Further Evidence of Bregnancy Prain

It began with simple typo’s and grammatical mistakes. No biggie. Except that I am the consummate editor and NEVER miss a “their” instead of “they’re”. It usually just pops right out and grabs my eyeball before I can finish a sentence. And yet, there it was. Hiding through several proof-readings. Hmm. Unlikely.

Then last week, I was making dinner and told Mat several times that I was looking for the viner cidegar. I couldn’t figure out why it didn’t sound remotely like anything we stock in our kitchen. Finally, my neurons caught up and I managed to gasp cider vinegar! Ah ha! We do have that.

The very next day, I did the same thing while looking for a bile of powls. It didn’t sound like anything I wanted to associate with eating. And, good thing, we didn’t have it and I finally realized I needed a pile of bowls!

A few nights ago, I had BBQ sauce simmering on one burner and pulled out the veggie oil to start the spanish rice on another burner. Unscrew the cap. Guesstimate two tablespoons. Dump it in the pot. Wrong pot! Oh well, oily sauce. We cooked it a little longer than usual and no one seemed the wiser.

This morning, I dropped Mat off at the train station then came home to have some breakfast and get cracking on our logo. Open the fridge, grab all the requisite ingredients. Something doesn’t look right. Ack! OJ goes in the glass, not the cereal bowl! Fortunately, the cereal was spared and I started over from the beginning.

Taken on their own, I could easily pass off each situation as a simple case of misfiring synapses. After all, I am the girl who regularly dons her underwear backwards and who once peed through her underwear because she forgot to pull them down before sitting on the toilet while talking to her husband. And, yes, all those incidents were pre-conception. But they were spaced widely apart. (Well, except for the backwards underwear. I really do have a problem with that. But most of the time it’s not a thong.)

But in such close proximity, the evidence is beginning to point towards too much blood going south of the border and not enough heading north to my noggin.

That said, I would like to point out that Mat has sympathy bregnancy prain. Last weekend, we experienced a mini decision-making crisis while ordering a pizza, which culminated in several callbacks to Papa John’s and a few hang-ups because we got bogged down in the cost-benefit analysis of not ordering online with a coupon versus having to call back to specify “no cheese on half”. It was a dilemma.

Finally, Mat made a command decision, said “fuck it”, and called back again to re-add the breadsticks to the order. But the line was busy. He called again. Still busy! He started fuming about the standard of customer service and why don’t they have enough lines and tried again. BUSY! He continued hitting redial for the next 10 minutes while we slowly watched the clock, the delivery countdown in the backs of our heads.

The last time he called, I glanced over at the phone as he was pressing “Talk” and slowly one neuron said to another: That number… looks…. familiar. I think… that’s OUR… number!

Emily: Mat, have you been calling yourself for the last 10 minutes?
Mat: Fuck.

Moments later, the doorbell rang.

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