Tag Archives: Mood Swingin’!

Because it is Too Early to Be Snarky…

I will let someone else do it.

 

Please enjoy this post from a MALE perspective! (Hooray! Also, I hope he doesn’t mind that I linked to him. I just think that this was too awesome not to share!

What? Me? Hostile?

More and more, I am starting to see why pregnant women should not be allowed out into the world (at least during their first trimester). As I have said, no one at work is yet aware that I have “a bun in the oven” (read: a really pissed off alien inhabiting my abdomen) so they are not aware of the dangers they face if they continue to cross me. If you are not a pregnant woman, heed this warning:

 

DO NOT FUCK WITH A PREGNANT LADY.

 

Seriously. She will follow you to your home and set fire to your bed. This is not a joke.

 

Between the intense hunger, (seriously ladies, before your pregnancy, were you ever so hungry that you would steal food from small children or the elderly? Because I am not above it at this point. Hunger HURTS.) the mood-swings (I think I covered those here ) and the extreme vomiting (spontaneous extreme vomiting, of course. New X-Games sport? Thoughts?), how can a girl be expected to deal with stupid people all day? People whose heads are not pounding? People who aren’t gaining 17 lbs per week?  (This is, luckily, not actually happening, but it feels like it is. I exaggerate. Sue me.)

 

I, for one, cannot be expected to be nice to people at work. I can barely be expected to be nice at home, where the love of my life and my de-lovely cat reside. The other day, I was watching The Real World (guilty pleasure, I can’t help it) and I actually envisioned myself stabbing one of the cast-members in the neck. With a screwdriver. Yes, it was that specific. And I ask myself, “is it really worth it to watch a television show that causes violent fantasies surrounding narrow-minded, barely-pubescent imbiciles?”

 

I have decided that my answer is unequivocally yes.

 

Because fantacizing about killing narrow-minded, barely pubescent imbiciles, keeps me from murdering coworkers and loved ones.

I really don’t care that you’ve just broken your leg and a bone is actually protruding through your skin, I SAID I wanted a sandwich!

So, this pregnancy thing sort of turns a lady into another person, doesn’t it? I am fairly certain that, on an average day, I shift back and forth between 47 different personalities. This doesn’t bother me so much, because I rarely notice that it has happened. Except when I catch my head spinning around in circles and projectile pea soup flowing from my face (obviously this is a slight exaggeration but, the pea soup thing? Not so far from what is actually happening once or twice a day…) And I wouldn’t feel so bad about the personality shifting at all, except that My Beloved often gets caught in the crossfire. And, you know, seeing as there is no definitive way to tell when a “shift” will occur, I find that most often he is cowering in a corner trying to escape my wrath. And, of course, that would be the exact moment that I need a hug. And then I am hurt that he doesn’t use his spidey-sense to know that I need a hug and climb out of the fetal position and give me one. And then I start to cry because, “OH.MY.GOD. He doesn’t even love me!” and “Why am I going through all this horrible hostile body take-over madness for someone who is OBVIOUSLY going to leave me? Probably tonight! Where is the suitcase?” Meanwhile, my poor beloved has no idea what has happened. Have I told him that I wanted a hug? No. And now I am hysterically crying and packing the suitcase full of his things and incoherently insisting that “he just leave me. I am a big, pregnant ball of hideousness and he deserves better.” Has he any idea what has just happened? No. He was thinking about playing, “Gears of War” and now  he is, evidently, moving out.

 

And it isn’t just the intense irrational sadness. There is also irrational anger. It is quick and fierce and likens me to Hitler. Because as soon as the hysterical crying has stopped, I am, naturally, hungry. Because being crazy and irrational works up an appetite.  And then I want there to be something very specific and delicious to eat and I need it to be AT. MY. FINGERTIPS. And I need it to be there right now. RIGHT NOW. And MB should know what that something specific is and should have it piping hot and ready to eat at the instant my little, insane heart desires it. And then the conversation goes like this:

 

“I really need a barbequed turkey sandwich and french fries. And macaroni and cheese.”

 

“Okay, I will run out in a just a minute and get you all of that.”

 

“Okay, but I have really bad heartburn and I really need to eat.”

 

“You know, I have had really bad heartburn for the last couple of hours, it is really weird.”

 

“Look. There is an alien growing in my abdomen and I have had heartburn for six WEEKS, and I really need to eat food.  I am sorry that I don’t seem sympathetic about your heartburn but I think I have trumped you. Sandwich!”

 

“…”

 

Naturally, the conversation ends, sandwich is delivered and half of it is eaten (because you know, once I got that specific thing, I realized that what I really wanted was fried chicken) and then I need a hug. But MB has taken his place, cowering in a corner.

 

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.