Shot to the butt, and you're to blame...

Cranky. Moody. Irritable. Grouchy. Mean. Nasty. Psychotic. These are just a few words to describe my mood this morning. My husband just ate a Nutrigrain bar over my shoulder, and it took every ounce of my being to keep me from slapping it out of his hand. The sound of his mouth smacking as he chewed and the crumbs that sprinkled out on my laptop just about killed my soul.

I woke up this morning and threw up the hardest I have this pregnancy. You know the type of gagging that genuinely convinces you you’re not ever going to catch your breath again? It was one of those.

I went to my first OB appointment on Thursday. This might blow your mind, but I’m actually going to say something positive. I am obsessed with her. She made me feel completely validated, less nervous about labor and delivery, and that my feelings on everything actually matter. Night and day from the group I went to with Mickey.

Okay, back to Negative Nancy. She told me there’s a surge in hCg between weeks nine and ten. This is probably why I’ve been sicker than I have the past eight weeks. The B6 and unisom have been actually curbing the nausea a bit, but it began to fail me a couple days ago. The upside is, the hCg starts to plateau and calms down by 12 weeks. So for now, add the surge of hCg with progesterone and estrogen I’m still jamming into my body, and you’ve got yourself a walking time bomb.

When I was pregnant with Mickey my estrogen was low, but not as low as this time around. So, by this point in my pregnancy I was off the estrogen. I’m just now starting to “wean off” this nausea inducing little pill. I’m taking it every other night until Nov. 19. The mornings after a night without estrogen are heaven. I might dry heave a bit, but I’m nowhere near as sick as I am when I take it the night prior. Last night was an estrogen night.

In Michael’s defense, he has a real Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde situation on his hands. Sometimes I laugh really hard about my body. I actually find humor in how insane I am. For instance, he had to pull over last Sunday so I could puke on the side of the road. Not only did I yak in front of everyone driving by, in the rain, but it was across the street from a fucking meat market. When I say meat market, I mean a slaughter house. So, the idea of what goes on there just made me throw up harder.

When I got back in the car, eyes blood shot, soaking wet, Michael tried his best to hold back laughter. He slowly handed me his phone. He had taken photos of me while I was hunched over in the rain. The entire scenario, coupled with the fact that he was ballsy enough to make a joke of it, cracked me up. We laughed so hard, I almost peed my pants. He rolled the dice, but was luckily a winner that time.

Rewind to almost 24 hours prior to me being a good sport. The night before I didn't see any humor whatsoever in what went on.

That night, Michael and I went to a Halloween party, dressed as Ken and Lisa Vanderpump. If you’re unfamiliar with who they are, then you clearly don’t watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. We are super fans and I was extremely proud of our costumes.

Before I even got in the shower to get ready, I had to lie on the bathroom floor for over 30 minutes, sick as a dog. We put so much work into our costumes and were so pumped to go out, there was no way I was allowing my stomach to rape our evening. Once I was able to stand up with out barfing, I got in the shower and rushed to get ready.

The party started at 7:00, but we didn’t get there until after 8:00. Luckily my mother-in-law was watching Mickey, putting her to bed, and allowing us to have an adult filled night. So time was not an issue. I felt amazing by the time we got there. There was so much delicious food, including some sort of cheese and jam puff pastry that was a pregnant chick’s dream. Full disclosure, I consumed at least seven.

We were having such a good time that we almost lost track of time. Before we knew it it was 9:30. We almost forgot about my progesterone injection. Time to find a bathroom. Let me set the scene of my girlfriend Kerry’s home. It’s a mansion. She’s an interior designer, so literally every single thing in her house is beautiful.

She took us to her master bathroom so we’d have the most amount of privacy. And, of course, every single thing in her bathroom is white. She assured us 97 times that she didn’t give a shit if I bled on anything, but clearly I was still a nervous wreck. She actually did some of my injections for me when I was cycling with Mickey, so she’s no stranger to the process.

So here we are, dressed as Ken and Lisa Vanderpump, both in wigs, standing in the gorgeous, white tiled master bathroom. Michael counts down, inserts the needle, and says “FUCK!”.

When you’re doing an intramuscular shot like PIO, you have to draw the syringe back before injecting it to make sure there’s no blood. If you’ve hit blood, you have to pull it out and start over with a brand new syringe.

When he pulled out the needle, blood SHOT OUT. When I say it shot out, I mean like a bad horror film. I was squirting blood EVERYWHERE. As he was holding gauze on my ass, I was kicking away white bathroom rugs, and wiping up blood with toilet paper. Once he calmed the bleeding, he jammed a few bandaids on the injection site, and grabbed a second syringe. We always bring a backup, just in case this happens. And, of course it hadn’t happened yet this pregnancy, until then.

Okay, time to get stuck with a needle again. Michael went to a completely different area on my ass, staying as far away from the massacre site as possible. Again, he counted down, and shot the needled into my muscle. “FUUUUCK!!!!”

Blood again. This is when I started to tear up. We frantically searched my pink purse for another syringe, but came up short. He had only packed two. Which, is usually one too many. We tried to push the blood and oil out and rinse it. Fail. The blood doesn’t just come right out. Plus, that’s 100 percent not sterile. After stopping the bleeding for the second time, we were faced with the reality that our night was over.

My shot is supposed to be administered between 9-10pm every night. And at this point we were flirting with 10:00. Oh, and we were a solid 40 minutes away. It was time to go. We rushed out, barely having time to say goodbye. We left so quickly, I didn’t even get a chance to fill my purse with puff pastries for the drive home.

Michael blamed himself for not packing more needles. I blamed myself for wearing heels. We drove home in silence. Both disappointed that our night abruptly ended with blood. And, both nervous that we were going to miss our window.

When we got home, he immediately grabbed all the supplies, filled the syringe, and stuck me with the needle. No blood. None. Third time was a charm. Too bad it was in our living room and not at the party.

I sat on the couch, crying and feeling sorry for myself. No matter what Michael tried to say to make light of the situation, I shut down. I was nasty and mean to him. I made him feel like it was his fault. The night hadn’t gone my way and I was acting like a brat.

I was so upset that we had to leave my friends at a party, that I didn’t realize I already attend a party every single night. I throw the most lavish and dramatic pity parties. Usually it’s only me in attendance, but every now and then I can coax Michael into stopping by.

So one night I have to leave my friend’s house early and completely lose my mind. Then the next night I puke on the side of the road in the rain and find it absolutely hysterical. Today Michael eats a Nutrigrain bar too close to me and I verbally berate him.

Who will join Michael the rest of this beautiful Sunday? His old friend Dr. Henry Jekyll or his evil nemesis Dr. Edward Hyde? We have a kid’s birthday party to attend, so let’s hope for everyone’s sake it’s Dr. Jekyll.