Okay, maybe that's a leetle melodramatic. But sometimes you need a little calmingmanatee. Like when you rent out the spare room in your home to sock away money for future infertility treatments, only to discover that your new housemate is pregnant. I honestly am waffling between thinking, welp, this is an ironically cruel work of fate, or else it's the universe setting me up to write the next new awkward sitcom. In my mind, Kristen Schaal would play me, and she would have this endless Mary Poppins-esque bag of witticisms from which to pull comments and asides. It would need a catchy name. "Wombmates" sounds great but makes it sounds more like a sitcom about twins. But that's all I've got for now. "Wombies" maybe? "Green-Eyed Mom-ster"?
Of course, in reality, it's just me. Well, us (me + Patrick). No real sitcom plot. No Mary Poppins bag of asides. I'm not feeling sorry for myself or anything (okay maybe I am), it's just that the reality here is that what was just served up at the Life Buffet is kind of like week-old potato salad. With olives and cilantro in it (because ew and ew -- I will do a happy dance with cilantro stops being popular). And beets. Or something.
I know everything will be okay. Calming Manatee says so.
But right now, it feels like being kicked when you're already down. As Patrick says, we just have to Tim Gunn this. We have to make it work. And carry on. And rock the casbah.