Drunk Mommy

So I am fuming about having to take a completely unnecessary early blood glucose test because ONE of my poo-poo head doctors is shocked that I am actually gaining weight during this pregnancy. Yes, I make a big deal that one of them (at least) is a poo-poo head because I actually have three doctors.  "Why, you must be super rich like Beyonce or or that Snookie?" you say.  No, quite the opposite.  Rather, I have 3 frickin doctors because the bumpkin office I go to thinks you get better care being passed around like a drunk college freshman than you do being nurtured and looked after by a single care-taker. 

As I am fuming about the whole damn thing, I am reminded of a time around a year and a half ago when I was too-big-to-see-my-crotch pregnant with Mini Monkey and had to rush out to Walmart. Yes, I said Walmart.  See, the little bumpkin town I live in doesn't have much in the way of options. And to be honest, going there makes me feel better about myself and my life. Anyhoo, I'm in the freezer section and reach into my front pocket, or attempt to.  See, as I was rushing to get pants on my gianormous self, I managed to put them on backwards.  Big old ass pockets in the front and crotch pockets in the back.  Even at Walmart that ridonk is not good. And no, I didn't leave in a hurry like most sane people would.  I just kept on truckin' looking like happy drunk mommy, giggling to myself the whole time. 

So when I go to take this useless, waste of time, waste of money test on Monday, I'll be sure to wear a dress, because although I know they already think I am a fat, pregnant cow, I certainly don't want them to get on my ass about being a fat, pregnant, drunk cow.  I get enough of that from Mr. Martini.