So being married is different. If Mike and I were at a bar and some jerk bumped into me, I could easily say, “My boyfriend’s going to kick your ass!” But now it’s like, “My husband’s going to kick–wait, nevermind–I don’t want you to hurt him.” I mean, I kind of want the guy to stick around for a while.
I started a new job here at the university and I love it. It’s not glamorous, but my boss is really nice and supportive and I like my co-workers. I don’t have to deal with man-hating bosses or yupppie customers. The one thing that I have noticed is that I’m no longer getting sick, which is a blessing, but at the same time, I wonder, “Where did you go oh obvious-sign-of-pregnancy?” Maybe at my next doctor’s visit, I’ll ask them to measure my chest, too, because those measurements matter to me.
The Canadian honeymoon was great. I don’t the metric system, but I’m not good with numbers, anyway. I did notice that once I entered Vancouver, I became the fattest person in the city. I think that’s partly due to pregnancy, but mostly due to my medical condition: junk in the trunk. It’s a scientific term, look it up. We went to Stanley Park where the 25th Annual Terry Fox Run was held, but I didn’t know who the hell Terry Fox was, so I kept my stupid non-Canadian mouth shut and watched runners pass us by. We went to a touristy island and had lunch. We went downtown and were kicked out of a store for taking photos, sassed by a homeless guy, gave money to a tweaked out homeless girl and sat in a trendy club with beds where chairs should have been.
It was hard to get into the country because Mike didn’t have a passport with him, but leaving was a breeze. Mike got into a conversation with the immigration guy about the college and pro-football games and I guess American-football-man-talk is enough proof of citizenship.