AF

Email to Neno dated 6/14:
Calabaza! I took another pee test this morning. The result was not pregnant. (I just thought of something funny: a pregnancy test with your results read by Borat. You are *not* pregnant. Very nice!)

I hate errbody this morning. I'm in too much pain --such that the idea of being stabbed repeatedly in the uterus sounds refreshing -- it's too hot, and work is too busy.

Yesterday marked the end of an era in my life, a time when I was sober for four solid weeks for fear of being knocked up (as in the condition, not the possibility). I was getting really into that whole I'm-gonna-be-a-mom-time-to-get-all-self-righteous thing. Growing up, on my birthday or whenever my mom wanted a back rub, she'd say "Did I ever mention how painful it was to give birth to you?" To which I'd respond I didn't ask to be born. As I was eating for two these past four weeks, looking longingly at my husbands longneck (and I don't even like beer), I thought of the ways I was going to guilt this child of mine. Did I ever mention how long I went without a drinky drink for you?

Lo and behold, the universe plotted against my selfishness and sent that bitch aunt flo upon me instead. To be real, it was a long, restless few weeks of not knowing what was happening underneath but I actually believed I must be pregnant. I'm at a point in my life that if I get knocked up it wouldn't be so terrible, so it was an exciting thought, despite the sobriety and prospect of cankles. Thankfully I'm past the days of frantic google searches done on behalf of friends (I've always been a prude living vicariously through the misadventures of my friends) eliciting gems like "Help! Plan B failed and now I need a Plan C!"