I have done it. I’ve found the worst job in the world.  It’s worse than the guy who gets paid to peel wild animal body parts off of the highway, possibly worse even than the schmuck whose job it is to organize speed dating exercises:

The poor little boy at Sonora Quest who’s job it is to fill starving, pregnant women with sugar and then go after them with needles.

Today was the day of the much dreaded gestational diabetes test.  Not only do I have a strong fear of small needles and an uncontrollable urge to eat everything in my presence, but I also have a 4 year old diagnosis of hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) and memories of the orangy, sugary, substance that I was going to have to choke down.  It was a Full Monty of all of the things that I hate if “Fully Monty” really meant “shit storm.”

My doctor stressed having an appointment so I don’t have to be the pregnant lady weeping in the corner of the lobby while they make me sit for an hour to be seen.  I took his advice, only I had no idea that there were two locations RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER.  Naturally, I guessed wrong and had to go through the check in process twice but I blamed that on my own stupidity and let it slide.  Right about the time I’m driving to location number two the low blood sugar starts hitting me in the form of light-headed dizziness which made me (roughly) the most dangerous driver in the state.  I fly through the check in process knowing that there is sugar at the end of the tunnel if I politely explain that they need to put the petal to the metal and lay me down first.  So I do, and they do, and 5 minutes later I’m feeling like myself with a tummy full of sugar.

Enter problem number 2: I now have a baby in my belly with nothing in his belly except sugar.  Woah, Nelly!  That munchkin was practically building an addition onto his temporary residence and delivering blows with super natural strength in the process.  “Listen up, Mini Me!  Mommy is NOT in the mood for this right now and I will TURN THIS CAR AROUND if you don’t settle down!! Oh, I’m sorry sweetie, it’s not your fault I’m just really hungry and where are these tears coming from?!”

30 minutes into my hour wait, enter problem number 3: The sugar high.  I think I’m going to puke.  Or fall asleep.  I’m not sure which first.  Is that wall supposed to be moving?  This must be how Mini Me feels.

Finally, in the longest hour of my life, they finally call me back to draw my blood for a whole list of tests that the doctor has ordered.  I request to lay down so I don’t pass out, which is a pretty valid concern at the moment since I have no control over my blood sugar and he’s staring at me with a needle about to take out 5 vials of blood.

Well I don’t pass out.

Yet.

No, that comes an hour and a half later when I’m attempting to eat lunch at a sandwich shop and half way through my celebratory foot long (in honor of my baby being about a foot long and me making it through that stupid test), when I look at my 8 month pregnant friend and say “Oh my God, I feel like I’m about to pass out.” And she plasters some extremely concerned look on her face that’s probably a mirror expression of mine mixed with shock at my sudden change in color.  And then come the sweats, tunnel vision, and extreme headache, all while I pound down Minute Maid pink lemonade (made with nothing but sugar) hoping that I can be fast enough to ward off the diabetic coma coming my way from the sugar crash of this morning’s events.  I don’t know how to describe it unless you have blood sugar problems, but all of these symptoms come at once and about as quickly as it takes the average woman to fish her car keys out of her purse.  Literally.  Only by the time you get symptoms, you are in very dangerous territory with, well, about as much time as it takes the average woman to fish keys out of her purse before you hit the ground.

Luckily I did not pass out at the restaurant, but that little episode about describes how my day has been.  I’m generally good at managing my hypoglycemia and I’ve been a down right rock star at it during my pregnancy.  I eat fruit right before I go to bed, I drink decaf coffee (with cream and sugar) in my car and a bagel and cream cheese as soon as I get to my office, and I’m set for the rest of the day.  Take away my fruit before bed, my coffee, tea, bagel, and anything else before lunch and I’m a train wreck of sugary problems feeling extremely guilty for what I’m putting my baby through and eating candy like it’s my last day on Earth.

Today I am not a happy, cute, pregnant lady.

The bright side of this all is that my sugar crash came dangerously close to causing major problems about 2 and a half hours after I choked down the nasty stuff.  Therefore, I have self diagnosed that I do NOT have gestational diabetes because I believe that I would have been feeling high as a kite for hours if my body had a problem producing insulin.  The only problem that my body has demonstrated is still present (and perhaps gotten worse) is producing sugar when I drop below 70 mg/dL.

One of the many things that I wish my child doesn’t develop that I am now terrified of.  I’ll just add that to the list behind “Autism” but in front of “6 Toes” because it’s relatively easy to just lop that extra one off.

Screw you, Glucola. You started this.

It would appear that my loathed scorpions have mastered a counter attack in response to my throw down last week.

Game on.

We haven’t gone outside with a black light in a few days (and by “we” I really mean “Angel”).  The last we went out was the day that we turned our backyard into a toxic wasteland and we only found one.  We then trusted the chemicals that were used by the pest control company.

In the words of the movie Pretty Woman: “BIG mistake.  Big.  Huge.”

Last night I sent Angel out during a break in the Olympics armed with his typical black light, stick, and can of scorpion spray while I started making popcorn (because hey, I’m pregnant and it sounded good.  Don’t judge).  He comes back in a few minutes later and says “hey babe, you’re going to want to see this.  There’s a scorpion with babies on their back!”

Gross, gross, and more gross.  Just so you get an idea, this is what it looks in the dark with a black light (except moving):

30 babies on her back. In total, this is only about 2 inches long.
Translation: GROSS

I’m also learning so much more about scorpions that I never cared about. For instance, they have about 30 babies at a time.  30.  Take a minute and let that soak in.  That’s at least 2 weeks worth of scorpions all in one place at one time armed to kill my dog or my unborn child or perhaps even us seeing as how these are bark scorpions and the most poisonous kind.

So naturally, Molly comes out of her dog door to see why Angel and I are both in the backyard. Not the time to decide not to follow commands, dog! So I turn around, yell a quick “Molly, wait!” and she stops dead in her tracks across the yard just watching us while I tell Angel to unload the whole damn can of spray and bark a lot of other commands like I’m choreographing a musical in my backyard.

Angel said he couldn’t see if they all died or not because there was too much white foam from the spray, but just for good measure he came back a few minutes later to cut the head off of the mom with his stick.

It’s all just too gross for words.  But last night’s death toll was by far our highest yet: about 32.

So this morning I called pest control company number 2, hired them to come starting on Monday, and threw up a little bit in my mouth at the thought of more freaking scorpions in my house.

I used to think that the 90’s movie Mousehunt about 2 grown men tearing their house down trying to kill a mouse was stupid.  I mean, who goes to those lengths to kill something so small?  I now just believe that they were misunderstood homeowners at the end of their rope.

You can’t say I didn’t warn them