Busy week, folks. Busy busy busy. This was a week in which I scrubbed mold off the tiles around the pool, drove a golf cart for my dad for his 100-hole charity golf fundraiser, did some painting, started learning to cook (under my stepmom’s tutelage), and found out that I remain un-knocked-up.

Yes, that’s right, there was a Pregnancy Scare. It was scary. I was late, and more than fashionably late. One WEEK late. Which sucked. Each day that ticked by periodless, I got more and more perplexed, until one day I looked at the calendar and realized that a week had gone by, which was officially Very Late, so I got Very Scared.

That night I had a huge headache, which usually signifies the onslaught of my period. John called for a chat and I told him what was going on. He was pretty much like, “Um, shit,” and I was like, “Yep.” I mean, what else can you say at that point?

Now, I have been lucky enough to never have had a pregnancy scare before. I’ve had friends in high school and in college who did, and who had varying results. It’s always awful and scary and stressful, and I have always been hugely thankful that I never had to go through it myself. But now my time had come.

So on the morning of the seventh day of unbleedingness, I finally had to tell someone. My stepmom and I were hanging out in her big bathroom. She was dying my hair and I was being really quiet and tense and finally I blurted out, “I AM A WEEK LATE, HOLY SHIT WHAT SHOULD I DO?” And she was awesome. I mean, she put the hair dye bottle down slowly and was like, “Oh, nooooo, T. Oh nooo. Don’t tell me that.” But then she snapped into action.

Stepmom: Okay. We will go to Target and buy a test as soon as we’re done with this.

Me: I don’t know how this happened! I mean, there was no, you know, instance that I can remember that might have caused this.

Stepmom: We can’t tell your daddy. I mean, we just can’t. It would kill him. He would just die.

Me: Oh, my god! I am not going to tell him! That’s not even…no. That is not going to happen.

Stepmom: Okay. Because he would die.

Me: SO WOULD I.

Stepmom: Okay, good.

Me: So…what if it’s positive?

Stepmom: There’s a place in Atlanta we can go. We’d have to stay overnight. We’d have to tell your daddy we were going on an overnight shopping trip.

Me: There’s nowhere in town??

Stepmom: Nowhere.

Me: Holy shit. I AM SO MAD. How did this happen?

Stepmom: Well, you had sex.

Me: I am never having sex again!

Stepmom: Oh, come on. Sex feels good.

Me: Okay, ew. I can’t talk about this.

Stepmom: Whatever.

So when the hair dying was over we went to Target and bought a test. Hello, these things are EX. PEN. SIVE. (Women just get screwed left, right, and center, don’t we? Mmmmm hmmmm.) The perky checkout girl was all, “How are you today?” and then, “Have a great day!” Psycho.

My stepmother had an appointment to get her nails done right then, so while she was doing that I went into the bathroom and peed on the little stick. The “pregnant” box immediately started turning pink and I began to drift off to my happy place, but thankfully by the time the three minutes were up, it had faded back to white and there was definitely no line. Hallelujah! Angels, rejoycing, etc! I went out to my stepmom and gave her a thumbs up.

And thus, it came to be that I found out I was not pregnant in the bathroom of a nail salon. Never let it be said that I lead a mundane life.

Furthermore, of course I got my period, like, four hours later. Bastard uterus!

John was all, “Oh good. Of course, I wasn’t really worried. Were you??”

Bastard!