August 10, 2015

Friends or Fauxs with Mini Bresaola, Pickled Radish & Watercress Tarts


Sorry, I know I jumped the gun, but I’m assuming it’ll be quicker if I cut to the chase before you ask where I’ve been and why I fell off the face of the earth completely unannounced. 

I’ll be brief.

Basically, some women have this neat ability to sail through building and bringing forth 8 pounds of human being into this world like it’s no big deal. They laugh in the face of hormonal horrors and epi-less labor and emerge from the rigors of child-bearing like champions; energized, refreshed, and ready for a round of high-fives, because pushing out a pot roast was the most pooped-their-yoga-pants ethereal experience ev-ver.  

Unfortunately, I am not one of those annoying a-holes. 

I’m your average zero-zen, fifty-shades-of-frustrated bun-baker and pregnancy puts everything on pause. 

I’m frazzled, I fuss, I complain, I cry…constantly, I obsess over the inane, and my automatic response to unpleasant situations is a red-hot over-reaction. 

No lies, I’m only open for low-level brain activity. 

I kid you not, in the past couple of months, the most strenuous mind-game I played was trying to find a comfortable position to sit, sleep, or stand in.

Sadly, all my attempts failed spectacularly and I was forced to settle for second prize: awkwardly reclining in positions that were neither lady-like nor fit for public consumption and periodically cursing T for putting me through this torture for the sake of more spawn.

Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me, okay? You’ve never had a yeti residing in your uterus.

Shit Just Got Real

In the bigger pregnancy picture, though, physical discomfort was such a frivolous dilemma.

What totally took its toll was the staggering impact of social isolation.