Granted, this was sort of on purpose. I've had 6-6, 7-7, 8-8, 9-9, 10-10 and 11-11. It seemed only natural that I'd also go for 12-12. Except I was going to get my inspection done over this last weekend, but then I got sick I didn't get out of bed. And on my way to work this morning I saw no less than five cops. Which - combined with the six I saw on my way home - made it seem like going more than five days with an inspection sticker that read 11-11 might be pushing my luck a little bit. So, regardless of the fact I still couldn't breathe, I made a brief detour and had my car inspected instead of making a beeline for home and the comforts (and relief) of laying horizontal on my own couch.
Of course, had I been pulled over I was planning on using the whole I-am-sick-and-nine-months-pregnant-don't-you-feel-sorry-for-me-officer card, except my coworker said it wouldn't work because no cop would ever believe I was due to pop out a kid sometime this month.
All things considered, though, I probably couldn't have picked a better time to go because there were FOUR GUYS that swarmed my car when I pulled up. And those four guys had my car inspected my car TOGETHER and had it ready to go in less than ten minutes. Apparently, I always need to get my car inspected on a cold, dreary Monday afternoon when the guys that work there have nothing to watch on TV except old Judge Judy reruns (I know because they told me and because I got to watch Judge Judy while I waited). I think it took me longer to find my proof of insurance. And, well, that is somehow Trevor's fault, because for some inexplicable reason I have the proof of insurance for The Lexus in my glove compartment. Which I am assuming Trevor stuck in there on purpose to remind me that he drives a Lexus, and I don't.
Because I drive the OLD car that has the car seat set up in it, and can be "leaked on" by THIS pregnant woman in labor who refuses to wear a black trash bag on her way to deliver Trevor's first born.
Speaking of which, I have learned that pregnant women should avoid blowing their nose in public because, well, gas happens and I am at a stage where I am not always able to control it.
Trevor just said I should also add laughing, sleeping and sneezing to this oops-I-just-accidentally-farted list.
I would smack him, but he is currently sitting clear on the other end of the couch and that would require a whole lot of effort on the part of someone who still can't breathe.
(I married an a$$hat.)
In other news, I learned last night that I can no longer sit in the same position for more than an hour without standing up, walking around or otherwise dramatically shifting position. So much for seeing any more movies in the theater until Thor makes his debut. Which is sort of too bad because I really want to see Hugo, The Descendants and the new Muppet movie.
Have I mentioned that late stage pregnancy really sucks? And it isn't just physically, either.
Case in point: I also should avoid answering the front door since I have lost the ability to turn away solicitors and/or potential conartists. A couple of weeks ago I even had to stop payment on a check because the more I thought about it, the more I realized I had just contributed to a scam. Worse still, I had willingly opened my front door after dark to two large men with a small dog while I was alone in the house. And I only mention the small dog, because THAT IS THE REASON I OPENED THE DOOR. Which is irrational considering both of the large men standing there were still - in hindsight - incredibly sketchy and had "don't open the door" written all over them. Especially after dark. With or WITHOUT the little, cute dog.
Lord. I am such an idiot.
So, I've instituted a policy of Deals-doesn't-answer-the door-after-dark-because-she-is-a-moron. And I was SO proud of myself when I managed to ignore a knock at the door earlier this evening. I even gloated to Trevor about it when he got home. And then he opened the front door and discovered that the knock had only actually been a delivery. A delivery that, according to Trevor, we are lucky was still there considering that the number of sketchy solicitors in the neighborhood has greatly increased thanks to the stupid pregnant lady that can't help but answer the door and write checks to strangers with highly questionable stories. And then hugs them.
Did I forget to mention that I hugged them? Yeah, I HUGGED THEM. Seriously. I am the easiest con in Dallas. I will open my door for you after dark, write you a check and then hug you for your trouble. I even took the time to coo and pet their tiny, little dog.
(Although, to be fair, I don't think you can hold the dog liable for associating with those two. He was on a leash after all.)
OMG! When did I turn into THAT PERSON?! I know better! There is probably a really good reason why pregnant women are at greater risk of becoming victims of violence and murder. The baby has turned my brain into a gullible pile of mush. I am a walking, talking (and farting) disaster.
The baby better come soon. I'm not sure how much longer I can