Traditional household roles + Elvira's bubble bath

At our house, we typically keep traditional household roles.  For example, I break things; Michael fixes them.  He makes messes; I pick them up.  I grocery shop, cook, do laundry, and bathe the dog.  Michael handles all the maintenance, heavy lifting, and well, he brings home the bacon (figuratively, of course.  He wouldn't know that he prefers Black Label bacon if his life depended on it).

All of this was in the era of B.P.  (before pregnancy).  It's been a while since I bought groceries, cooked dinner, washed clothes, or gave Elvira the beagle a bath.  Michael has done his best to pick up the slack, but let's face it, a man who knows how to re-build an engine probably isn't going to dominate the laundry.

Fast forward to tonight.  Have a look at this sweet dog:



Oh yes, she looks sweet, but she rolled in some STINKY crap.  It was so stinky that I couldn't be around her without vomiting.  Of course, I would never fake a need to vomit to get Michael to give her a bath while I sat on my butt and read the internet.  No, I'm totally above behavior like that.

So I'm sitting in the den while Michael is upstairs in the bathroom with the stinky beast.  "ASHLEY!!!!!!! HELP!!!!"

After I chuckled to myself, "Figures," I walked up to the bathroom to see what the problem was.  Michael apparently didn't feel like looking very hard for the dog shampoo in the bathroom closet, so he grabbed....

Bubble bath.  Oh, yes.  He.  Did.

And rather than a cup to rinse her with, he had a 5-gallon bucket.  Of course.  That's logical.

Obviously, he was unable to rinse the suds, hold the dog, and dump the 5-gallon bucket of water by himself.

This is why I act like the woman, and Michael acts like the man.  We suck at each other's job.

But Michael, I don't want to go to the doctor!

This past Saturday night, I ate mashed potatoes for supper.  If I had known they were to be my last meal, I would have also asked for macaroni and cheese, my mom's lasagna, pizza, and a 3 liter of high-test coke.

Sunday.  I ate.  I vomited.

Monday.  I ate.  And then I vomited.

Tuesday.  I ate.  I vomited.  And then I projectile vomited into the lake in front of my husband.  (Hey baby, how you doin'?)

So Wednesday, Michael was not pleased with the fact that I'd lost 4 more lbs.  He thought that pregnancy and weight gain were synonymous.  I did too, but hello?  I was not going to complain if God wanted me to be a thin pregnant girl.  No weight gain = no weight to lose.  Then Mr. Super Husband asked me how long it'd been since I kept any food or liquid down.  Oh, um.. Saturday.  "WHAT?!?!?  Call the doctor right now!"

So I call my OB.  His voicemail says he's in surgery on Wednesdays.  Score.  Maybe I won't have to go to the doctor.  I decide to text our friend Stephanie (an OB RN), hoping that she'll be like, "totally nothing to worry about.  Pregnant girls throw up all the time!"  Err... no cigar.  She said, "Call the front desk and ask for an appointment.  Now."

So off we three kings of orient... I mean we two adults and one fetus go to the doctor.  I am, in fact, down 4 lbs from my visit there the previous week.  They want me to pee in a cup.  Pee in a cup?  With what?  All the water I threw up?  Please try.  Ok, whatever.  I didn't even pee enough to coat the bottom of the cup.  They said it was enough.  Good, 'cause that was my best effort.

They run my pee, and it comes back that I am very dehydrated.  Doctor says I have hyperemesis. They are sending me to the hospital.

I cry.

I cry some more.  I consider the fact that something seriously might be wrong with my doctor because what man wants to deal with hormonal women all day long?  Whatever.  I don't want to go to the hospital.  I didn't even want to go to the doctor.  And now, they're going to put needles in me!  I hate being pregnant.

The nurse in the hospital tells me that when you're dehydrated, your veins constrict, which makes it more difficult to put in an IV.  Well, that's just fan-freaking-tastic.  I would hate needles if my veins were big enough to shop at Lane Bryant.  I get poked a total of three times due to my small veins, and if my face wasn't green before she started, it sure as heck was by the time she was done.

I got three bags of fluid with Reglan, and I was there for about 6 hours.  I was bored.  I complained a lot.  Most importantly, I did not annoy Michael to the point that he doesn't want to be married to me anymore.  That's always good.

So far, I'm giving pregnancy a D-.

Are you trying to tell me I look like sh!t?

The following is a conversation I had earlier this week with an overly-friendly cashier at Publix:

Girl at Publix: "Aww honey, are you ok? You look like you don't feel good."

Me: "I haven't kept any food down since Sunday (true), I just threw up all over the parking lot (true), I have a hemorrhoid the size of a golf ball (false, but funny to say), and my baby daddy left me for a cross dressing man named Spike (also false)."

Girl: "I think we have some preparation H on clearance."

Well done, girl, well done. How many people could keep their customer service skills in check after that? She deserves a raise for having to deal with people like me.