Amy Winehouse and I Share Track Marks

For the past few days, my bruised arms have been sporting a matching set of massive perwinkle clusters.

Now, while my love of all things cliche dutifully reminds me that "crack is whack" and to say "nope to dope," nothing could have prepared me for that whimisical waltz with a needle known as the gestational diabetes screening exam.

Suffice it to say, a preliminary screening showed that my sugar was slightly elevated which led to my having to engage in a four hour session featuring my poor unsuspecting veins and my kindly's nurse sharp nosferatu.

It all began earlier this week when the head nurse called with news following my initial gds exam. That should have been clue numero uno since doctors' offices will never call to report lab results in such an expedient manner unless something is wrong.

Now, can I just say that I really enjoy that sugary voice most people rely on when they need to deliver messages which instantly denote a sense of doom and gloom? It's almost like these harbingers of woe are sending you to hell, but still wish to ensure that you enjoy the trip.

Anyhoo, in one sentence, she managed to effectively convey I was anemic; that I currently had a urinary tract infection; and that I had basically failed my initial gds exam.

In retrospect, I still don't know which aspect of the second exam was worse: that rancid kool-aid brew I was forced to endure; the subsequent track marks on my arms --a byproduct after four hours of testing; or the icky fruit-punch mouth I unwittingly sprung on innocent bystanders upon smiling at them until (that is) I successfully made my way to a toothbrush.