The 6 Stages of an Inevitable Pregnancy Scare.

In case any of you had even a shred of respect left for me, I'll go ahead and squash that now. Listen, if you have a vagina and don't wear magic underpants or believe in waiting til marriage (props to you if you have this level of self-control... I can't tell a french fry "no", let alone a dick), you've had a pregnancy scare.

Pregnancy scares really evolve as you age.  At 17 you're talking with your betches over bags of Cool Ranch Doritos whilst watching The Real World Vegas and you're like "OMG, we were totes dry humping for like 3 minutes and a little of 'it' got on my jeans... I really hope I can't get pregnant from that."  By 30, you're using the "pull and pray" method after a bottle of wine, with one leg still in your sweatpants; hoping that he can afford either Plan B or some decent child support.  Oh, how we mature.  At this point in my life, I'm like "I really hope my baby is fat enough that I have to clean its rolls with Q-tips and I hope that we have enough money for him/her to wear baby Burberry".   Sometimes I even think about what Mother's Day presents I will get.  Because motherhood is selfless, guys.

I'm obvs not promoting unsafe sex, so everyone just calm the f*ck down.  We all know I lie to my gynecologist about my level of responsibility; but, keep it classy you assholes. Regardless, whether you're 7 or 35... here are the general stages of any pregnancy scare.

1. Groping yourself in public: A little PMS leads to some boobage growth.... but apparently... so does carrying a babe.  Our boobs growing is the equivalent to a man growing an extra dick... we want to touch them all the time.  At first you're like... "YES.  Check out my awesome rack, world!" but then you're like... "Nooo.... are these going to feed babies with teeth?  Are they going to touch my belly button in two years?" It's hard for us to keep our paws off them, and this essentially starts the downward spiral from "ooh boobies!" to "Oh f*ck, am I with child?"

2. Binge eating/constant hunger:  I could honestly live my life like a cow and be completely happy; just grazing all day mindlessly out of a tub of french fries or with a bag of Tostitos and faux nacho cheese; napping whenever the desire strikes me.  If I had the body type of #gisele, I'd be shoveling processed, gmo-laden foods into my face every hour, on the hour  Unfortch, I have more of a "good for snugs" body type; more to hold onto and a little extra for calming squeezes.  WHICH, will obvs make me a great mom.  If you're in the throes of a pregnancy scare (or an irrational mentally fabricated pregnancy scare, which constitutes 98.7% of all pregnancy scares) you will convince yourself that your constant hunger means you're eating for two.... and I don't mean you and a tapeworm.

3. Buying the test: Cue scary horror movie music.  First of all... why the f*ck do pregnancy tests cost more than my mortgage?  I'm pretty sure the profit margin on preggo tests is over 90% because those f*ckers know that a woman in peril will pay anything for peace of mind.  I'm surprised they don't make you sign over your first born before they give you that piss stick, worth $.02.  At least I'm at the age now where when I buy pregnancy tests, the acne-ridden teenage cashier thinks I want it to be positive.  Back in the day, purchasing one was more embarrassing than spilling an entire Plan B display during rush hour pharmacy hours (which I did 3 months ago... ).  Also, you have to make additional purchases with the test.  Otherwise, you look desperate.  In 2004, it was Cool Ranch Doritos and a Cosmo for the sex tips.  Now, it's some cheap wrinkle cream and a bag of chocolate chips.

4. Taking the test: The test will inevitably sit on the counter for at least 36 hours.  It will just stare at you and judge you for your wildly whore-y irresponsibility. Finally, you will give in and pee all over yourself and that little stick. Those packages are harder to get open than Dayquil liqui-gels while wearing mittens. Once you get that f*cker out of its package and piss everywhere, you will sit and stare at it while you drip dry... because no one has enough self-control to put that shit down and let it marinate for three minutes.... (I would be lying if I said I hadn't taken a test in the King Soopers ghetto restroom while the potential father was waiting in the shitty, attached Starbucks drinking a strawberry frappuccino playing Candy Crush.  #lifegoals)

5.  Denial:  Refuse to believe that you either a) are or b) are not pregnant.  So you take four more of the tests that cost more than one of Gwyneth's morning smoothies. Pregnancy tests are like Lays potato chips... you can never take JUST one.

