairly optimistic.  The general public felt I was capable of carrying a baby, and surely that sort of support would launch me into actual pregnancy.  In addition, my gyno is located on Rodeo Drive and you have to valet your car when you get there, so I was feeling like a rich person.  Rich people can probably have babies, right?  I felt that I had everything going for me.

This perspective changed immediately upon meeting my adorable, blond gyno.  She is bright and bubbly and has the capacity to wholly insult you in a way that initially feels like a compliment, so it takes a while to catch up.  As she started asking me questions, my optimism slowly waned and turned into defensiveness and then finally...unbridled hostility.

Gyno: Good morning!

Me: Hello adorable, unobtrusive Vagina Doctor at this rich person office.

Gyno: Your blood pressure is on the high side.  Have you eaten anything today?

Me: Just a pot of coffee and a pack of cigarettes.  LOL.  I’m so quirky and avant garde, am I right?!

Gyno: Are you aware that 80% of illnesses are precipitated by smoking?

Me: Doubt it.

Gyno: It could greatly impact your chances of getting pregnant.

Me: Well, if you would let me talk for a minute, I could inform you that I’m slutty and likely to get pregnant at any moment.  I’m probably pregnant right now.  Facebook thinks so.

Gyno: You’re not.  We checked.

Me: Rude.

Things were not going well and let’s just take into consideration that I was literally wrapped in what can best be described as half a robe constructed out of toilet paper.  There seemed to be no front portion to this getup and I was taken aback because everything else about the office conveyed a rich person facility and I was surprised to not be wrapped in silk.  I had been foiled again.

Gyno: I need to let you know that you’re considered high risk due to the fact that you’re over the age of 35.

Me: You mean…like I’m going to die?

Gyno: You may have a harder time getting pregnant.

Me: Don’t you have anything nice to say?

Gyno: Also, are you concerned that you’re overweight?

Again, with this shit.  Since when did it become ok for people to call me fat all the time?  This is going to come as a shock but when I’m naked, I truly think to myself, “Royer, you’ve done it again.  You.  Are.  Killing it.”  Or I buy a new outfit from Walgreens, get dressed and think, “Holy shit, you’ve pulled it off.  You.  Look.  Amazing!”  And then I leave my house and meet a barrage of whorebags that are adamant about my obesity.  I literally cannot catch a break.  

I think I suffer from body dysmorphism, but in the way that I think I look awesome all the time and then a slew of medical professionals and casting agents are like, “No, you definitely don’t.”  It is highly unreasonable and I think the Twat Doctor should have been a little more sensitive and preferably more supportive.  Whatever happened to, “Be who you are!  Love yourself!  Accept your gut and embrace that part of you!”  This Beverly Hills Dickbag was not having any of it.

Me: Don’t you have to gain weight when you’re pregnant?  If anything, you should be commending me on diligently preparing myself.  (Opens half-robe, points to gut)  Doesn’t this seem like it would be a nice place to live?

Gyno: Close your half-robe.

Me: No.

Gyno: Do it.

Me: If I was wearing a full, silk robe we wouldn’t be having this problem.  Your facility is a joke.

(Uncomfortable staring contest with me still holding open half-robe while maintaining fierce eye contact with Vag Doctor)

Finally, I closed half-robe but this bitch was not finished.

Gyno: I see from your chart that you have bamboo spine and that your spine is fused where your pelvis meets your tailbone.

Me: HOW DARE YOU!  THAT’S NOT EVEN MY FAULT!  

Gyno: You’re probably going to have to have a C-Section.

Me: YOU’RE probably going to have to have a C-Section, you inept Twat Doctor!!!

That was the best I could do.  I was humiliated.  I had paid a hefty fee to once again be called fat by a medical professional and obviously smoking is bad for me but I figure I’ll quit once I know there’s actually another person being baked in my gut oven.  But there isn’t.  And I remain not even kind of pregnant.  I did not understand that this process would be so harrowing.  I can’t wait to be actually pregnant so I can show that bitch who’s boss.  

I imagine this is the beginning of what will likely be a long and horrendous road.  Potentially the only thing I’ve actually ever been good at is unequivocal failure.  I think about this a lot when I’m at my law-firm job and everyone asks me how my acting career is coming along. I have literally no experience with setting and achieving reasonable goals, but I do have a lot of experience with feverishly chasing after things that seem unbeatable.  So fuck you womb, I’m comin’ for ya.   

