Coming to Theaters in November...
I believe that everything happens for a reason and that our awareness is never accidental.
So a few weeks ago my girlfriend and I are sitting at the lunch table, and I was have one of those days where everything got on my nerves. My friend is refreshingly honest, funny,and outspoken. She looked at me and told me that I was being particularly cantankerous. I usually spend the day smiling a la Tom Cruise, but on this day I was straight Grinch. I always try to be Lionel Kiddie City happy...seriously. (Turn that frown upside-down?) When she said it, I had to acknowledge that I had been riding on a broomstick most of the day, but I wrote it off. I joked that it was just PMS.
When the day ended, I was still feeling particularly eee-vil (yes, the spelling is intentional, and I was truly bewildered at my "I will cut you" disposition. My poor husband, home sick that day, had already fallen victim to Cruella DeVil. In fact, I'm pretty sure that when he heard my car pull into the garage he fled to rooftop where he prayed to the Lord for guidance. I was feeling so mean, that when I heard my neighbors kids playing outside, I prayed real hard for rain. Why couldn't they take their behinds in and play XBox like all the other kids? Making all that noise...
At this point, a little loud voice that sounded like Wanda Sykes started yelling. It said, "Heifer (pronounced hef-fa),get off the broomstick and go take a pregnancy test." I knew what Ms. Wanda was talking about, but in my mind, I new that the test was going to reveal what I already knew. I wasn't pregnant.
I decided to humor Ms. Wanda and find the pregnancy test that I always keep in the medicine cabinet. There underneath shaving cream and cherry blossom scented lotion I found it. I followed the directions on the package. Exactly forty-five seconds later, the pregnancy test had punked me.
I screamed for my husband to come upstairs. Still feverish and terrified of me, he ran upstairs bracing for the next fit. I showed him the test. "What the heck is that?" I asked as I showed him the test.
"Wow," he said. "It kind of sort of looks like a plus sign." He grew quiet and then smirked at me. "Seriously?"
My son's Christmas prayer had been answered. According to the five-dollar (yes, I'm cheap) no frills pregnancy test, the person who peed (is that a verb?) in the stick had pregnancy hormone in their urine. I looked at the test in amazement. I just stared at the faint plus sign in shock.
People had been asking us when we were going to give our son a sibling. Our text book response was always, "In God's time", but usually God's time takes a lot longer than our time. I know the Lord has a sense of humor; He invented childbirth. In fact, I'm convinced that if He has cable, my family is on heaven's version of a comedy central-food network combo. Right now I'm in my own little version of Iron Chef. The food challenge of the hour (translation: food that won't make me sick) is grapefruit. Seriously, when I get a grapefruit, I go all Gollum. My precious...the precious little yellow fruit with the red flesh...dirty little Hobbitses...oops!
I'm absolutely crackish with a ruby red grapefruit. (*If you don't know what this means, check my post on new words for Webster's.)
Now we've got to find a clever way to tell our son that he's going to be a big brother....oh the humanity.
So a few weeks ago my girlfriend and I are sitting at the lunch table, and I was have one of those days where everything got on my nerves. My friend is refreshingly honest, funny,and outspoken. She looked at me and told me that I was being particularly cantankerous. I usually spend the day smiling a la Tom Cruise, but on this day I was straight Grinch. I always try to be Lionel Kiddie City happy...seriously. (Turn that frown upside-down?) When she said it, I had to acknowledge that I had been riding on a broomstick most of the day, but I wrote it off. I joked that it was just PMS.
When the day ended, I was still feeling particularly eee-vil (yes, the spelling is intentional, and I was truly bewildered at my "I will cut you" disposition. My poor husband, home sick that day, had already fallen victim to Cruella DeVil. In fact, I'm pretty sure that when he heard my car pull into the garage he fled to rooftop where he prayed to the Lord for guidance. I was feeling so mean, that when I heard my neighbors kids playing outside, I prayed real hard for rain. Why couldn't they take their behinds in and play XBox like all the other kids? Making all that noise...
At this point, a little loud voice that sounded like Wanda Sykes started yelling. It said, "Heifer (pronounced hef-fa),get off the broomstick and go take a pregnancy test." I knew what Ms. Wanda was talking about, but in my mind, I new that the test was going to reveal what I already knew. I wasn't pregnant.
I decided to humor Ms. Wanda and find the pregnancy test that I always keep in the medicine cabinet. There underneath shaving cream and cherry blossom scented lotion I found it. I followed the directions on the package. Exactly forty-five seconds later, the pregnancy test had punked me.
I screamed for my husband to come upstairs. Still feverish and terrified of me, he ran upstairs bracing for the next fit. I showed him the test. "What the heck is that?" I asked as I showed him the test.
"Wow," he said. "It kind of sort of looks like a plus sign." He grew quiet and then smirked at me. "Seriously?"
My son's Christmas prayer had been answered. According to the five-dollar (yes, I'm cheap) no frills pregnancy test, the person who peed (is that a verb?) in the stick had pregnancy hormone in their urine. I looked at the test in amazement. I just stared at the faint plus sign in shock.
People had been asking us when we were going to give our son a sibling. Our text book response was always, "In God's time", but usually God's time takes a lot longer than our time. I know the Lord has a sense of humor; He invented childbirth. In fact, I'm convinced that if He has cable, my family is on heaven's version of a comedy central-food network combo. Right now I'm in my own little version of Iron Chef. The food challenge of the hour (translation: food that won't make me sick) is grapefruit. Seriously, when I get a grapefruit, I go all Gollum. My precious...the precious little yellow fruit with the red flesh...dirty little Hobbitses...oops!
I'm absolutely crackish with a ruby red grapefruit. (*If you don't know what this means, check my post on new words for Webster's.)
Now we've got to find a clever way to tell our son that he's going to be a big brother....oh the humanity.
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