What on earth is the matter with me? I have been going about these past few days in the most almighty snit. And I mean almighty. Even the fragile ailing H (I did mention he had Real ‘Flu, you know, Proper, With Fever And Everything, didn’t I?) got the rough and sharp sides of my tongue briskly round both ears before I stormed off and slammed the bedroom door a few times (oh, please don’t ask what I was yelling about. It’s too pathetically petty for me to ever admit to. So pathetically petty I’m not quite sure I can remember exactly what it was. H was probably breathing intrusively. It quickly segued into ‘you never bloody listen to me, do you? Huh? DO YOU?’ anyway).
And work, oh my God, work. The drama. You’d think I was going there to be skinned alive. It’s a perfectly nice job, I swear. Not vastly stressful or demanding (goes with being really rather badly paid, I suppose), with some intellectual challenge. But I do have to deal with the public, and I do have to deal with my colleagues, and this week, both sets of persons were making me go all ‘Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!’ I think I would happily bitch-slap a heavy-weight boxer if I thought it would get me well away from work for a few weeks.
It’s not work, though, is it? It’s everything.
And being persistantly irritable is giving me serious heartburn. I haven’t had heartburn this bad for ages. Damn, but that makes me irritable. Oh, and headaches. I’ve had a headache every day for a sodding week. How on earth can I not be irritable?
On Thursday, I felt crampy. Really crampy. Stabbing cramps, as if Satsuma had found an ice-pick somewhere and was executing a bas-relief on Cute Ute’s side-wall. Ow. And on Friday. I mentioned them to H, who expressed due sympathy, then stared thoughtfully at me. Odd chap, I thought, squishing my breasts to see if they were still sore. Well, yes, but the soreness keeps coming and going.
And today, while rubbing my crampy lower belly, belching like a whale, and wondering where the paracetamol had got to as a little goblin hammered about behind my eyes, pondering the metallic, bloody, persistant taste in my mouth and thinking it made me feel sick, I remembered. The last time I felt exactly like this was when I got pregnant in October. And yes, H had worked it out two days before I did. (He’s not really my husband, you know. He’s my wife).
It’s only 10 dpo. Let’s not get our knickers in a bunch and start shouting ‘test! Test! Test!’. I get enough of that from the Positive Thinking Fairy, who has even bought pom-poms.
Yes, I do have four pregnancy tests left.
But, people, this won’t end well. Either I won’t be pregnant, and I will be disappointed and miserable. Or I will be, but my track record on that is now so appalling… argh. Anyway. The Positive Thinking Fairy may have pom-poms, but Bitter McTwisted has bought the entire stadium on that one. Positive peestick=miscarriage chez May now. Sucks, huh?
If anyone wants me, I’ll be roaming the neighbourhood, necking flat ginger ale and looking for puppies to kick.