IBS

Since I was a teenager, babies had only ever acquired a sliver of my thoughts.  It was a soft battle cry — whispered instructions for how to not disappoint everyone around me.  Don’t get pregnant.  Don’t get pregnant.  Don’t get pregnant. I’m like that — I take one simple idea like “Don’t get pregnant,” run with it for most of my adult life, and never look back. 

So I was naturally disgusted when moments after getting engaged people started in with, “When are you having a baby?”  How.  Dare.  You.  In classic Royer form, I had seemingly been doing one thing correctly my entire life only to find out I was doing it wrong.  What the fuck?! 

I suppose there has always been a part of me that just assumed I would have children.  Much like I’ve always vaguely believed I would know how to respond if ever faced with imminent danger.  I’ve imagined that if there were an apocalypse, my adrenaline would start pumping and I would save the world, but also I never really believed the apocalypse would happen in my lifetime.  Yet here I am, married, and the apocalypse is upon us.  I tried to ignore it, but wouldn’t ya know well-meaning bitches are on my jock…NON. STOP.

Well-Meaning Broad #1

#1: That’s so exciting that you’re getting married!!!

Me: That already happened.

#1: How great!  Are you planning on having children?

Me: Unclear.

#1: (Face of shock and horror) Oh…how old are you?

Me: I get it.  My eggs are deteriorating.

#1:  Well if you ever need a good fertility doctor, my sister had an incredible experience with IVF.

Me: Is this a joke?  I haven’t even tried to get pregnant yet and you’re already calling me infertile?

Well-Meaning Broad #2

#2: So, how long have you been married now?

Me: A week.

#2: That’s so great!  Are you guys trying to have a baby?

Me: What?!  No.  We literally just got married.

#2: But you want to have kids don’t you?

Me: It feels like I should be having this conversation with Husband and not you.

#2: I’m just saying, it could take years to get pregnant so you might want to start trying.

Me: I’ll take that into consideration, Jane from accounting. 

Well-Meaning Broad #3

#3: You still smoke?!

Me: OMG shut up!!!

#3: Don’t you want to have kids?

Me: I didn’t realize people who smoked couldn’t procreate.  Are you familiar with the 50s?

#3: I’m just saying, you might want to quit.

Me: I’M just saying it seems like I can deal with that when I go off birth control which I have not yet done, you raging Cuntbag.  And by the way, NICE JOB CONGRATULATING ME ON MY WEDDING!

#3: Oh right! Congrats!

Obviously, I literally hate everyone.  I tried to stand my ground, but after a plethora of bitches hounded me about my potential offspring I started to panic.  I then spent the next six weeks after my wedding implementing something I’ve decided to call Impending Baby Syndrome. It’s when you know a baby is about to happen so you do as many fun things as humanly possible, because eventually your vagina will be out of order due to a person crawling out of it and you won’t be able to have fun anymore — unless that fun can include a human being hanging by their mouth from your jugs… blech.

I decided to start big.  My first Impending Baby Syndrome event would include Vegas.  It happened pretty organically but goes against all of my natural instincts.  Here’s the thing.  I hate leaving my house.  When people invite me to social functions, I take it as a personal affront.  All I ever want to be doing is laying on my couch, watching Real Housewives and convincing myself that I am moments away from experiencing even a modicum of success.  BUT IT’S KIND OF HARD FOR ME TO DO THAT WHEN I HAVE TO GO TO YOUR SURPRISE PARTY, CLAIRE!!!

Needless to say, Vegas does not conjure in me the kind of “we’re gonna have the time of our lives” scenario that it apparently does for other people.  This is largely due to the fact that I don’t drink anymore and previously, when in Vegas, I spent my time drinking liquor out of plastic sippy cups depicting the Eiffel Tower and slutting myself out for cocaine.  So when a few of my improviser friends suggested that I drive to Vegas to do a show, my first instinct was “absolutely not.”  But then the panic set in and I thought to myself, “Alison, your husband is going to impregnate you.  And you will never be able to go to Vegas again.  This could be your last opportunity to experience joy.  Once you have a child, you think you’ll really be able to travel to Vegas on a whim?  GET OUT THERE AND DO SOMETHING!”  So I went to Vegas.  It was terrible.

