touchy, touchy

I haven't written in so long. It's quite simple- I'm crabby. I haven't found myself worked up in that positive way about anything to write about. If I had written in the last two weeks, it would have gone something like this:

*I'm hot. I'm sweating like a pig on a skewer. Even on the supposedly 'cool' days reported by the weather people, I'm still looking like that nervous high school teacher we all had who seemed to always be unaware of the gigantic sweat rings in his shirt armpits. That's hot.

*I'm itchy. Thank you to whatever thing out there decided I should be part of the teensy percentage of women who will get this incredibly, horrifically itchy rash. PUPPP (which I am self-diagnosing based on everything that I've read-- conditions to meet: third trimester pregnant, very itchy bumps all over belly within the stretch marks, spreads to thighs and back) is just so fantastic- since I'm already feeling so absolutely gorgeous, you know bloated and fat makes you feel sexy as all out, this added bonus of itchy red bumps is just the icing on the cake. As if the stretch marks weren't punishment enough, they have to become rashy. Niiiice.

*Everyone is bugging me. I'm so darn cranky. Even when H is in her best mood, not screaming "NOOOOO!" at me repeatedly, I just wish she was taking a nap. When she takes a nap, I can take a nap. Awful, I know. I am enjoying being home with her, don't get me wrong, I just wish she was narcoleptic sometimes.

*I'm tired and I want to sleep, but I can't stand sleeping. What? Makes no sense? Yeah, try sleeping with this giant belly in the way, sweating like a pig (see above), scratching like an insane person with chicken pox (also see above), and an aching back that doesn't allow you to get into any possible comfortable position. As tired as I am, sleeping is just another painful chore at this point.

*I don't want to go out in public anymore. Ever. At least not until I have a supermodel's body again (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha). Every time I go out, I am literally bombarded with such wonderful comments as:
"You still have HOW long to go?"
"You sure you're not having twins?"
And my personal favorite from the other night as the kids and I waited outside Denny's for lovely husband to arrive:
"You need me to run you up the road to the hospital?"
These are all, of course, followed by the twinkling laughter that only non-pregnant people can possibly imagine is appropriate in the situation. I, in turn, am supposed to smile and giggle along, ha ha, you're remarking that you think I'm incredibly huge when in fact I still need to carry this child in utero for five more weeks. Ha ha ha. I have said to a few friends that I actually wish I was getting physically touched by strangers, because then I could at least see that a not-so-polite and possibly violent reaction might be justified. But for just rude comments, I must suffer on the inside and appear amused on the outside.

So, as you can see, I haven't written in two weeks because:
A. I would get irritated even more just by writing it down.
B. No one would ever want to read the wild rantings of a po'd pregnant lady.
C. This would be recorded for posterity that I was absolutely crazy when pregnant. Or just plain crazy all the time.

Well, I hope this post finds you not-itchy, not-piggy-sweaty, not-tired, and not-publicly-remarked-upon-fat. I'm going to go wallow in my self-pity now. Only five more weeks left to do that, right?