When will this day end?

God, I'm having a horrific day and it's only 11:30 a.m. Jesus Christ.

I'm sure it's partly the whole non-smoking thing. And partly that I'm menstruating.

(Not that I'm menstruating. But that it means I'm not pregnant.)

Non-smokers don't crave cigarettes. Non-smokers don't crave cigarettes. Non-smokers don't crave cigarettes. Non-smokers don't crave cigarettes.

Ok, perhaps I'll go outside at putter around the yard. That will keep my mind occupied for a while.

Non-smokers don't crave cigarettes.

Urs.

Somebody give the girl a sandwich.

I'm a bear today. It all started when I got home from work. This is the first day I've gotten home from work in 19 years that I haven't had a cigarette. (Except the two times I was pregnant.)

Yes, I'm a bear. Somebody give me a sandwich.

Or a cigarette.

No! Please don't. I don't want to smoke. And I don't want to gain weight.

So no smoke. And no sandwich.
***

I got my period thismorning. So all of that, was just pms.

Just fucking great.

Now I want a cigarette even more.

Urs.

Ok, so I'm officially crazy.

I figured that because my boobs are sore, my tastebuds have changed and I'm not as regular as usual... a pregnancy test was in order.

Even though I'm SEVEN days away from getting my (perhaps) period, I thought I'd give it a whirl.

And?

No. Only one pink stripe.

Doesn't mean it won't show two next week, but for now, only one.

Really, I figured that seeing as I'm having the same symptoms as the first time, it might mean that it would show on a stick. That, because of these "symptoms", it must go to prove that the hcg levels would be rising, and would therefore show on a stick. A little stick. I'm depending on a stick. I'm stuck on a stick.

Geesh.

Maybe next week.

Urs.

I touch myself.

One week to go to the next pregnancy test.

In the meantime... Sore boobs. Which is unusual for me this far before I get my period.

And extreme distaste of 1.) chicken caesar wrap without the wrap and, 2.) chocolate chip cookies.

I LOVE chicken caesar wraps. Without the wrap. So chicken caesar salad, I suppose.

I also LOVE chocolate chip cookies.

Couldn't stomach either today. And noticed the sore boobs last night as I was standing over my husband as he was preparing a presentation. I had to keep feeling them to see if they were really sore. And yes, they were.

They are.

And they aren't, usually, this far before my period. Usually a couple of days, but not a week. Hmmmm.

So I'm walking around my house and every few minutes I grab my "girls" and give them a squeeze. And every time I squeeze, they bark a little bit at me. "Hey Urs, look out there... we're TENDER already. Geesh!" And so I squeeze again, just to make sure my mind isn't playing tricks on me.

The first time I was pregnant, last December, it was about a week before my period was due that my boobs started to get sore, and about a week when my tastebuds started to change. And also about a week when my "bathroom tendancies" changed. Yes, constipation. (Which, by the way, I realized thismorning, has started. I'm not regular. Well, not AS regular as usual, but I digress.)

The last time, last May? I had NO symptoms at all. Zip. None. So am I crazy? Is it just early menstrual symptoms? Or could I be pregnant? I was so afraid at the thought of becoming pregnant again... what if I'm not ready? What if I'm not through with my grief and sadness? What if my body isn't ready? What if it doesn't surive?

Again.

But I find myself absolutely ecstatic at the prospect! Which totally surprise me. I've been so wrapped in my misery. My despair. So wrapped up in it all that the prospect of joy seemed to elude me. And yet when it hit me today, when it hit me that I actually may be pregnant again.... I was elated! The feeling of joy totally took me by surprise. And I'm so happy that I can feel joy again. Even if I'm not pregnant right now, even if the pregnancy test shows me only one stripe....

I'm thrilled that I felt joy again.

It's been so long.

Urs.

You have (no) mail.

My inbox has been full for 5 years. Full of print ads, newspaper copy, old trade mags that I never got around to reading, thank-you cards, invitations, etc etc etc. I was saving it for a rainy day.

Today was that rainy day.

And now I have nothing to do.

And now that my inbox is empty, it proves to the passerby that I had time on my hands. Enough time to clean out an inbox. That’s a lot of time.

And there it sits.

Empty.

And here I sit.

With nothing to do.

Talk about make-work projects.

I’m re-writing a colleagues information package. And her job is extremely boring, so you can just bet how exciting the task-at-hand is for me.

Yawn.

But better than staring out the window. No, that wouldn’t go over very well. And I’m too scared to play on the internet after the article in the local paper last week about companies installing SpyWare to spy on their employees and the sites that they visit. So much for Facebook. So much for Blogger. So much for gmail, hotmail, yahoo mail. So much for Socialitelife. So much for redactedblog. And (egad) so much for overheardinnewyork.

Yes, yes. There’s always surfing from home. But by the time I get there, I’m absolutely exhausted and can’t even muster up the energy to turn the bloody thing on. It’s all I can do to crack a beer or pop a cork. Sometimes I’m even too tired to get out of my work clothes until I gather enough energy to go from couch to bedroom, usually around 10:30.

Perhaps I’ll tackle one of my filing cabinets and weed out unnecessries.

***
My OBGYN should be calling me later today to discuss test results. Not sure which ones; the extensive bloodwork I had, the bloodwork the Husband had, or the genetics from the baby. Or perhaps all of the above.

***
Went to The Rapist thismorning. Good news?

1. The only thing that’s wrong with me is grief.

2. I don’t have to see her again,unless I want to. Ie: next time I get pregnant, if I’m having a hard time with the fear again. And the shame.

3. Most importantly, what made my three visits all worth while: the baby did NOT feel any pain when he died. At 14 weeks, the nerves aren’t completely formed in it’s little brain, so it did not know it was dying, and it did not feel any pain.

(Bullshit. I think he knew he was dying, but he didn’t physically feel it. But that’s just me. That’s just what I believe. Or not. I don’t know.)

Oh God, here come the tears again.

Urs.

I'm Rudolph Valentino pull up in my limosino.

Couldn't help it. It's on the radio right now. And how I LOVE that song.

You know some days when you just want to punch someone in the face?

This is one of those days.

But I throw things not punches.

And only when I'm super mad. And not at people, just in their general direction. And I don't want to actually hit them, just get my message across. What message my cheque book carries, or my keys, or a piece of lint, I don't know.

Can you imagine though? Just walking up to someone who is pissing you off, and just hauling back and punching them in the face? Not slapping, no no, too soap-opera-ish, but a real punch. Just standing right there in front of them, pulling your fist back, and sending it toward their face with the intent to actually hit them. Not necessarily do harm. Just punch them.

I'm just not that kind of person. I do damage to myself instead. I beat myself up instead. Mentally. Emotionally. Those nasty thoughts come into my head, "Urs, you are a bitch." "Urs, this is YOUR fault." "Urs, they wouldn't be pissing you off if only you were a better person, employee, listener, wife..." The list goes on.

So instead of throwing a punch, I casually walk away, back to my task at hand, job, room, car (the list goes on), and beat myself up and think I'm an idiot, dumb, sucker...

The list goes on.

Urs.