Enter....Gummi Bear!

Yes, it's official. I am no longer a singular entity but a feeding source for, what at this point looks remarkably like, a gummi bear growing in my uterus. It's the weirdest and most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. And to think, it all started with the illustrious Ala Moana Hotel Oktoberfest, home of the jolliest mob of wasted octogenarians known to mankind.

The sous chef and I were zipping home from said festivities when I, in my usual show of exceptional judgment, declared myself much too sober. I insisted it was the perfect time for a handle of vodka while simultaneously commenting on the unusual soreness of my generally non-descript chest hams. We unanimously decided it was the perfect combination: Booze and a pregnancy test and onward we jouneyed to the one stop booze-pregnancy shop that is Safeway Hawaii Kai.

Upon arriving home, the sous chef began mixing some libations as I worked on my aim - peeing on a little stick while trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Having diligently done my homework, I knew that the results could take up to 5 minutes to appear. I set Mr. Clear Blue Easy aside and planned on waiting for 5 only to see in that very instant, a bright blue plus sign appear, staring at me, mocking my disbelief. As the sous chef popped in to check on the progress, drinks in hand, I implored him to read the instructions, results, and confirm what I just could not seem to get my fuzzy little brain around. In a moment of sensitivity and tremendous emotional support, he looked deep into my eyes, jaw agape, and said "HOLY SHIT! I think you're pregnant!" This, little Gummi Bear, is how we came to meet you for the first time, and as you will learn through the years, is without a doubt, quintessentially us.

Irony: a dirty bitch with a sick sense of humor

I fear I may have jinxed myself by claiming immunity to severe hypoglycemia with my revised tool belt of medical technology. Yesterday I found myself, once again, being whisked off to the hospital in a truck (read: ambulance) full of hot, young men (read: paramedics).

Having excessive faith in the abilities of my new sensor I thought it perfectly reasonable to take some post-lunch insulin without consulting the wisdom of my meter. In case you were wondering, this was the wrong choice. I started to feel a little lightheaded shortly after taking the insulin, so I pulled into a Blockbuster to grab a Sierra Mist (hypoglycemia treatment of choice). No sooner had I opened the soda and begun enjoying the sumptious beverage did I find myself surrounded by strangers, laying on the floor of everyone's favorite video store, wondering what in the hell the commotion was about. Moreover, why these people kept asking me if I knew what day it was, like I was taking part in some bizarre current events game show. Apparently, if I could prove a cursory knowledge of the days of the week I wouldn't have to go to the hospital, something I was fighting with every ounce of strength I possessed. (Which, granted, wasn't much at this point.) The quiz show moderator (read: EMT) started things off with a trick question: "Do you know what day it is?"

"OF COURSE, I KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS! it's...it's...ummm...uhhhh...that was a tough question, let's try a different one..."

"What month is it?"

"Well, that's easy...it's....well...I think it's....FINE! I'LL GO TO THE HOSPITAL!"

When I finally started coming around, I inquired about the time. Upon someone mentioning 3 o'clock I began cursing at the top of my voice, filling the little mobile medical haven with enough profanity to make Richard Pryor blush.

"I HAVE AN INTERVIEW RIGHT NOW!!!!!"

"I'm so sorry, I don't think you'll be making it today ma'am," the kindly paramedic said to me as he snapped a neck brace around me and restrained my wrists in case another seizure (or just hysteria) should overtake me.

Needless to say, everyone made it out of there in one piece. I am a little worse for the wear but I do feel like more of a bad ass, looking like I went a few rounds with the champ. (You should see the other guy!) And really, what's a Wednesday without a tetanus shot from a 20-year-old-terrified-nurse-in-training lancing you in the arm with a jousting rod?

I'm always riddled with a good salty dash of guilt after one of these episodes, like I'm causing my family pain by not being in perfect control at all times but they are the picture of loving support and I am beyond blessed by this. Now if I could only figure out how to get hot, young men to pick me up in their trucks without the whole seizure thing...

Ladies and gentlemen, your moment of zen: