(Please let me remember to shave my legs and lady bits!)

Anyway.

For whatever reason some people think this visit is a big deal. We already know I’m pregnant, what else could they possibly tell me of interest? The meaning of life perhaps? My mother has told me to call her as soon as I get out of there. I will because I don’t want her nagging me or calling me repeatedly or anything. My work mom, who is very excited about all this, is upset that she won’t be there Wednesday to hear what happened. She wants to know the due date. 40 weeks since my last period…July 25. If all goes well. But I don’t need to be a doctor or mathematician to add 40 weeks to my last period. (I am so high and mighty about knowing the due date I’ll probably be wrong.)

But a due date is kinda like a weather forecast on the nightly news. Might be right, might be wrong. Nothing is certain until it happens.

Meh.

The doctors office had me print out forms to fill out before I arrive tomorrow. Good thing they do it that way or I’d have to get there about a day early to fill out all this crap. 14 pages. They didn’t tell me whether it was an open book test or not, but I took it to be and had to phone a friend-my mom. As if I know my entire families medical history (parents, brothers and all four grandparents). Half of the diseases I haven’t even heard of.

They had to know every single detail of my life from birth on. Shouldn’t we be concentrating on the fact that I’m pregnant now, and not that I got my first period when I was 11? I don’t get periods anymore so what difference do they make? They are extinct. Like dinosaurs.

The only question that really made me think “wtf?” was this one: Are you and the baby’s father related by blood?

I hope they don’t get a lot of yeses to that question.

Facebook is a place I go to make snarky comments and make people laugh. Or make them realize why they love me. 

But everytime I start dating someone new, or think about dating someone, I go through all my Facebook status updates since the last time I did a cleaning and check out everything that has been written. By me or by my ex. My page is private so I do it before I add the new person as a friend.

I run around deleting anything that might even remotely be construed as “I have had this this guy’s naked body parts inside my naked body parts.” Things that just look normal, everyday friendly I leave alone. I like the new guy to wonder if the guys who have commented on page have seen me naked, but not to know for sure.

With my (soon to be ex) Husband it was rough because I pretty much had to delete everything before I friended The Flake. I referred to my husband as “Husband” on Facebook and in real life. It was like his nickname. And seeing as how I don’t like telling the guys I date about my (soon to be ex) Husband, I definitely had to get rid of all proof of his existence.

So I cleaned Facebook up, friended The Flake and kept finding (for days!) more proof of my marriage to my ex. How many times can you read of your status updates, all of his comment and all of your friends comments looking for the word Husband until you find them all?

After Dreads and I broke up, I wasn’t sure of what to do. We were still friends on Facebook. We still texted. He still occasionally comments on my status updates. Neither of us have ever written anything on each other’s pages that would lead anyone to believe we were together. Even when we were together.

My problem really is not with what he writes, it that he does it at all. I never stay friends with ex’s. Ever. It’s how I prefer to live my life. But this one I left the door open with because I’m not sure if I want to walk back through it. I might, I might not. (But what I really wanted to do was to go have sex with him immediately!)

I always tell new guys that I don’t stay friends with my ex’s. Because I don’t. And I have my reasons for that.

But I was lying about it, for awhile anyway.

I also expect, just so you know, that I will end up an old lady in a wheel chair, wearing Depends, my hearing aid and bifocals. Just because I can’t see myself having to deal with any of that either.

I always thought that these fat pregnant women just lack self-control. Pregnancy is the perfect excuse to eat everything in sight, after all. Everything you’ve ever wanted to eat, all at the same time.

As well as the fact that I’m “eating for two.” Nevermind the fact that one of the people that I’m eating for is “about the size of a grain of rice,” according to some website. I’m sure that the baby needs all these Snickerdoodles and Pecan Butterballs as much as I do.

I seriously wish I were born a boy.

Boys have it easy, especially in this sense.

I’m sitting here alone, messing around with my computer. He’s at his friends house drinking. Who is having more fun?

I can’t drink. I shouldn’t be (but I am) smoking. I have to hear about it everyday from him. About when I’m quitting. For the baby.

What are you doing for the baby, dear? Drinking with your friends?

So the only enjoyable thing left to do is eat. Everything. And then bake some cookies. And hope he doesn’t come home to see how much I’m still smoking.

