Area 51 and pregnancy are the same thing.
Three years ago today I stepped off a plane groggy and smelling like the unwashed masses into my new country that I would be so enthusiastic about for maybe 12 days. And then my mother came to visit and I was all of a sudden very sick but still looking at wedding venues around Dublin with a type of gusto that can only be found in New Jersey. They hide the energy in their big hair.
I was complaining that my stomach was all weird, and I was tired all the time she whispered to me at dinner "Are you pregnant?" like it was some great conspiracy and she just cracked the case. Like she can't let me out of her sight for two minutes without getting knocked up, and not just the fact that nuts in chocolate sauce is disgusting and make me want to projectile vomit onto the plate. The ice cream was good though.
I wasn't pregnant, I was just sick which I assured her by using my ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMN MIND, WOMAN? face which looks sort of like this, just like I did with a friend today because this past weekend I was again sick leading up to my Irish Anniversary. I was sick on our honeymoon too so it's something about this time of year that makes my body want to hurl itself onto the floor and play dead. Maybe it's that I know Christmas isn't for another 11 months or that I'm so excited for my birthday at the end of February that I need to puke. I don't know, but this weekend I cried a lot, moaned more, slept tons and called out for my parents twice and didn't even realize it until a hairy young guy would show up at my side. I don't think my mom has stubble and my dad isn't a long-haired hippy.
Today, though, the day of my 3rd Irish Anniversary, it rained in great Irish style, and I am damn sure my life wouldn't be anywhere near the same as it is now if I didn't move and even though I get dreadfully ill once a year because my body mourns leaving the US, I'm pretty pleased I have made it this long and not once had call my mom explaining that without her constant supervision I can't be trusted not to procreate.