Today, not one, not two, not three, but seven people asked me when I was due. And then they followed my "May 5th" with another glance at the belly and an "oh."
Tonight, when Evan called, I was still grumpy over this, and I asked how his boss was looking, and this is what came from it.
Me: Is your boss huge yet?
Evan: Yes
Me: Really?
Evan: Yeah, like a balloon
Me: What kind of balloon? Mylar, latex, water, what?
Evan: A zeppelin.
:)
I love that man.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
So yeah, I like, totally gave him my number, and was like, "Call me."
So, if there's one thing I have learned from my childhood filled with CCD, it's to promptly baptise your child. If you don't promptly baptise the child, and god forbid something happens to it, the baby won't go to Heaven, or to Hell, but to a weird in between. Forever. FOREVER! That's a really long time to be stuck in the middle of noplace.
Now, this might not actually be the case, and really, it probably isn't what I was supposed to learn in CCD, I most likely have it twisted around backwards, but it's what stuck in my mind, and that, of course, makes it true. And so, with this little tidbit of knowledge stashed in the "Ridiculous Fears" section of my brain, I have been giving a great deal of thought to this baby's baptism. The when's and the where's are rapidly becoming loose plans.
Loose plans can only become solid plans once things fall into place. And things falling into place involve me phoning the Church.
Again, this belongs in the "Ridiculous Fears" section of my brain.
I am terrified to call Church. For some reason, I have this fear that God himself will answer, and the conversation will commence as follows:
GOD- "Hello, Church, God speaking."
ME- ". . ."
GOD- "I know you're there. *ahem* Hello, Church, God speaking."
and then in a haphazard panic I would slam the phone down. I would hang up on God. But really, if that did happen, what would you say to God? Think about it.
In reality, a little woman who sounds like she is no less than 96 years old answers the phone at Church, and you have to repeat everything exactly 478 times, each time louder than the next before she understands what you're talking about. Today, when I called church, the 96 year old woman was named Mary Barbara (isn't that quaint?) and she tried to answer my questions, but couldn't.
"I'll have to have Monseigneur call you back, dear," she said. "What number can you be reached at?"
Instantly, a cold sweat broke on my brow and the hairs on my arms stood up. Have him call me back? In the words of Lauren - That's like giving God your phone number. It's DIRECT ACCESS!
I tried to stammer that I would be calling him back instead, trying to use the guise that it was a toll call, and I wouldn't want the Church to incur the charges, but she persisted.
And that's how God got my phone number.
Now, this might not actually be the case, and really, it probably isn't what I was supposed to learn in CCD, I most likely have it twisted around backwards, but it's what stuck in my mind, and that, of course, makes it true. And so, with this little tidbit of knowledge stashed in the "Ridiculous Fears" section of my brain, I have been giving a great deal of thought to this baby's baptism. The when's and the where's are rapidly becoming loose plans.
Loose plans can only become solid plans once things fall into place. And things falling into place involve me phoning the Church.
Again, this belongs in the "Ridiculous Fears" section of my brain.
I am terrified to call Church. For some reason, I have this fear that God himself will answer, and the conversation will commence as follows:
GOD- "Hello, Church, God speaking."
ME- ". . ."
GOD- "I know you're there. *ahem* Hello, Church, God speaking."
and then in a haphazard panic I would slam the phone down. I would hang up on God. But really, if that did happen, what would you say to God? Think about it.
In reality, a little woman who sounds like she is no less than 96 years old answers the phone at Church, and you have to repeat everything exactly 478 times, each time louder than the next before she understands what you're talking about. Today, when I called church, the 96 year old woman was named Mary Barbara (isn't that quaint?) and she tried to answer my questions, but couldn't.
"I'll have to have Monseigneur call you back, dear," she said. "What number can you be reached at?"
Instantly, a cold sweat broke on my brow and the hairs on my arms stood up. Have him call me back? In the words of Lauren - That's like giving God your phone number. It's DIRECT ACCESS!
I tried to stammer that I would be calling him back instead, trying to use the guise that it was a toll call, and I wouldn't want the Church to incur the charges, but she persisted.
And that's how God got my phone number.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
I am he and you as he as you are me.
24 weeks. More than halfway there.
I can't believe how big I look in pictures. In real life. In general.
Evan's boss is due the same day as me (and set to deliver at the same hospital with the same doctor - I'm pretty sure that I could take her out, if, well, if push comes to shove, and we had to fight over which of us gets to deliver first) Anyway, I always ask him how she looks.
"Does she look pregnant?"
"How is she carrying?"
"Is she bigger than me?"
Now, as any man knows...there is no correct answer to the last question. If he says yes, it implies that he thinks I am big. If he says no, then it really implies that he thinks i'm big - possibly the biggest thing he's ever seen. And so, he usually hangs his head and pretends to be gravely busy in whatever activity he was currently doing, such as pulling fuzz from the quilt, or studying the newest stain on the carpet.
I made the passing comment that I feel like a walrus. And now the Beatles song has been hovering around our house for about a week now.
GooGoo GaJoob, kids.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Tiki Tales
As you may have heard, Lauren had a creepy bug on her porch, that she insisted was "cute." But she is wrong. no bug is cute.
