All the Horrible Girliness

Balance sucks

It occurs to me that in my quest to be a non-annoying pregnant woman, I have gone off the other end into a different kind of annoying: the adoring puppy kind of annoying.

Could be that, if you decide to spend the rest of your life with one person, you're going to have to come to grips with the fact that people like dating more than marriage for a reason. There's chasing involved, a little less security, some danger and mystery, and that all goes away when you know everything about your partner's bowel movements.

Yesterday I was telling the boy that I couldn't wait to take care of him fully, to keep his home clean and cook his meals. Maybe it's the hormones, the nesting instinct or something, but I really was excited at that prospect. He reacted with mumbles and some guttural noise. If someone had said that to me, I would say, "Hell yes, sign me the fuck up!" But he was, shall we say, less than enthused.

That, coupled with his desperate need to get away from me tonight, has led me to laugh at myself a bit. I keep thinking that in order to keep a guy you need to behave like an amalgam of Jenna Jameson and June Cleaver. I bet my boy likes a bit more personality than that. He fell for my writing and my general assholishness, after all, and now I'm considering learning how to make omelettes out of fear.

Omelettes of dread.

I have no idea how I'm going to do this kid thing without him, is the problem. So I'm stuck trying to figure out what sort of Samus I need to be to make certain he doesn't feel the need to leave. And tonight, he does.

He's going out with some guys and girls who draw and brag and rib one another. Some of his former students come to these gatherings, and lots of them are girls who hit on him. Mr. Aran has a daddy aura to him, a bad-boy face and he enjoys fighting with dangerous weapons, so I can't fucking blame them. He gets hit on more than a blonde girl at a Mexican construction site, by girls and boys alike.

And ooh, I am so not invited.

It's been hanging there at the ends of his sentences, the missing, "Would you like to join us?" I did, once. I worked on my book on my laptop and didn't bother anyone, but then again, he didn't get hit on.

So I spent the morning feeling the slightest bit insane with jealousy, stirring my simmering little cauldron of rage. Leave me all you want when I'm not cooking up a baby. I'll be fine. But if I'm left alone without him now, I'm really fucking screwed.

I've allowed myself to depend on him too much. A few months ago, my problem was opposite: I wouldn't allow him to do anything for me. Now I'm this needy, vomiting, soon-to-be-humongous mass of... ugh... woman. I don't like who I've become, and neither does he.

Balance, again, needs to happen. It's been too goddamn long since I spent a night out without him. I used to go to poetry readings. I was kind of a poetry groupie. I followed the poets around and they got to feel really egotistical. But I got tired of it. Poets can be some really fucked up people, emotionally. They have psychiatric drug cocktails miles long, and they'll write about them. Only about 2% have anything interesting to say, and some of them - I shudder to remember - sing.

So I need a night life. Everyone needs to be hit on sometimes, even loyal husbands and pregnant women.

I truly hope he has a hell of a time tonight. I hope he comes home with a mile-high ego. I hope I get some work done on my book. But I might just attention whore on a message board or something. It'll suffice.

posted by Samus @ 2:29 PM