Yeah, I know you all know exactly what I'm talking about.
Talk about ridiculous. Let's recap.
I've been bitching for days how it's driving me nuts that my mother's faith is screwing up all of our wedding plans and making things extra-difficult, right? And Boy has been bitching with me. We've been having bitchfests, though obviously at the end of the day there's no question about it; we want my parents there. It's just that it's hard, it's stressful, and we're short on time to make sure everything works out. We're terrified that someone's going to be offended by something beyond our control (slip of tongue, etc) -- all those fun things.
Then, today, my mother calls me and asks if I have plans tomorrow. I tell her I'm working; she asks when. Then she asks if Boy will be home Tuesday or Wednesday; I ask why, suspicious at this point that I'm not going to like the answer.
She wants to know because she wants to come by with my aunt and uncle to meet Boy before the wedding.
What the fuck, Mom.
Now, please don't get me wrong. I love my aunt and uncle dearly, and they are very close to me and important to me. However, my aunt and uncle have nothing to do with my wedding. They are cherished guests and nothing more. Boy has no reason to need to meet them before the wedding. He's already had a one-on-one with my father and a long chat with my mother. That's all that is necessary before stealing me away. And I've explained this to my mother, though only four or five times already.
So, already irritated, I bitch about it to Boy. He bitches with.
Later, I bring it up again, still irritated. He bitches with.
Then, way later, I bring it up again. He bitches about how they're ruining our wedding.
This time, however -- though it didn't affect me the other 50 times we'd bitched about it because obviously it wouldn't be a mood swing then -- I blew up at him for blaming my mother for ruining our wedding and pitched a royal fit. And then I ate my McDonald's sundae and got terrible cramps and felt like I was going to throw up. And then I bitched some more. (Who's surprised?) And he bitched back, probably because he felt irritated (no surprise there), and I bitched some more just because I couldn't let him be right or have the last word. Then I moaned and held my belly and cried and whined about it hurting. Then I bitched a little more for good measure. He called me a brat. I flipped. Cat meowed. Eventually, I settled down and cuddled the cat and made baby noises and felt better. He could only hang his head and say, "Geez, I guess you are getting mood swings." No shit, Sherlock.
Pregnancy. Grand, isn't it?