What do you think so far?
Family
Please respect my wishes and do not try to come into the labor and/or delivery room without my express permission. As of right now, I want only Dimitri in the room with me. If I end up braining him with a bedpan, I will ask my mother to join me. Mom, wear a helmet. If I want other visitors, I will request them.
Please refrain from trying to get around this by calling Dimitri’s cell phone every fifteen minutes. I would like him focused on me, not on you. Should he desire to give updates, he will volunteer them at times that are convenient for us.
Dimitri does not have the power of veto on these matters. Besides, he will most likely be unconscious after the bedpan incident.
I do not expect ANYONE to wait in the waiting room. If my labor is anything like my mother’s, I will be in labor for approximately fourteen days. You have better things to do, and besides, everyone lives ten minutes from the hospital. My feelings will not be at all hurt if you decide that your time is better spent elsewhere. If you do choose to wait in the waiting room, I may send you on secret missions to fetch me hot dogs while the nurses aren’t looking.
I cannot guarantee that I will maintain my usual flawless grace and tact while blowing out my nether regions. If I say anything hurtful or, say, question the marital status of your parents upon your birth, please remember that it is the baby talking and not me. You may wash her mouth out with soap once we bring her home from the hospital.
Husband
I will love you until the end of time. During labor, however, be prepared for my not liking you very much, if at all. Stand by me, and don’t argue with me. If I call you a sodding semen-beast that ought to be castrated on the spot, you should reply with something along the lines of “Yes, dear, you’re absolutely right. Can I hand you a bedpan?”
Tell me often how beautiful and how brave I am. Practice saying it now so that you won’t laugh while saying it to me while I’m dilating.
Do not tell me when to get drugs. Trust me, I’ll know when I need them, and I’ll ask for them myself.
Sneak in hot dogs for me if I so request.
Please do not tell people when or if I poop on the delivery table. In fact, don’t even tell me.
Photography (Video)
Hell. Fucking. No.
Photography (Still)
Try not to show anything pink.
The safety words (the words that signal the IMMEDIATE cessation of photography, no discussion allowed) will be LENS CAP NOW, ASSHOLE.
Episode 182: In which I continue to despise my car
Regular readers know that there is no love lost between me and my Passat. The Passat is rather like the passive-aggressive friend you can't quite keep but can't quite rid yourself of, either.
She likes to be minimally functional, but pesky. Serviceable enough that you can't justify getting rid of her (unless you care about things like BRAKES) but with enough odd quirks that you have to explain quite a bit to the valet guy before you hand the keys over.
This weekend, though, I began to suspect that my car had upped the ante.
Before I had the motor to the sunroof forcibly removed, she would open and close her roof at her own discretion. No matter the number of closing attempts or volume of shouts otherwise, she would remain stalwart that she remain open during thunderstorms or while parked beneath trees.
It appears that she has adapted (clever girl) and now has the power to open the side windows at will.
I noticed that my car smelled like BO this weekend. I didn't think much of it, since Dimitri was playing grease monkey with Craig's truck before needing to park my car in the garage himself. Normally a fastidiously clean guy, I nevertheless assumed that the odor was from him, and vented the car.
But the smell came back. And back. And back.
The Passat's window was open (not by me, I assure you) and the male cat next door** apparently took the opportunity to mark the interior of my Passat as his territory. Those of you with un-neutered male cats or who, say, live within a three-mile radius of a male cat know how foul this stench can be.
For those of you unfamiliar with the stench, I am happy to drive my Passat to your county line and let you take a whiff from your backyard. It's that bad.
Ideas, anyone? Baking soda? Febreeze? Napalm?
**When I say next door, I refer to where his owners live, not he. He likes to shit in my backyard and spray directly at Ruby's face while she watches him from the sliding glass door. He mates with other cats on my front step. I have the matted hair in my welcome mat as proof. This cat is the height of uncouth, a veritable feline Kevin Federline, if you will.
I got a call last night from a girlfriend of mine I haven't seen since high school. It was great to catch up with her. She's married, has a new-ish kid, and is living only a few blocks from my mother.
We set up a Starbucks date for 2:00 today. I'll get to meet her and her 8 month old son. I'm excited to see her, but the typical "oh my gosh, I'm meeting an Italian Goddess at two today. Any cure for adult acne? Can I get lipo by lunch?" crops up.
I know that she won't care, and that while we were in school together she was friends with me not my ass.
Besides, even if she were friends with my ass, there's more to love now, right?
Wish me luck!
UPDATE: Deanna was gorgeous, her baby was handsome, and another not-seen-in-years friend, Marie, popped in to surprise me, too. It was a wonderful afternoon, and I'm all giddy about reconnecting with two girlfriends.
Why, God?
Why did you give me the aberration magnet?
Why, while I am waiting for nearly four hours at the DMV for a license with my new name on it do the socially inept and the destructive, ill-attended-to children find me?
Why must I be subjected to the New Jersey transplant rambling about the “guv-a-mint” while someone else's ignored four year old deliberately pours her coke on my shoes?
No wonder my smile looks a little desperate on my new license...
I have nothing to post, but Dimitri begged me to post something so that the top post wouldn't discuss my nudity in my own house.
I know, Philistine.
Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.
Today is the first day that I can sit naked on my own couch.
One of the oddest physical changes in my pregnancy is the change in size, color, and shape of a part of my body that rhymes with “schmipples”
Not only are they practically the size of salad plates, but ONE of them seems to want much more attention than the other.
ONE of them is always, erm, set to high-beams. It’s so embarrassing. No matter what shirt or sweater or parka I wear, I’m always pointing straight ahead...
...unless I’m not wearing a bra. Then I’m pointing to China.
I’m back from Salt Lake. We luckily slept through the windstorm that affected Kat at Brianhead. The funniest thing that I saw while in Salt Lake was at a mall.
There was a demure store called Dressed in White that sold frumpy looking Mormon temple garments. These are different from the sacred long johns, and as such can be sold in a retail environment in which the damned may window shop along with the Latter-Day Saints. I looked at a series of temple garments in varying degrees of modesty (Think: burqas for white people) until the lady behind the counter looked at me oddly. I scooted out of the store before she could talk to me about Holy Joe and hid in the next storefront...
....Victoria’s Secret.
I had to chuckle. I ran from an underwear shop where the culture doesn’t fit me into an underwear shop where the thongs don’t fit me.
Next up: Nipples!