Crankiness

I'm covered in food, because I'm clumsy and apparently Lean Cuisines are hard to eat. I've hit my belly with doors three times today, because I don't have an sense of my girth anymore. My back hurts, my belly hurts, my heartburn hurts, my feet are sore, I'm tired. But this does not--does not, I emphasize--give you leave to ask me in that simpering tone (or any tone, for that matter), "How are you feeling?" I'm so sick of people asking me how I feel. I'm still standing, right? Then I'm fine. It's hard to keep the snarl out of my voice when answering. Adam is trying to deal with Ikea because the stupid twits gave us the wrong dresser (keep in mind the nearest Ikea is four hours away, so it's not like we can just go exchange it). We said we wanted the Malm five-drawer dresser in birch. And in fairness, we watched the guy type in, "MALM, 5-draw, bch" (or something like that), not realizing that "bch" is actually beech. A color that works not at all in our nursery. Luckily, the Malm three-drawer dresser was in the correct color (we picked that one off the shelves ourselves), so we do have some place to put the clothes. Anyway, the point is, I'm tempted to tell Adam that I'm the one who should call Ikea because I am just cranky enough to go absolute nuts on them, as I'm now itching for a fight. Which, I suppose, is all the more reason for Adam to be dealing with it. Best bet for all of you is to keep a wide berth. And the first a-hole who e-mails/calls to ask "How am I doing?" just to be cute is the first one to receive a string of obscenities back from me. That's only if I'm feeling nice. If I'm not feeling nice, it could be worse. Like dead-horse-in-your-bed worse. Don't try me.