Sex should be an enjoyable outlet, right? Nope. I feel completely unsexual. Which I blame on two things.

I feel huge. I’m not. According to the scale, I lost half a pound since I found out I was pregnant. Not a big deal, but my once flat stomach now sticks out about an inch under my belly button. I don’t know what it’s storing in there (something the size of a grain of rice, perhaps) but I don’t like it. So I feel self-conscious about my body.

The other problem is that I can’t stop stuffing my face with food. And then I eat so much I feel nauseous. So I really don’t need my husband pounding away at me while all the food (and grain of rice) is being tossed around inside.

So yeah, that is why I’m going to get fat.

Other than that, pull and pray. For the most part. I’d like to say I was super awesome and used condoms…

But I’d be lying.

So somehow his super sperm penetrated my un-pregnancy-having body and knocked me up. (I say super sperm because I think I’m the fourth girl he’s gotten pregnant. You’d think he learn after the first second third time?) If I were mature maybe I could take some of the blame too but whatever.

So I missed my period last month about a week after we signed a lease on a two bedroom apartment. (Apparently I’m now psychic because I was the one insisting on a two bedroom. But the extra room was supposed to be to store my extra junk that I had in storage, not to store a baby.)

I went to Walmart to get a pregnancy test. It reminded me of going to the store to get stuff for a yeast infection. Allow me to explain in case you’ve never had to buy something you were embarrassed to be buying.

First, you have to keep walking up and down the aisle until there is no one else in the aisle to see you buying the offending merchandise. Keep your head low and eyes to the side, sizing up the merchandise in a way that doesn’t appear that you’re looking at it. For yeast infections, I look for the cheapest one-day treatment because I don’t want to deal with it for any longer than necessary.

I figured all pregnancy tests were the same and just looked for the cheapest.

You get what pay for.

I went home and took the test the next day and concluded that I was probably pregnant. Maybe. The instructions said that the lines could be different shades in the case of a positive reading. The vertical line was extremely dark and the horizontal line was barely there.

It definitely wasn’t negative. But I agonized over whether it was positive, figured it was and then went back into his room and cried for about two hours. About everything. Random thoughts kept the tears coming. One of them was “what if husband gets into a car accident and dies and I have to do this alone?” Any stupid thing.

In the coming days I started wondering why they didn’t make pregnancy tests easier to read. Different colored lines. Stupid thing. Why couldn’t the freaking this just say “yes” or “no”? So I went back to Walmart and looked at the variety of tests this time around.

Lo and behold, digital tests. I am an asshole.  So I bought one of the (much more expensive) digital tests and went home happy.

I took it the next morning and had a feeling that it was going to come back saying “Maybe” even though that wasn’t supposedly an option. I continued to look at the thing suspiciously as it lay on the counter top.

It said a definite yes in the little window. So I texted my husband because he works overnights and wanted me to let him know as soon as I found out. He was driving home at the time so I sent him a text that said that same thing the title of this entry does.

“The test says yes.”

He then hit the car in front of him almost making my random thought about him dying come true. I am psychic.

I made the not-so-fun decision to move in with my husband again. No more dating fun, meeting random people off the internet and whatnot for me.

I also realized (remembered) that (all? some?) men are stupid.

Living alone is so much easier. You decide what, when, where and how all by yourself. Marriage would be much easier if we could just live next door to each other. Then I wouldn’t have to bitch in my head about what an idiot he is.

First of all, I need to get him to watch Sesame Street. Specifically the “which of these things belongs together” portion. Do you know what I’m talking about? I unpacked my stuff first. So in the kitchen, for example, all the pots are on one shelf in a cabinet (the larger of the two shelves) and the frying pans are on the smaller shelf. Makes sense to me because they fit better that way. He did exactly the opposite. Why? Because he’s a guy and he doesn’t get it.

Then he decided we needed a bathmat for the floor outside the bathtub. Okay, fine. He said he was going to get one. I had no problem with that because I was busy and didn’t really care. I didn’t think anything could go wrong. The bathroom is black and white tile. I was expecting a black and/or white bathmat. Or maybe something bright and shocking, like red. I got…brown…so it clashes. And it appears to be a doormat for the front door, not a bathmat.

He will never be allowed to go to the store by himself again.

You probably think I’m overreacting. I think god knows what he’ll come back with next.

