Fat. Angry. And full of reflux.

December 2008

I have such bad acid reflux that I swear I could lick the Essie off my nails. And for some reason, the makers of Gaviscon Advance thought it would be funny to make it taste like a clotty blend of Cape Velvet and Sambucca. Basically, this means that if I don’t want to hurl out the acetone in my throat, I have to contend with bile-inducing flashbacks of drunken adolescent stupors.

Rock on.

Moreover, it is so hot that the back of my neck is in a perpetual state of clamminess and my now Alpine breasts have a river running through them…and not one that has anything to do with Brad Pitt. Speaking of which, I bet Angelina has none of these problems. I saw the silly wench in that petrol green Grecian dress, belly blooming with twins, ripe and celestial. Bet the bitch never had constipation or hemorrhoids or excessive sweating or cellulite or varicose veins. And which pregnant women didn’t want to slap that trout pout off her face when she spoke about her pregnant sex life? Seriously? With twins? Team Aniston. All the way.

I am hateful. My upper back is aching and I haven’t slept through the night in 8 months. I am listless, restless and in limbo and wondering how I will fit it all in next year. The baby room seemed so containing and familiar a month ago. Now, I walk into it as if I’m walking into a show house. It feels like somebody cut and paste it into our house; like it isn’t a real part of the home. And on some level, it feels scary. Less scary, because I know what to expect. More scary, because I know what to expect.