H'anyway.
She emailed me a picture of this "cute" bug, which looked just like a Tiki Mask. Despite my valiant efforts to describe WHY it looked like a Tiki Mask (as if it wasn't obvious enough) she still didn't quite see it. So I drew her a picture.
As clearly demonstrated by my stupendous artistic ability - her bug does, in fact, look just like a Tiki.
Don't you agree?
H'anyway.
She emailed me a picture of this "cute" bug, which looked just like a Tiki Mask. Despite my valiant efforts to describe WHY it looked like a Tiki Mask (as if it wasn't obvious enough) she still didn't quite see it. So I drew her a picture.
As clearly demonstrated by my stupendous artistic ability - her bug does, in fact, look just like a Tiki.
Don't you agree?
Friday, January 13, 2006
On shopping with a pregnant woman
This evening, Evan and I ventured to the local grocery store, as last night we did the fridge clean out, and were left with a jar of jelly a mostly eaten jar of cinnamon applesauce, and one egg.
We arrived at the store a little before 8pm, hoping to avoid the families of screaming children who inevitably stalk the aisles on weekends waiting to wail in my ear. We started in the fruit section, where I proceeded to put on of everything in the cart. Sometimes more. Apples, grapes, cherries, oranges, kiwi's, green beans, 3 kinds of potatoes, 4 bagged salads...and that was just in the first four minutes of being in the store.
Evan slowly pushed the cart behind my rapidly expanding self, and silently put two of everything I pointed at into the basket. He looked the other way when I ate a raw green bean to see if it was good, and then ate two more, because they were, in fact, good. He touched all of the packages of beef up for approval while i held my shirtsleeve over my nose to keep from gagging. He put four cans of my favorite soup in the basket without me even asking. He scaled the wall of sodas to get me Canada Dry gingerale, since I deemed Seagrams to be unacceptably bitter.
For over two hours we wandered the aisles, our cart overflowing, and the bottom tray completely stuffed full of items. I mused, mostly to myself, about how delicious the things I picked out looked, and I gagged as Evan suggested something other than what I had put in the basket.
By the end of our journey, I'm pretty sure he had a light sweat on his brow from pushing the bounty that was our cart. The total was almost $175.00 for two people. And I'm 99% sure that I didn't pick up one complete meal.
And I'm 100% sure that by tomorrow morning, there won't be anything that I want to eat in the house.
We arrived at the store a little before 8pm, hoping to avoid the families of screaming children who inevitably stalk the aisles on weekends waiting to wail in my ear. We started in the fruit section, where I proceeded to put on of everything in the cart. Sometimes more. Apples, grapes, cherries, oranges, kiwi's, green beans, 3 kinds of potatoes, 4 bagged salads...and that was just in the first four minutes of being in the store.
Evan slowly pushed the cart behind my rapidly expanding self, and silently put two of everything I pointed at into the basket. He looked the other way when I ate a raw green bean to see if it was good, and then ate two more, because they were, in fact, good. He touched all of the packages of beef up for approval while i held my shirtsleeve over my nose to keep from gagging. He put four cans of my favorite soup in the basket without me even asking. He scaled the wall of sodas to get me Canada Dry gingerale, since I deemed Seagrams to be unacceptably bitter.
For over two hours we wandered the aisles, our cart overflowing, and the bottom tray completely stuffed full of items. I mused, mostly to myself, about how delicious the things I picked out looked, and I gagged as Evan suggested something other than what I had put in the basket.
By the end of our journey, I'm pretty sure he had a light sweat on his brow from pushing the bounty that was our cart. The total was almost $175.00 for two people. And I'm 99% sure that I didn't pick up one complete meal.
And I'm 100% sure that by tomorrow morning, there won't be anything that I want to eat in the house.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
That's how many weeks?
So, yeah, this is my bored face.
I'm on super-duper strict "Don't move around" restrictions until Monday at the earliest. I've read a book and a half, two magazines, watched too much TV, and played on the internet way much. and I'm only in hour 23.
Only 114 more days.
That's only 16 more weeks.
Which is only 800 hours...
I'm on super-duper strict "Don't move around" restrictions until Monday at the earliest. I've read a book and a half, two magazines, watched too much TV, and played on the internet way much. and I'm only in hour 23.
Only 114 more days.
That's only 16 more weeks.
Which is only 800 hours...
Monday, January 09, 2006
An Ode to my Car
My car's a big piece of shit
'Cause the shocks are effin shot.
And my seatbelt's effin broken
I've got to tie it in a knot.
I can't see through the windshield
'Cause it's got a big fat crack
And the interior smells real bad
'Cause my friend puked in the back
I've got no effin brakes
I'm always way out of control
Eleven times a day I hear
"Hey! Watch it asshole!"
It's got no CD player
It only has an 8-track
Whoever designed my car
Can lick a sweaty nutsack
(they can bite my ass too)
Piece of shit car
I've got a piece of shit car
Effin pile of shit
Never gets me very far
What did I do?
Oh what did I do
To get stuck with you
You're too wide for drive through
And you smell like a shoe
But i'm too broke to buy something new.
