I was not going to write about Piggly Wiggly, but after the conversation below with my husband at dinner it was too bizarre not to write.
I’m accused of writing for the Hallmark Channel (by my father) in most of my posts … tonight will not be that sort of (insert sappy music crescendo here) post that ends neatly tied up in a bow. I like happy endings — and given the title, this will certainly not be an unhappy ending — but I will not to make anyone cry. It probably won’t even make you think all that much.
Unless you just think I’m nuts, which is a perfectly acceptable thought.
Why were you tossing and turning last night? – Jonathan asked.
I could not fall asleep without finding myself in the aisle of a Piggly Wiggly. Every time I turned over I kept hoping a new dream would lull me to sleep.
Where were you in Piggly Wiggly?
The baby food aisle.
Ahhh … I get it. You associate Piggly Wiggly with the deep southern charm and hospitality you long for, Jonathan said as though he has solved some sort of dream puzzle.
Honestly, no. I don’t even know where a Piggly Wiggly is. We never shopped at Piggly Wiggly when I was a kid. In the dream, I was standing in the baby food aisle, but what I needed to buy was Preparation H.
Oh. But still, you look at that pig and that store as southern and charming.
I honestly don’t think so. The strange part was the cashier was Mr. Piggly Wiggly — the pig. I asked him where the Preparation H was located. It was not charming, it was freaky. Chuckie doll freaky. It was like talking to a costume character at Disneyland. He danced me over to the Preparation H aisle.
Yes, danced. He was pretty excited about showing me where this magic cream lived.
We both laughed hysterically because the image of the pig as the cashier was somewhat entertaining. It was about as entertaining as I was going to be without half a bottle of wine in me.
Ahhh … wine.
Now that the nausea is basically gone, I am starting to miss the wine, though not craving it or anything.
Now you ask, Terry, why are you having a dream about Preparation H of all things?
I pause, as I think about typing the second half of this post. My only comfort at the moment is a small Kit Kat bar, Mumford & Sons, Raylan the cat, and the knowledge that if I was even slightly intoxicated, this would all probably be funnier.
Do you know that hemorrhoids are a side effect of pregnancy?
Maybe you do, maybe you don’t.
I fall in the category of … WHAT IS A HEMORRHOID!?!!?
I have never contemplated a hemorrhoid in my life. I thought it was something old men got or people who sat too much. Healthy people like me don’t know what a hemorrhoid really is, do we?
To tell you the truth, I never thought about it. I actually had to look up exactly what a hemorrhoid is and how to spell it … now I could win a spelling bee on the word hemorrhoid.
I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say — I combed the pregnancy messages boards, talked to Jonathan and he made me write my doctors. You haven’t lived until you’ve had an open conversation about hemorrhoids with your husband.
Now that’s love.
Note to self: Never discuss embarrassing pregnancy symptoms with your husband …
I was too humiliated by the concept of a hemorrhoid to actually call someone on the phone and say the word out loud, so being the complete coward that I am, I emailed them. I was secretly hoping the emails would get sent to their junk folder. After all, a email titled Hemorrhoids? should go to a junk folder, right?
No such luck. Dr. K writes back first and basically says it’s par for the course in pregnancy, but drinking more water and getting plenty of fiber is always good. Dr. S. writes back later in the day and says get some Preparation H.
I was secretly mortified that such an email ever left my computer. I deleted all traces of it coming and going hoping to forget this particular day of my pregnancy.
Until I went to bed … and that damn pig danced me over to the Preparation H in aisle 12.