Maybe that’s not the best idea sometimes (okay, maybe I should stop letting my emotions guide my decisions… like my decision yesterday to drink an entire boss of diet ginger ale.) but I’m really feeling that my gut instinct is telling me that Greg and I will have a child someday. A child from my womb. A child we conceive.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I by NO means want to wait years for this bundle of tears and snot but I understand that my body is having its… um, issues… and it may take longer than three months of ‘trying to conceive’ to create our little human life.
But I know we can do it.
In the meantime – let’s get murried, baby. Here’s to 10 more days of sleepless nights, zits, and headaches!
O.K. So my husband is the yankee. Does that mean I can’t make ‘northern’ remarks without seeming (and sounding) like an idiot? Probably not. But ‘us’ southerners only have ridiculous sayings like ‘y’all’ and ‘y’all come back now, ya here’ and ‘y’all wanna…’ and ‘y’all gotta…” …wait. I’m sensing a pattern.
So this southerner and her yankee are preparing for the wedding… she is promptly breaking out in pimples. Like a fuzzy, greasy teenager. Talk about GROSS!
I feel so unattractive. I try to counter-act this unpleasant skin of mine by working out like crazy, in hopes I develop some unbelievably toned muscles in the next 20 (yikes – 20!) days.
Let’s get this straight, y’all: my face is littered with zits so I work out, build up a lovely sheen of sweat, and break out in even more red bumps. I give up. April 7th, OU-EST VOUS!?