So, nausea sucks. Luckily (please, touch wood on my behalf RIGHT NOW) it seems to be tapering off. Bad timing, considering that I sort of quit/sort of got sacked from my temp job last week. Let me explain...
The "office" was actually a donated shop front in a local shopping centre here in Uxbridge. Seeing as how I was working for a charity, you can't really complain about the surroundings. So, the one thing about this "office" is that it didn't have a door, it was just the gate that pulls down out of the ceiling. Which means every smell passing that gate wafts into the room. Which means the cafe next to the butcher across the hall had combined smells seemingly simply to make me urp. It had me running for the ladies a little too often for me to be a reliable employee, so the charity and I had to part ways.
Anyway, I've been home again for a week, which sounds fab and all, but I have a significant amount of guilt about not working, which added to feeling gross makes for not a super happy Gabs. Believe me when I say that guilt is completely self-inflicted, Himself has been beyond supportive during this whole process. I just had it in my head that the job with the charity was going to be through the end of March, so it was hard to walk away from it after only a month.
Meh. I need to accept that I can't control everything. A prime example of this particular principle would be the call I received yesterday from my doctor's surgery. I gave blood on Sunday, six vials of blood to be precise, for the required pregnancy blood tests they needed to run for my iron levels and the probability of Downs, etc. There had been a "mix up" with the phlebotomy department, and I have to go in and have more blood drawn. Considering that the first time I almost passed out (and I'm not exactly a natural fainter, mind you) I'm not really looking forward to it. And I'm annoyed that they won't tell me what happened to the first six vials they took other than a "mix up". So I'm going on Friday to give another six vials, let's hope I don't look like a raisin by the end of it.
That said, I can control the colour of my hair. *grin* DON'T WORRY MIMS, it's only semi-permanent. I'm just getting so bored with the length while it grows out, I was starting to go slightly more mental than usual. So, red it is.
So that we end on a really positive (and slightly amusing) note, yesterday was fab. I went into town to meet Himself for lunch, but there was an ulterior motive for the trip. That's right, ladies and gents, my regular jeans are simply too uncomfortable to be borne anymore, and maternity jeans were high on my list. That said, apparently all pregnant people are short. Well, maybe not, but from the few pairs I managed to find locally in Uxbridge, you'd think I'm freakishly tall. Think preparing for a flood. A big one.
So, I needed more variety and bigger shops. This meant central London. SO, I packed a book and a few apples and headed into town. I met Himself at my favourite restaurant in the universe, ordered my single favourite meal in the universe, fell on it like I hadn't eaten in weeks, and spent the rest of the afternoon bouncing off walls because I felt... wait for it... NO NAUSEA AT ALL. Magic food! The place? Joy, in Soho. The food? This incredible mix of Mexican wrap with falafel and the most gorgeous salad with balsamic dressing. Mmmmmm. I could eat it right now. I mean, RIGHT NOW. *drool* Awesome.
I headed from there to buy fat lady... I mean, pregnant lady... jeans. I tried on pair after pair, most of them were the flood variety, and then finally ended up in Next (which Himself's sister swears by). I narrowed it down to three pairs, chose one, took them to the till, and guess what! On sale. That's right, they cost me £8. This, of course, meant that I could afford to buy a few bath bombs from Lush and some Cinnabon. Again, *drool*. All in all, a good day. Now, I think I'll go eat a Cinnabon. While I'm wearing my pregnancy jeans. It's like a self fulfilling prophecy. *smug*