Get ready, because the highlight of this story isn’t a new house.

When we bought our house four years ago, we bought it because when we drove by it, I determined it looked just like Lorelai Gilmore’s house.

In hindsight, maybe also subjecting a home to more realistic criteria?

We have since out grown the Gilmore house.  Too many kids.  Too many toys.  Too many people needing to pee in the very small single bathroom.  Not enough places for mommy to have alone time.

I mean, the basement is creepy, and I am pretty sure the sump pump hole is haunted.

So.

My sketchy attendance this past month can now, publicly, be blamed on us finalizing the details of our new, bigger, mutli bathroomed, mommy getting off friendly, home.  Oh, and it has a pond.

Which could not come at a better time, because on Thanksgiving, I determined I was pregnant.

Now wait.

I already know what you are going to say, so hear me out.

Andy had a vasectomy, I know.  I mean, he totally remembers that as well.

And it’s safe to say…Andy is pissed.

It kinda went like this.  I was supposed to be upstairs bathing the kids and getting them dressed for Thanksgiving at my parents, only I wasn’t.  I was super dizzy, and crampy, and headachey, and hurling in the toilet.  And, as I lay on the the cool, sticky bathroom floor wishing the room would stop moving, it dawned on me.  These were my symptoms.  The symptoms.  The ones I had every time.  So, I dug through the moving boxes until I found an unused dollar store pregnancy test that I kept around because, I don’t know, sometimes those things are super fun to pee on, GET OFF MY BACK, peed on it, popped blackheads on the mirror for the three minute wait time, and then realized, if I squinted my eyes hard and held it up next to the light bulb above the sink, I was clearly pregnant.

Fuck.

So, I was like, Andy, we need to talk…

Andy:  We are not filling up the pond with dirt, I already told you there aren’t dead indians in the bottom of it.

Me: It’s not even about that, and, I don’t see why you need to rush to judgment on this, dead bodies are in ponds all the time, and you also aren’t supposed to call them indians anymore.

Andy:  I can’t have this talk with you again.

Me:  Why, because you are clearly a zombie bigot?

Andy:  …

Me:  Whatever.  Oh, and I am pregnant.

Andy:  Nope, I had a vasectomy and I have the co-pays to prove it.

Me:  Well, you apparently have the vas deferens of Kevin Federline, you should have married a pop star with daddy issues.

Andy:  I may throw up.

Me:  Dude, I totally already did.

Andy:  I don’t understand how this happened.

Me: OMG, I know, sex is confusing, and we are obviously doing it wrong.

See folks, after vasectomies, you need to have have a few tests done to make sure it took.  And, after our first failed attempt to make magic happen in the sterile jerk off room of our urologist’s office, we decided to collect the specimen at home, in the comfort of our basement, next to a running washing machine, like all people that have three kids with privacy issues and ears like bats do.

Except, like my brilliant plan to sell HerbaLife vitamins in college and be rich, we never actually followed through with it.

I mean, he had knives in his balls, ya know?

Sigh, I am clearly old if a game of catching jizz in a cup sounds too exhausting.

Like jogging.

Or flossing.

So, Andy barely spoke to me the entire Thanksgiving.

I bet Tom Selleck doesn’t act this way when his wife gets accidentally pregnant even though he had a vasectomy. He’s always so super classy.

So, anyways, the next morning I went to the store to buy Rolos, because I am pregnant, and can eat whatever the fuck I want for breakfast, Andy, and I also picked up a two pack of those super pricey digital pregnancy tests.

Andy wanted a second opinion.

And, I like to pee on robots.

Apparently, I am not pregnant.  Technology wins again.

But I still ate those fucking Rolos.