The first night we moved in here I was trying to unpack like mad. We didn’t get everything here until a little after 9pm. I had to work in the morning and needed to at least have my clothes and shower accouterments all stored away or I wouldn’t be able to function in the morning. So I was standing there, hanging up my clothes and he comes into the bedroom looking serious.

“We need a thing that goes into the shower and down (he’s using his hands here to gesture in a sloping way). To keep the water in better.”

I had no fucking clue what he was talking about. It was after 10 at this point and I was not in a good mood. (We started moving at 9am, barely ate anything all day and didn’t stop.) I thought maybe he was talking about one of the detachable shower heads but I told him to go into the bathroom and show me.

So we went into the bathroom and he says, “like this,” pointing to my shower curtain “but one that goes into the tub to keep the water in.”

I raised my eyebrows. In my haste to get everything put away, I had hung the shower curtain and left it hanging outside the tub. I didn’t think that someone would take a shower without putting the shower curtain inside the tub first. The bathroom floor was wet because he had already taken a shower so, obviously, I was wrong.

“So it goes inside the shower like this?”, I asked, sweeping my arm into the curtain hard and pushing it into the shower, rolling my eyes and leaving the room to get back to doing what had to be done.

“I didn’t know I could do that. I thought it was decorative.”

Really?

And I don’t like it when guys talk to me either.

I just want to be left alone and feel what’s going on. I don’t need to be told that my pussy feels good, I already know that. You might as well start reciting your ABC’s if you’re going to tell me something that I already know.

And then when a guy tells me something I already know, I just wanna say something like “Yeah, I know. Shut up so I can enjoy this too.”

I am not a talker, we’ve been having sex for years, you should know that by now and stop bothering me.

I know, I’m not thinking about his pleasure at all. Well I’m not really worried about that to any great extent because I already know that he’s going to cum no matter what.

Can you talk around a ball gag? If not, then maybe I should get one and then hand it to every guy I get naked with and tell him that it’s his sex uniform and he has to wear it.

Another reason I hate talking during sex? I fuck a lot of foreigners. They speak English to varying degrees, and I like most accents (hate Indian and Australian, don’t care for British either) but…

The accent can make them difficult to understand, especially if I’m not expecting them to be having a conversation with me and I’m not looking at their mouth. And saying things like “What?” or “Huh?” during sex, and making them repeat themselves two or three times until I get what they are saying, is not attractive.

Or you can pretend you heard them and try “yes” or “no”.  Except then you don’t really know what you just agreed/disagreed to do.

So they look at me  expectantly and I just sit there needing more direction.

Maybe we should just text each other during sex?

And then my vibe died.

At first (like the first five minutes after I realized it) I thought everything would be fine. There was life before the vibe, there would be life after.

I was wrong.

You see, I made an attempt to masturbate the wholesome, old-fashioned way and just use my finger. And pornhub. And it took, oh I don’t know, just about forever.

And the orgasm sucked balls. Very weak. One of those “was that an orgasm?” orgasms.

So I immediately went out and bought a new vibrator.

I hate my new vibrator. Sigh. It’s just not strong enough. It tries. I don’t need some sort of deranged sex toy that’s covered in spikes and whirls in three different directions while vibrating. Just something a little stronger.

So I think I’ll get something else tomorrow. (I would have done it today but I was too lazy to leave my apartment.)

I thought that the new one I bought would solve all my problems and I wouldn’t have to worry about breaking it again. That was the reason I bought it. I’m obviously very rough on my poor little vibe.

Well, I’m not, but my purse is.

Because I bring it with me everywhere I go. If I have my purse, then I have my vibe. In case of an emergency. So it’s always there, along with all my other junk, if I need it. But it was getting tangled and mashed around with my other junk and the cord started to break free of the little vibrating egg.

So I just kept using it, knowing that it’s death was coming, and hoping that I didn’t somehow electrocute myself with the exposed wires.

Because that is not what I want the authorities to tell my parents. “Yes, she was found with her panties around her ankles, legs spread and a vibrator vibrating nearby. She must have lost control of it after her death…”

The other problem with carrying it in my purse is that sometimes it decides to announce it’s presence.

