I failed my first glucose test and had to take the extra fun filled 3 hour test this week. Whee!! Not. I had to drink the syrupy goop once again but this time I had to stay and get my blood drawn every hour. Four times total! (They took one before I drank the goop.) I felt like young Hollywood walking out of there with needle marks all over my arm. THANKFULLY the test was done at the lab and NOT by Crispy Fried Ponytail. Although I did get the immense joy of talking to her on the phone regarding the results of my first glucose test. The conversation SHOULD HAVE gone like this:
'You failed your first glucose test, so please come into the office as soon as you can so that you can take the 3 hour glucose test at the lab.'
A 20 to 30 second conversation tops right? Unfortunately, Crispy Fried Ponytail was hitting the Vicodin bottle HARD that day and all that information took about an hour for her to get out. I actually put the phone down while she was struggling to put two sentences together to open a Jello cup for my daughter.
The good news though is I passed my 3 hour glucose test! So it doesn't look like I have gestational diabetes this time around. The bad news is I thought I was going to find out the sex of the baby this appointment but apparently the ONE ultrasound machine at the doctor's office is as busy as Tiger's 'golf club' because you have to make a separate appointment for that bitch. So I booked it for my next appointment in March.
Meanwhile I think the hormones kicked into overdrive this past month. So bad, that I truly marvel at myself for not having several shallow graves in my backyard for people who have annoyed me as of late. I'm surprisingly good at knowing when my hormones have pulled a Exorcist and taken over my body so I'm able to prevent an outburst of green vomit to come spewing out of my mouth and hide my feelings pretty well until it passes. (I just got annoyed with MYSELF because that last sentence was such a run-on. See? Even I am not immune to my hormones' wrath)
But now that I'm here in the cozy haven of my blog, let me regale you with tales of my psychotic hormonal thoughts.
Incident one: I was at the front of the school waiting for my daughter to get out when a lady walked up RIGHT BEHIND me with her little girl. They stopped and the lady crouched down to talk to her little girl which put her so close to my ass, if I had blown an air biscuit, her eyes would have watered. She then proceeded to have the most annoying conversation (or so my hormonal self made me feel like it was) with the little girl complete with a tone of voice that grated my nerves like a broken coffee cup scraping against cement. Not to mention the fact that she was using that Mr. Rogers "I'm talking slow and enunciating every other word because you're retarded" type of speak that some people tend to do around small children.
The conversation went something like this:
Woman: 'Okay so and so, we're going to do something new todaaay (broken cup, scrape cement, Mr. Rogers. Oy. My eyelids began twitching involuntarily) every daaay when I pick you up from school, I'm going to ask you how YOUR day went and theeen, you're going to ask ME how MY day went, okaaaay?'
Hormonal voice in my head: Are you fkin' kidding me right now? Are we actually giving directions on how to have a simple conversation? Um, let me tell you how this is going to end Mrs. Rogers, she's going to tell you about her day and she's not really going to give a rat's ass about your day. She's five! She doesn't care that you had a non-fat latte with no sugar and that Mary Fladoodle in HR was facebooking all day so you had to pick up the slack. Nope. Not at all. So please STFU, enjoy the drawing macaroni art she's trying to show you and stop making out with my leather cheerio, thank you.
I know. Harsh right? And mind you, logically I see what the woman was trying to establish with her child, a give and take thing so they can talk about each others day, teaching her to be genuinely concerned about others, I'm sure she was following the child rearing column from Good Housekeeping to a T. Any other day, this whole exchange wouldn't have bothered me at all. Her face giving butterfly kisses to my ass would have been uncomfortable sure but again, minus the pregnancy hormones, I think I would have found it kind of a pleasant.
But I can't help it, the hormonal voice comes and goes and when it comes, it's loud and I have to duck for cover. In this case, I took my ass away from her face, sat somewhere else and played Bejeweled on my phone until the rant subsided in my head. Although, I have to say, hormonal voice was right. That little girl was all about HER day and when her mom interrupted her and told her, 'well now you ask about MY day.' That little girl looked at her like, why the hell would I want to do that? And then continued on about her macaroni heart that she had made in class.
I was relieved because her macaroni art WAS pretty awesome.
I have several more tales but I'm going to stop right there because when I actually type it out, I feel bad for being such a grumpy snatch, even if it is beyond my control. I guess I'll rejoice in the fact that I haven't turned into Chucky and maimed someone with a butter knife .... yet.
Someone get the pregnant woman some Jamba Juice stat! (An original Orange Dream Machine please if you want to live.)