Here’s the thing.  I drove to Vegas.  Strike 1.  I hate driving so why would I want to relegate myself to an automobile for four hours?  FOUR HOURS!  The only time I like road trips is when Husband is driving and I’m sitting shotgun smoking and eating sandwiches.  Now THAT...sounds like a delight.  I decided to stay with my friend Rob which was excruciating because Rob hates me.  Strike 2.  This is largely due to the fact that I once agreed to meet him in Mexico and then was unable to go at the last minute because I inadvertently sent a water barrel to Ecuador.   Finally, due to my spine fusion, I rarely stay awake past 9 p.m.  Strike 3.  I think our show was at 10 p.m.  It was horrific.  They basically dragged my lifeless body onstage and I pretended to have control over my motor functions. 

Sadly, Impending Baby Syndrome never got better than the Vegas trip.  I spent weeks saying yes to birthday parties I would ditch under normal circumstances, I went to Six Flags, I agreed to watch someone’s cat.  And each time someone presented me with what literally sounded like the worst idea in the world my inner-voice would whisper, “Of course I’ll watch your cat!  When will I ever be able to spend time with a cat again?!  Don’t cats eat children?  This could be your last chance to enjoy a feline!  ALISON, GET OUT THERE AND DO SOMETHING!”

By week six I was overwhelmed and exhausted.  Impending Baby Syndrome had barely left me any free time to think about myself and all the ways the world had fucked me over.  It was so depressing.  I clearly needed some me time.  The spinal Gods must have agreed with this sentiment because before I knew it, I literally couldn’t move most of my body.  This is an unfortunate side effect of an autoimmune disorder.  Your body gives up on you when you’re just trying to have a little fun before your vagina turns into a thoroughfare. 

Husband was concerned, to say the least.  He came home from work one day and found me in a dark room, covers up to my chin, Ferris Bueller-style. 

Husband: What happened to you?

Me: Impending Baby Syndrome.

Husband: What?

Me: WE’RE GONNA HAVE A BABY SOON AND THEN MY LIFE IS GOING TO BE OVER!

Husband: OMG, are you pregnant?

Me: NO! 

Husband: I don’t understand.

Me: I’m trying to do fun things before I become filled with baby but I did too much and my bamboo spine is acting up.

Husband: But you don’t like doing fun things.

Me: DON’T TELL ME WHAT I LIKE!

But holy shit did Husband nail that one on the head.  I DON’T like doing fun things!  Why was I spending all my time trying to “live my life” when I’ve literally never done that?  I couldn’t possibly be missing out on anything because I hadn’t done a God damn thing in the 35 years that I’ve been alive.  My idea of a good time is sleeping while football is on a T.V. somewhere.  The craziest I’ve gotten in the last ten years is keeping a library book for too long.  I had a piece of cheese the other day that had whiskey in it and I legitimately thought I would get drunk so I spit it out.  I’M NOT FUN!  I WAS SO RELIEVED!

Here’s the deal.  I can tell Husband is trying to impregnate me.  I’m not stupid.  But maybe I can do that thing where they just put you to sleep and rip the baby out of you.  And I already almost exclusively wear maternity clothes so that part won’t be all that different.  And, from what I can tell, once you have a baby, you are literally unable to leave the house which basically sounds like a God damn dream.  So after a month and a half of Impending Baby Syndrome, I realized that having a baby sounds great!  I mean… obviously my baby’s not going to like me.  That’s a given.  But it will be a justified reason to not have to attend any social functions and from what I’ve been able to glean, my tits will get bigger.  I’m in.

Drunken Love

I could not have predicted that I would marry Husband.  I first met him at a party in a dilapidated garage when I was 18-years-old.  I had a broken leg and a D.U.I and he was passed out next to the keg.  He looked like an angel.  And thus began our torrid, drunken love affair.  When I look back at our 17-year courtship, it seems pretty obvious that Husband has made a huge mistake.  He had every reason to believe that I would be a handful for the rest of our lives, yet he married me anyway.  What an idiot. 

I’ve always envisioned myself as being fiercely independent and capable.  This is a farce.  The reality is I’m an insatiable control freak who will relentlessly grip the wheel while barreling towards a fiery abyss.  This is likely why blackout drinking has always appealed to me.  It’s such a relief to have alcohol making all the decisions.  I’ve often woken up and thought, “Huh…I didn’t realize I wanted to go to New Jersey to have sex with this intriguing coke dealer.  Thank you alcohol.  What a fun sabbatical.”   

