Tuesday, November 20, 2012

sorry I'm not sorry.



What I actually said: I don't know if that's a great idea. I wouldn't do it, but...

What I wanted to say: I think you're a senseless fucking moron who not only doesn't deserve the poor, innocent sperm n' egg combo that has taken up residency in your uterus, but should also be court mandated to have your tubes tied because you, my friend, are the very epitome of "unfit parent". And that says something considering who you are up against in Hollywood alone these days. In other words, Snooki and The Lohan's. Thumbs up.


source
I have always had a healthy respect for and fear of pregnancy.

From the moment my child brain started thinking more like an adult brain (being honest probably like, last year, but for the story's sake, let's just say it began being less naive with the rest of the world at say, oh, 13-14?), I have been under the impression that it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that a fetus is a fragile life form. But then again, maybe it does. Maybe I'm a rocket scientist. Clearly there are more of us than that saying leads us to believe...

I don't have kids, and I have never been pregnant. But something I do have? A 10-year-old fear that I will not be able to have children. I don't know where it came from or why it started. But when I was 13, my "baby fever" started. I decided I wanted to eventually be a stay at home mom to little Sam's & [Anthony's]. With that dream came the inevitable fear that I would never get to have it. Or if I did, it would be a really difficult journey to conception. Again, who the hell knows where that came from.

Anyway, because of this semi-irrational fear, any indication of unfit or ungrateful parenting really skyrockets my blood to a nice, scalding boil.

So when my coworker mentioned going to a bar for her birthday, I had one of those "hey wait a minute...are you sure that's a good idea?" moments. That also included an eyebrow raise. That she happened to notice.  She quickly began reaching into her ass and pulling out reason after reason and throwing them at me in the desperate hope that they would come together to build one big fat pyramid of justification to be topped off with me giving my blessing for her to head off to a bar for her birthday.

Well they didn't. And I didn't. I told her I might stop by but never did because I think it's cooler to hang out with Anthony than to sit around with a bunch of coworkers I don't even like when I'm paid to be around them. What??

Anyway, I went home that day figuring she would stick to her one glass of red wine (there didn't seem to be any convincing her otherwise), and went about my weekend. I know they say a glass of wine here or there isn't going to kill anyone, but I've got to be honest with you, I don't care what any doctor says. When I'm blessed enough one day to have life growing inside of me, it's going to be a diet of water and apples. Okay, and probably some chocolate. And pasta. And some other stuff bound to help grow the baby and my ass. But alcohol? First, I don't even drink on a regular basis. Second, maybe a glass or two of wine over nine months doesn't have a serious effect. But maybe it does. And that's enough for me. Why would you want to risk it?

Blah. Anyway. I digress.

Flash forward to my next torturous day of work. She wasn't in that night, and resident Drama Queen seized that night as her opportunity to take off her insanity hat and weigh in on the birthday drama from the judge-y side, rather than the side being judged, for once.

Apparently, according to the DQ, according to my boss, according to Prego herself (the natural chain of drama around these parts. Gross.) she drank so much on her birthday she threw up. I asked my brother (who was there) to verify the next day, and apparently she had a glass of wine, had a co-worker get her a White Russian, then at another bar she did a Car Bomb, and had a Long Island Iced Tea.

I kid you not, I actually felt a twang of nausea when I heard that. I'm still in disbelief that someone would take such a risk while pregnant. That amount of alcohol would probably having us shut off a regular person, let alone someone who hasn't drank in a long time, and, oh yeah, IS PREGNANT.

Honest to God, I can't get over this girl. She makes mistake after mistake after mistake and she doesn't learn. Ever. Because as long as she is doing it, it's okay. I don't know how many pregnancies she has to lose before she gets her act together.

I know I'm not her mom, and I don't get to tell her what to do. But I'm done being her little BFF at work and lugging ice and beer around because she "can't do it" because she's pregnant...

So you can't lift a case of beer from the very millisecond you find a + sign on a pregnancy test, but you can pour drink after drink into your fetus' immature system, almost four months into this thing? Now is when you're going to start drinking again? You have gone months, you can't wait five more? For your child?

And then you wonder why people talk about you behind your back. Because if it's not heroin it's dating someone almost a decade younger than you, or being on and off with another drug addict, or getting pregnant, or getting engaged, or getting pregnant again, breaking up with the poor high school grad baby daddy, settling back in with the druggy, and now dumping alcohol on top of that poor baby.

I'm sure I don't sound the friendliest based on this post. But given the circumstances and her personality, and the stuff we put up with, this isn't nice but, it's really hard not to call her a weak sack of shit to her face. So I have to do it on my blog. Sorry.

This is what my crazy job has led me too.

Madness.

I am surrounded by ungrateful idiots.... C'mon Starbucks!