Last night, I had the most humbling experience of seeing someone who has been an authority figure since I was a child. While I was buying wine. And pregnant.
And I tried not to care, because there’s a chance that SHE didn’t care, but in my head, all I could think was, “She is totally gonna pray for me when she reaches her car.”
I wondered how many Hail Marys a glass of wine while pregnant would earn me. Because I would’ve gladly done them while sipping the singular glass of white merlot that I enjoyed last night. But I’ll admit it: the entire time I sipped, I wondered if I should be feeling guilty. And then there’s the guilt for NOT feeling guilty. Parenthood is a bitch.
In other news, it’s frickin’ hot here in the south. The temperature was 102 when I walked to my car yesterday. You realize exactly how hot 102 is when you walk into your house to find it blissfully cold at the temperature of 79. You realize how hot 102 is when the low that night is 80. And it makes for some major sweating in places you didn’t realize contained sweat glands. Like your breasts. Or your ass. Yes, 102 is hot. And sexy.
I’ve been wanting a Margarita soooooo bad! Maybe I’ll get them to make me one on the cruise with just a little bit of the good stuff.
Mucho cases of swenis and swussy and the gosh-awful swack (sweaty ass crack).
And being pregnant makes the heat even worse. And I had more than one glass of wine while pregnant (not at a time, I’ll admit) and Angel Face is totally fine.
The heat is insanely unbearable when you’re pregnant. I feel for my husband, who is a compulsive snuggler. He gets woken up SEVERAL times a night by me shoving him away from me.