This type of Jekyll-and-Hyde behavior has been confusing for those around me.  This is particularly true of Husband.  He has repeatedly watched me declare my strategy, set off to make my mark and then patiently followed me as I straggled to the finish line — always falling short — and right when I throw my white flag in the air, he’s there to pick up the pieces.

Many years ago, when Husband was merely Boyfriend, I proclaimed that New Year’s Eve was for pussies and that I wasn’t having any of it.  I was probably 20 around this time and feeling very mature.  I was also very into Boyfriend and thought this would be a good time to impress his family during the holidays.  His parents typically celebrated New Year’s with their neighbors and lifelong family friends.  I reasoned that this would be the perfect time to ingratiate myself to Boyfriend’s family.

Sadly, I started having a few cocktails and inadvertently overshot the mark.  I’m not sure what happened, but I got accidentally shitcanned real quick.  It was later revealed to me that I was so drunk, Boyfriend’s father spent the evening attempting to strap me to a barstool with his belt so that I wouldn’t fall off, as I had previously been doing.  In retrospect, it was a chivalrous move but apparently I was hammered and having none of it.  I was screaming, “RELEASE ME!  I AM NOT YOUR PRISONER!  UNBELT ME!  UNBELT ME, YOU ANIMAL!”  Now I was blacked out during this exchange so who’s to say what really happened, am I right?  But Boyfriend maintained that I was so inebriated I had to be taken home.  Now we were literally across the street from Boyfriend’s house but he claims it took 20 minutes to walk me back because I was a) unable to move my legs effectively, b) demanding that he return me to the party, and c) simultaneously propositioning him for sex in the middle of the street. 

I hadn’t even made it to midnight!  I was mortified. This was not the delicate flower persona I was attempting to portray.  Instead I came across as a drunken, sex-crazed lunatic.  BUT IT WASN’T MY FAULT!  Clearly someone had spiked my drink.  In the morning, I assured everyone that that was not typical of my behavior but his parents were not buying it.  More upsettingly, they pointed to Boyfriend’s birthday the year before.  I hate when people hold a grudge.

Ugh…Boyfriend’s 21^st birthday.  To be fair, I was well-intentioned but as usual, I got my ass handed to me by the universe and have yet to be able to live it down.  Here’s the thing.  I had spent copious amounts of hours trying to create the perfect 21^st birthday celebration for Boyfriend.  I was 19 years old and wanted him to understand the kind of thoughtful, organized woman I would surely turn out to be.  So I bought two very expensive tickets to the Cubs game and drove us to the city so that Boyfriend wouldn’t have to worry about drinking and driving.  Now here’s the thing, I’m not a great designated driver.  Come to think of it, I’m not a great driver.  BUT I WAS DOING MY BEST!  Was I of legal drinking age?  Of course not.  Is drinking and driving totally illegal despite one’s age?  Absolutely.  But I wasn’t going to let Boyfriend have all the fun after I had painstakingly planned the BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!  (i.e. bought some cubs tickets and a pint of Jack).  Whatever.  The point is I was an amazing girlfriend and the rest of you are jealous.  Ugh…

I like to pride myself on finding joy in the little things in life.  For instance, boyfriend and I had been dating for two years (I was about to turn 20) and one of us was FINALLY LEGAL DRINKING AGE!!!  It was so exciting.  Boyfriend was able to buy beers at the game and I LOVE BEER!  So I had some.  And it was great.  Did I potentially have too many?  Who’s to say?!  I’M NOT THE BEER POLICE.    I was enjoying a wonderful baseball game with the Love of My Life, sorry if I didn’t count all the beers I had!  I probably had 5.  Or 6.  Definitely no more than 8.  And some Jack Daniels.  And a joint.  Oh shut up.  I HAVE A HIGH TOLERANCE, GET OFF MY BACK! 

