With myself. Don’t be jealous of my glamorous life.
Although I am “officially” on bed rest until next week, I am “officially” the worst patient ever and have made plans to sneak out and catch a two o’clock show of Bridesmaids by myself. I have not been allowed to (CLOSE YOUR EYES HERE, DAD) orgasm for the past two months — oh yeah, orgasming brings about unwanted cervical changes, didn’t ya know? — nor will I be allowed to for, like, another two months, so this is the closest I’m going to get for a while.
A new movie. A FUNNY one. In an actual MOVIE THEATER. With five-thousand-calorie popcorn.
Just hand me a cigarette now.
My keeper, Mr. Candy, took off for the East Coast yesterday — I know! When I’m 35 weeks pregnant! As if standing up for his brother at his wedding is important or something. Sheesh. — so all bets are off. Being the worst patient in the world and all, I insisted on keeping Miss Skye here in L.A. with me and pretty much daring my short cervix to bust wide open while he is away.
Bust wide open. I would have had an amazing bedside manner as a doctor, I think.
Mr. Candy is a Nervous Nelly type, anyway, so he has been on the verge of a heart attack the past two weeks, frightened out of his gourd that I’m going to go into labor while he’s doing the Electric Slide with Aunt Louise in Delaware. Naturally, I’ve done everything in my power to console him.
Oh! My stomach has really been tightening lately…
Oh! I just lost part of my mucus plug…!
Oh! I think the baby’s dropped! I feel like a bowling ball is going to fall from my crotch…!
Always followed by: But, hey, you don’t worry about it and have a great time.
By which point I invariably have to retrieve a paper bag for Mr. Candy, who is practically passed out on the ground from worry. It’s cruel, I know, but it’s also too much damn fun. (Until I do end up dropping that bowling ball this weekend, that is*. Karma’s a bitch.) At least the ol’ Patron of Honor can drown his concerns at the wedding reception open bar, while I’m stuck here trying to run after a surprisingly fast 21-month-old with James Gandolfini attached to my stomach and a munchkin cervix —
What’s that? You have never heard of a “Patron of Honor,” you say? Oh, well, if you look it up in the Book of Completely Fabricated and Nonsensical Wedding Party Titles, you’ll see that it means “the pity title given to a brother when the youngest brother has been honored with the REAL and most distinguished title of Best Man.” Also, if you Google it, Google will chuckle and ask, “Did you mean ‘Matron of Honor’?” And you will have to shake your head, embarrassed, then learn that “Patron of Honor” is most commonly bestowed upon people who give tons of money to those who need it — which will make you wonder if your brother(-in-law) is making a not-so-subtle wedding gift request.
If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to get ready for my wedding date: Bridesmaids! (With the price of movie tickets these days, I’m pretty sure Mr. Candy got off cheaper with his airfare and gift than I did.)
Oops, and I forgot: You can totally open your eyes now, Dad. Dad…? DAD! Did you fall asleep…?
Have a great weekend, everyone.
Hugs, kisses and movie orgasms,
*Just in case, I’m making Skye watch an I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant marathon to brush up on her emergency baby delivery skills.