One of the truly fantastic things about being pregnant is that while I've always been a pretty grouchy person, I can now totally get away with being an overbearing bitch with virtually no repercussions. Well, except with Tom. He sees through me like a cheap Frederick's of Hollywood teddy. But everyone else, when witnessing one of my red-faced temper tantrums, goes, "Aw."
One of the things that has always gotten my goat (what an odd expression; yet fun) is when people don't do their jobs properly and nothing can get me going faster these days than lazy ineptitude. Nevermind that I've discovered "pregnancy brain" is not a myth, and I can't do my own job properly anymore. But maybe because of that it's even more imperative that other folks do.
Take, for example, the mailman. The mailman has exactly two jobs (whereas I, I feel the need to point out, have about 70,000): Take the outgoing mail away; leave the incoming mail in the box. But it seems that our mailman can only do one or the other on any given day. Therefore, if I leave an outgoing Netflix movie in the mailbox, with the little red indicator flag up, the mailman will likely only be capable of leaving mail that day. Yet oddly he will have the presence of mind to put the red flag down, obviously forgetting what he was supposed to do BEFORE that part, which always fools me into thinking maybe he's caught on to the other 50% of his job duties. But at the bottom of the pile will be the tell-tale red envelope his under-stimulated cranium neglected to register and it NEVER FAILS that when I first see it, despite there being NO WAY the new movie could have shown up simultaneously, I will get a little excited. And then inevitably disappointed and really pissed off when I realize it was the movie I was trying to return.
I have very little energy these days. My entertainment, particularly during the week when I use what little energy I do have to complete 9 -10 hour work days, depends solely on Netflix. When the mailman can't do ONE of his TWO jobs correctly he has completely ruined a pregnant woman's entire social life. So every afternoon I make the treacherous stomp up our steep driveway ranting like a lunatic because the mailman failed me once again. "Aw," go the neighbors.
Another thing that really chaps my hide (not as fun as getting my goat) is that people just can't let go of the fact that the Fourth of July is over. It's OVER, people. In fact, it was over WEEKS ago. What this means, and I'm very sorry to break this to you, is that fireworks are NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE until December 31st. Normally I wouldn't give a rat's ass if you wanted to blow out your eardrums all night long, every night, two doors down from my house, but my dog minds A LOT. And when my dog minds, I mind. Because this means she barks and carries on at whatever ungodly hour (because apparently people who worship the Fourth do not have to get up early for work the next day) you choose to titillate your unimaginative senses FOR THE FIFTEENTH NIGHT RUNNING with a few illegal explosions in our very quiet, very dog-friendly neighborhood.
And it's not like she's only bothered during the actual fireworks. My dog who normally has the memory of a gnat is now terrified of going outdoors anywhere close to dark. Despite the fact that the sun doesn't set until 10pm at this time of year, Theo, to be on the safe side, boycotts the outdoors as of 4pm and retreats to her perception of safety: under the bed. Which means getting her to go to the bathroom between the hours of 4pm and 8am is a colossal struggle that usually ends in someone getting bitten.
The other night, when we hadn't seen the dog in about two days, I, like a complete moron, stuck my arm under the bed in an attempt to coax Theo out and of course got my hand chomped. I completely lost my shit (haven't I provided this dog with absolutely every possible luxury, including unending amounts of love and devotion? and this is how I am treated?!) and started screaming at the top of my lungs while simultaeneously slapping a yard stick hard against the tile floor about a foot away from her face, "GET OUT HERE GODDAMNIT! YOU'D BETTER COME OUT HERE! I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASS YOU LITTLE SHIT!" I don't remember the exact words, but you get the gist.
Tom came flying down the stairs at the commotion, gently wrestled the yardstick away from the crazy pregnant woman, and, amidst a lot of growling and snarling (Theo's, not Tom's) finally got the dog out and took her outside for a pee.
When he got back he said casually, "Next time you threaten to beat the dog while making highly suspicious slapping noises with a yardstick, you may want to make sure the windows are closed."
Apparently several suspicious neighbors had heard my innocent little tirade and come out to investigate. I was mortified. I volunteered at the ASPCA! I donate money to animal shelters every year! I WORSHIP this dog! I'M the one who got bitten! And now all our rude neighbors who can't give up their firecrackers think I beat my dog when I'm the one who should be getting the sympathy here. ME! Me, the poor pregnant lady who can't get any sleep because her dog is busy barking and biting her!
"Aw," anyone? Anyone?
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