After the game, I got a little turned around on Lake Shore Drive and ended up in a parking lot near the lake.  Now this didn’t strike me as an emergency but Boyfriend was furious.  You know how men are… He was yelling and shouting and I could not focus because he was being so judge-y!  I couldn’t figure out what he was complaining about and I had just dropped a cigarette in my lap so that was happening and he was still yelling and I’m thinking, “I PLANNED YOUR BIRTHDAY!  IF ANYTHING YOU SHOULD BE THANKING ME!  SURE, I GOT A LITTLE LOST BUT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FREAK OUT ABOUT IT!  BE COOL BRO!  I’VE GOT THIS!”  I then threw the car into reverse, slammed on the gas, and furiously drove in the wrong direction over a set of tire spikes thereby popping and deflating the two tires on the right side of my car.  Luckily, I had hopped a curb with the left side of my car so those two tires had been salvaged.  YOU’RE WELCOME!  Seriously though, what is the point of those spikes?  Like why is everyone so dead set on me not driving backwards?  I found the whole thing to be wildly unreasonable and viewed it as a small setback.  Boyfriend, however, was outraged and trying to make some big point about how we had drugs on us and I was an underage drunk driver. 

Boyfriend: You are so fucking stupid.

Me: Just relax.  I’ve got this.

Boyfriend: You’ve got this?!  You are inebriated beyond reason and just popped two of your tires.

Me: We both know I should never be in charge of driving places but it’s your birthday so I was trying to be nice.

Boyfriend: Nice?!  You’re going to get us arrested!

Me: Well then maybe you shouldn’t have brought me so many beers at the game!

Boyfriend: Oh, so now I’m supposed to drink alone on my birthday?!

Me: OBVIOUSLY NOT!!!  I WOULD NEVER DO THAT TO YOU!  Wait…do you have any more of that Jack on you?

Boyfriend: NO!  WE ARE STRANDED ON LAKE SHORE DRIVE, YOU ARE A DRUNKEN TEENAGER, I WOULD BET MY SWEET ASS YOU DON’T HAVE CAR INSURANCE AND NOW WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO CALL OUR PARENTS AND THEY’RE GOING TO THINK THAT I’M THE BAD INFLUENCE IN THIS SITUATION WHEN THE TRUTH IS YOU’RE AN IDIOT AND CAN’T HOLD YOUR LIQUOR!

Me: Take it back.

It was a low blow.  It’s one thing to embarrass me on the side of the road but how dare you suggest I can’t hold my liquor.  I was outraged.  Eventually my parents came, took control of the situation and seemingly… it all worked out? Maybe. Who knows? Honestly, I can’t remember.  But Husband brings this story up constantly.  I feel he’s trying to admonish me but then I point out that he was dumb enough to marry me and that usually shuts him up.  I mean honestly, what was he thinking?

To be fair, Husband hasn’t always been on his best behavior.  Each time he brings up the birthday story, I remind him of a time he visited me after college.  I was 22 at this point and living with three men… obviously.  Boyfriend came to the city for a night on the town and we happened upon a local watering hole that was selling 40-ounce martinis.  Honestly, I hate martinis but I love things sold in increments of 40-ounces so I was on board.  As usual, I’m vague on the details.  I remember ordering a drink and the rest is a blur.  I came to, however, in the middle of the night when I heard Boyfriend rustling around my bedroom and I found it to be very irritating as I was attempting to sleep LIKE A PRINCESS!

I awoke to find him phantom pissing all over my bookshelf.  For those of you who aren’t raging alcoholics, phantom pissing is when you’re deep in a blackout, but your body decides it’s time to pee.  You then piss all over whatever is nearest you but deep within, your drunken synapses convince you that you’re in a bathroom.  I always like to take the high road when Boyfriend is the one acting out.  And when I say “high road” I mean that I like to berate him for his foolishness and point out that he probably has an out-of-control drinking problem.

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

Boyfriend: Iiiaaammm gonnna peeee heeeerreee.

You will never know true love until you’ve been peed on by your boyfriend.  True devotion and togetherness will only make sense once you find yourself trying to move your blacked out boyfriend’s large body while concurrently attempting to get him to stop pissing all over your belongings.  And while you’re trying to get his pants up and you’re holding his dick in an attempt to cut off the urine stream, you will think, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

In retrospect, I suppose it was inevitable that we ended up together.  Sure we’re both wildly immature, covered in track marks and dangerously close to dying if per chance we ever decide to pick up a drink again.  But not many people can say, “My wife once almost killed me in a car accident, embarrassed me in front of my family and then I pissed all over her.”  True love knows no bounds.