I got my ultrasound today. I asked the nurse "Are you SURE it's a girl?" she said "Honey, boys don't have labia."
Awwwww....labia.
I'm thankful that I have too many crazy family members and not too few
I'm thankful that I married a man that I love so much that it makes my heart flutter and ache from the swelling
I'm thankful that (for the time being) I don't have to change the litterbox
I'm thankful that the friends I have love me enough to put up with me and laugh at my bad jokes (Not that there are any, of course)
I'm thankful that my house is too full rather than too empty
Fear is good. Fear is helpful. Fear is an excellent deterrent.
For example: I fear bears.
When I see a bear at the zoo I do not think of a cuddly little pooh in an undersized red t-shirt. I picture a creature fearsome enough to rip apart a smaller warm-blooded creature with only its claws and jaws. This buddy is evil enough to hibernate for months with no food. That alone warrants my silent trembling in the corner. I can't go for 12 hours these days without chicken nuggets slathered in hot mustard.
Hikers routinely wear bells on their clothes to warn bears of the hikers' presence, ostensibly on the theory that bears will be bashful and will not want to be near clumsy, bloated, bipedal creatures. Bill Bryson, in his book A Walk In The Woods* stated that he, on a hike along the Appalachian trail, swore he encountered bear spoor with little bells in it.
My fear of bears is a helpful one, since I will not hike in bear-infested waters. (or something) Nor will I wear bells, as a matter of principle.
I fear juggling chainsaws.
Not being a remarkably adept person at the whole hand-eye coordination thing, juggling was never a possible contender for Jen’s trick list. Adding quickly rotating blades is right-out.
I can spell backwards (an adverb, not a direct object), I can make people laugh, I can write in a straight line on a whiteboard for my students (not as easy as you think!), and I can raise an eyebrow behind people’s backs LIKE A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL. I cannot, however, manage to get my hands and my eyes and my brain to work as a trifecta. I can do two out of three, but the Nintendo required three out of three, and as such I never saved the princess on Super Mario Brothers.
I fear needles
As previously stated, needles and I don’t exactly mix. I had a traumatizing experience with needles when I was 4 or 5, and since then I get woozy and tunnel vision-y when even so much as a conversation deals with needles.
At this point, the thought of an IV in my hand scares me a hell of a lot more than the thoughts of labor and of raising children and of sending my kids to a public school combined. I need to talk to my doctor about the dire necessity (or lack thereof) of an IV in me.
Can't I just wear a bell around my neck and go walking in the Appalachians?
Saturday my girlfriend Nicole took me to see Chippendale's at the Rio. She had won two free tickets and wanted another sober woman to giggle with.
Those who know me know that I'm incapable of giggling. I move straight from smile to explosive guffaw. Luckily there were plenty of drunken women seated around me to drown out my laughter with cat-calls and screams.
Chippendales was clearly choreographed by a gay man. Listen, tiger, my idea of a money shot and your idea of a money shot are, well, 180 degrees from one another, shall we say. I saw plenty of buttocks, but nothing (crap, my dad reads this), erm, else.
Nicole leaned over to me and said "It's really too bad they have to use the banana hammocks, isn't it?"
-Guffaw-
My comment throughout the show (I had several, but I don't remember them) was "I hope they Lysol that trampoline down after every show, because, eww..."
They had soldier, cowboy, street thug, fireman, motorcycle repairman, nerd (yeah!), and wall street executive costumes (all seamed with velcro for easy removal, of course). It was really campy and dumb. But hey, it was free.
It strikes me that men like to go to strip clubs because seeing women in the buff shaking their junk at them is exciting. But women seeing men shake their junk at them find it a little creepy and gross.
And besides, my chippendale fireman guy had way too much stubble on his chest to make dancing with him enjoyable.
Nicole wished she had a picture of that for the baby book.
Tell her to “cut that shit out” when she shares her paranoid delusions with you, leaving her a sobbing pile of progesterone in the corner.
I need to eat something.
I am not interested in bras that smooth and refine. I am looking for bras that leash and restrain.
I went to Sears and bought myself two new bras. I can't belive that this was even possible, but the girls are getting bigger. I know that it will only get worse from here, but as it is I can smuggle two Chihuahuas in my laundry basket. What's next? Bichon Frises? Basset Hounds? Maramaduke?
I had a lovely sit-around-and-do-nothing time at Kat's on Sunday night. She let me vent, she let me put my feet on the coffee table, and brought me cookies and water. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh. Now that's my kind of quality time.
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon making bundt cakes and greek cookies for a ladies church meeting tonight. The old greek ladies asked the young girls (the under sixty crowd) to host the meeting, and we really want to wow their girdles off. The four of us made a vegetable tray, a fruit tray, two bundt cakes and greek almond cookies (the yummy round shortbread ones dredged in powdered sugar). If this doesn't impress them (or send them into diabetic comas) nothing will.
Oh, wait. They're old Greek ladies. Nothing impresses them. Well, shit.
I had fun baking with April, but I did have a minor meltdown in the Whole Foods market (something along the lines of "Good God! Who in the hell is willing to pay $3.99 for a dozen eggs? For four dollars, those little bastards better have an act!"). April steered me away from the refrigerated case (and away from the stunned looking Summerlin soccer moms) and made me sit down and eat something. Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. Alllll better.
While I like the atmosphere of Whole Foods, I will stick to my local Smith's/Kroger store, where eggs are $1.00 a dozen.
Why so cheap? No act, I guess.
Scary Racist Motherfucking Morons: Today's GOP
Reporter: Can't you admit you're an assface for hiring Karl Rove and Scooter Libby?
Bush: War on Terror, uh, Hurricanes, uh, Samuel Alito, and, uh, apple pie. Yessireee. No scandal here, by golly.
Q Hi, Mr. President. Thank you. Did Karl Rove tell you the truth about his role in the CIA leak case? And do you owe the American people an apology for your administration's assertations that Karl Rove and Scooter Libby weren't involved?THE PRESIDENT: We're going through a very serious investigation. And I will -- have told you before that I'm not going to discuss the investigation until it's completed. And we have got a -- my obligation is to set an agenda, and I've done that. And the agenda is fighting and winning the war on terror, and keeping the economic vitality and growth alive, dealing with the energy problem, nominating people to the Supreme Court that adhere to the philosophy that I can depend on -- Judge Alito being such a person. I noticed today that they've got a date. I'm disappointed in the date, but happy they do have a firm date for his confirmation hearing. We've got to recover from the hurricanes. So I've got a lot to do, and will continue to focus on the people's business.
Other than to say I feel slightly ripped off for watching "I love the 80's: 3-D" on VH1 only to find out that it's not in 3-D.
I caught him staring at me and smiling last night. My naturally un-suspicious nature demanded that I ask:
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I just love you, that's all"
"Why?"
"Because you're a mommy."
We had gone to the OBs office, and we heard the kid's heartbeat for the first time. I couldn't stop smiling the entire appointment (and most of the afternoon.) I accepted my pregnancy long ago (The daily barfing routine has helped that along) but I guess it was made real for him when he heard the heartbeat that we are, in fact, parents.
While normally unromantic, Dimitri has been a trooper through the pregnancy. He brings me crackers and rubs my back and instant messages me with cutsie-poo nicknames for me (which I will not reveal until drugged with a mighty mighty epidural - one more reason why I don't want any non-necessary humans in the delivery room with me. They might hear me repeat the CUTSIE-POO NAMES, and my GOD we cannot have THAT happen. People can see me take an uncontrollable bowel movement on the delivery table but dammit they CANNOT HEAR THE CUTSIE-POO.)