It always happened when I’m riding in a car. I have a habit of shoving my purse between the car door and the seat, so that all my junk doesn’t spill everywhere. I hate losing things. But when it gets shoved between the door and seat, sometimes I hit the “on” button just right.

The first time it happened, I sat there, and looked at the person next to me who was driving us somewhere.

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“I don’t know, it’s never made that noise before.”

“It sounds like someone is using a chainsaw in here!”

So he pulls over and we go to get out of the car. The handle of my purse was vibrating when I touch it.

“Oh shit! I know what it is!”

“What?” But I was already reaching in purse to retrieve my vibrator and shut it off.

“You carry a vibrator in your purse?!”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

And sometimes it loses and the crazy takes over more. I’m clearing my head right now.

For a moment anyway.

Some people live in the past. I do, to a certain degree, because I like to write about things that have happened to me dating/sex wise in the past. And I really wish I could be 21 again, do the whole things over, only with way more sex this time. More dating, less long boring relationships.

But when a relationship is over, I cut all ties and move on. I don’t keep them around like a momento of something I once had. I don’t talk to them and keep up-to-date on their life.

It’s over.

But some people like to keep in contact with all their ex’s, continue to be “friends” with them. The only reason that I could see this as being beneficial is attempting to hook up with them during a dry spell. I’ve tried remaining friends, twice, with guys that I was very close friends with. What happened was that they continued to pursue when I didn’t want that at all. So I stopped talking to them all together when I decided that I couldn’t take it anymore.

I just think that it’s pointless to attempt friendships with exs.

And then there are people that live in the future. Dreads is living in the future. (And the past at the same time!) We used to talk about getting back together but he holds back claiming

• he doesn’t want to hurt me again
• he doesn’t want to make another mistake
• he doesn’t know what the future holds

No one knows what the future holds. We don’t know what will happen when we enter into a relationship. And it’s generally a mistake for one reason or another! And someone usually ends up hurt. So whether the mistake is with him or someone with else is really irrelevant.

I could end up hurt or I could end up hurting someone else.

So should we all just stand here and stare at each other afraid of what may happen? Or just jump right in and sort out the mess later?

I like sorting out the mess later.

Because your past only matters as a vehicle to get you to the point you’re currently at. Your future doesn’t matter because you never know what will happen or where life will lead.

The only thing that matters is the present. This second. What I want now.

I don’t know what I’ll want later. I know what I thought I wanted in the past, whether I was right or not.

But this second, the present, is the only time that really matters in our lives.

So do what you want now and worry about the consequences later. When they happen. 

The only thing that has changed in my life is that I’ve gotten off of the cock carousel.

I’ve been called bipolar I don’t know how many times in my life. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. I have very high highs, and very low lows. And I can’t stand being in the middle. The settled stage. The normal stage that most people seem to yearn for.

Bring on the drama! Seriously, when there is drama involved, I am bouncing off the walls with glee. I fill my friends up with stories about my sex life.

Today one of my friends said, “You don’t have good stories anymore.”

I know! And I hate it! Nothing new is going on in my life. Do you want to hear about how Husband and I had sex in the missionary position? (Kidding.) Of course not! My friends want to guess which guy I was with last night and what happened.

The idea of a relationship sounds nice and all, but as soon as a guy starts pushing towards, it I start pulling away or saying things to warn them off and make them pull back. Because being in a relationship is a lot like owning a piece of furniture-it’s convenient to have around but often ignored.

I need the drama and uncertainty that comes with being single. Once you get into a relationship, there is no where to go but down. You know? You met your “goal”, got your trophy, and now you can sit it on the mantle and ignore it. There is nothing to work towards. Everyone gets taken for granted.

At least when you’re single you have to work for it. Figure out your next move, what to say, what to wear. Get him to like me…so I can…pull back! Oh shit, danger ahead! Relationship looming in the near future!

I don’t want a relationship, I want him to want a relationship.

Because I’m evil.

I generally think I want a relationship, I work towards it and then when it arrives in the mail, I just want to stamp it “Return to Sender.” I get buyers remorse. It seems like a good idea until it’s sitting in my lap, and then I realize all the negatives about relationships that I had forgotten in my haste to get there.

I always want what I can’t have. Or the opposite of what I do have.

Why can’t I just have what I want?

What is it that I want again?

Husband was taking pictures of me yesterday. He likes naked pictures. I don’t mind these two.