6.  Accept the Psycho: Realize that you are, in fact, batshit crazy which has only been augmented by hormones and the rapid drop of all of estrogen from your beefy, bloaty, PMS-y body.  Eat the bag of chocolate chips you purchased and embrace the cramps that are now ripping your body apart like Bella Swan's vampire baby in the 19th Twilight movie.  Apologize to everyone who has been in your general vicinity for the past 48 hours, drink a bottle of wine, and pop some Midol.   Refund your boyfriend for his $17 strawberry frappuccino. You will never get back your dignity, or the $119 you spent on your new "just in case" Plan B supply and seven boxes of pregnancy tests.

Keep it classy, betches.

XOXO,

K

Things That Can F*CK OFF This Week.

Just some things that make me want to punch babies this week...

Anything Less Than a Queen Sized Bed: You know how every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings? Well every time two people sleep in a queen size bed, those wings catch fire. Two cats, a large man, and a pissy-not-morning-blonde in a small bed ruins lives. There's that stage in a relationship where you go from "let's spoon all night and I'll pretend that dislodging our sweaty bodies in the morning doesn't remind me of peeling apart a two hour old grilled cheese" to "get off me, bitch; I'm sleeping and you're scrunching up my sweatpants and ruining the logistics of the sheet to blanket ratio."

Whole Foods Judgment: No, I didn't bring my own bag, you f*ckers.  Because I just spent my life savings (and the $3 in quarters that I found behind my dryer) on some fancy ass cheese, designer non-GMO kale, and some supplements to cure my ass cellulite.  JK, guys... I don't eat kale or have life savings...but I do have ass cellulite. One time after spending $160 on moldy cheeses I said "I'm probably going to have to stop over at the plasma donation place for gas money to get home." Whole Foods Hippie #24 just stared at me; then I realized he was judging because I was using gas and not like recycled vegetable oil from Panda Express or whatever. I prefer to eat my Panda Express oil rather than burn it for fuel. Just give me my f*cking paper bag to hold my 19 french cheeses, asshole.

Dermatologists (and other asshole doctors who tell me to stop picking my face):  I had a real flattering moment recently.  I went to get my vag prodded (see recent post for extensive unnecessary details) and before even looking at my sweet beav, my doctor says "do you want me to prescribe something for your acne?"  Listen betch, I know I'm ug right now.  I don't focus on freshening up my face before someone's about to be elbows deep in my twat... EYES DOWN THERE.  Also, ignoring a zit is like ignoring a stray cat... both need immediate attention and lots of unsolicited squeezes.  And as for the dermatologist, JUST GIVE ME MY BOTOX.  I pay for you to swallow your judgment and inject me with dangerous toxins... and your face should be so thoroughly botoxed that I shouldn't be able to see judgment, anyway.

Solicitors:  So recently, my neighborhood has developed a small gang of solicitors selling shit products with incredible sales tactics.  They do this thing where you open the door, because you think they're selling girl scout cookies (show me a PMSing woman who turns away thin mints and I will show you a liar), and they immediately shove this little booklet into your hand.  AND THEN YOU ARE TRAPPED.  You may as well be standing there with their dick in your hands, because you are wildly uncomfortable, are awkwardly holding something that doesn't belong to you, and can't help but wonder how many other people have touched it. What kind of sorcery is this?!  Who taught them this trick? Billy Mays?  If you try and give it back to them, they act like they have nubs for hands or no opposable thumbs. What happened to the friendly Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses coming door to door?  At least they don't trap you with their pamphlets, they just leave them in your doorknob. And the Mormons usually bring baked goods.  #thankgod

Phone Case Judgment:  Listen, I'm profesh as f*ck. If I have to number two at work, I wait silently on the toilet until everyone leaves the bathroom (If you're female, you have done this).

I never microwave leftover fish for lunch.  I've only burned popcorn in the work microwave twice; but have obvs blamed other people.  I'm an EXCELLENT coworker; if I want to have a phone case with cat ears on my cellular device that I don't pay for, I will.

What drives you guys crazy?

XOXO,

K