In other news, my boobs hurt. This might just mean that I should not have done braless arobics the other day. Or it might mean that I’m going to have wicked-bad-awful PMS soon.

Or it could mean I’m pregnant again, in which case I will kill myself.

I had the very last of my many horrible miscarriages last December, thank you very much, and I do not want to have another. Not to mention that I don’t much fancy the idea of another month – or three – of moody, weepy hormonal insanity followed by three solid hours of hemorrhaging.

Last night at the picnic table I told Mr. Brett that my boobs hurt, and that if I’m pregnant I’ll be killing myself so he’ll have to find a new wife.

Naturally, he asked immediately if we could go upstairs and have sex.

I rolled my eyes at him and said, “No, we can’t have sex, you dumb whore! I just told you I’m freaked out!”

He giggled.

I said, “It’s not funny! Miscarriages suck!”

He said, “Oh, I know it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all, babe, and I’m not laughing about that.” He sobered. “But you’re funny, Mushlette.” And then he patted me on the head.

I guess he thought the part where I said I’d be killing myself was a joke, then? Or maybe the finding a new wife part? God knows he can’t talk to women to save his life. I’ll have to mail-order him one before I go, I guess, because I doubt he could get through that much paperwork by himself. Snort!