'Cause the shocks are effin shot.
And my seatbelt's effin broken
I've got to tie it in a knot.
I can't see through the windshield
'Cause it's got a big fat crack
And the interior smells real bad
'Cause my friend puked in the back
I've got no effin brakes
I'm always way out of control
Eleven times a day I hear
"Hey! Watch it asshole!"
It's got no CD player
It only has an 8-track
Whoever designed my car
Can lick a sweaty nutsack
(they can bite my ass too)
Piece of shit car
I've got a piece of shit car
Effin pile of shit
Never gets me very far
What did I do?
Oh what did I do
To get stuck with you
You're too wide for drive through
And you smell like a shoe
But i'm too broke to buy something new.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Sooner or later you sleep in your own space - Either way it's okay, you still wake up with yourself
As I was laying in bed last night, uncomfortably flopping extremely unceremoniously, and certainly lacking any amount of grace, from my left side (which comes highly reccommended from the OB) to my less desirable, but infinitely more comfortable right side - this is hard.
The same thought occured to me again this morning, as I was scrubbing the floor of the bathroom. The floor, which is now sporting a scary, yet easy covered crack in the tile floor. A crack which is snaking its way from the heater to under the bathtub. A quick several thumps down the stairs (again, lacking any amount of grace) and a few short steps into the laundry room, revealed the ceiling of the laundry room, which happens to be the floor of the bathroom, also has a matching crack. Except, the crack from above shows the true extent of the damage - waterlogged wood that has buckled and splintered. I kneeled precariously on top of the washing machine, my center of gravity lost somewhere in the last few weeks, my face inches from what I can only assume is asbestos insulation as I inspected said crack. The bathroom is going to take so much more than the pint of spackle and 4 layers of paint that I had slabbed on it this weekend. The tub and floor needs to come out, and new subfloor needs to be put down. This is going to be hard.
All my life, I longed to be older, to be more mature, to be trusted more, to JUST DO IT MYSELF.
As a child I pushed around a pink plastic stroller with my blonde haired cabbage patch inside, equipped with a bag filled with cabbage patch diapers, and bottles whose liquid disappeared when you turned them upside down.
In middle school, I stashed my covergirl makeup in the small pocket of my backpack, and would slip into the bathroom before homeroom to lavishly apply the wrong color powder. The wrong color, because I bought it because of the color of the outside of the compact, and not the actual make up inside. This, of course, was followed by a hefty amount of lipsmackers lipgloss and an overzealous spray of Electric Youth perfume.
As a teenager in high school, I had a fake ID. A Miss Kayla Johnson, who was significantly older than my actual self could strut herself into any casino, any tattoo parlor, any piercing shop, and bar and any club she damn well pleased. And she did damn well please.
In college, I thought I was at the pinnacle of being on my own. In my own place (that my parents paid for) with my own boyfriend, driving my own car (that was paid for out of a trust fund), and living my own life (one that remarkably mirrored that of my sorority sisters').
But now, we really are on our own. My own boyfriend has become my own husband. We have our own house, that we foot the bill for; we have our own car, which needs its very own set of new brakes; we have our own baby on the way, which we have no idea what to do with her once she gets here; We have our own life. Our own consequences of choices we've made. Our own thoughts, and ideas, bank accounts and backyard. And it's really, really hard.
The same thought occured to me again this morning, as I was scrubbing the floor of the bathroom. The floor, which is now sporting a scary, yet easy covered crack in the tile floor. A crack which is snaking its way from the heater to under the bathtub. A quick several thumps down the stairs (again, lacking any amount of grace) and a few short steps into the laundry room, revealed the ceiling of the laundry room, which happens to be the floor of the bathroom, also has a matching crack. Except, the crack from above shows the true extent of the damage - waterlogged wood that has buckled and splintered. I kneeled precariously on top of the washing machine, my center of gravity lost somewhere in the last few weeks, my face inches from what I can only assume is asbestos insulation as I inspected said crack. The bathroom is going to take so much more than the pint of spackle and 4 layers of paint that I had slabbed on it this weekend. The tub and floor needs to come out, and new subfloor needs to be put down. This is going to be hard.
All my life, I longed to be older, to be more mature, to be trusted more, to JUST DO IT MYSELF.
As a child I pushed around a pink plastic stroller with my blonde haired cabbage patch inside, equipped with a bag filled with cabbage patch diapers, and bottles whose liquid disappeared when you turned them upside down.
In middle school, I stashed my covergirl makeup in the small pocket of my backpack, and would slip into the bathroom before homeroom to lavishly apply the wrong color powder. The wrong color, because I bought it because of the color of the outside of the compact, and not the actual make up inside. This, of course, was followed by a hefty amount of lipsmackers lipgloss and an overzealous spray of Electric Youth perfume.
As a teenager in high school, I had a fake ID. A Miss Kayla Johnson, who was significantly older than my actual self could strut herself into any casino, any tattoo parlor, any piercing shop, and bar and any club she damn well pleased. And she did damn well please.
In college, I thought I was at the pinnacle of being on my own. In my own place (that my parents paid for) with my own boyfriend, driving my own car (that was paid for out of a trust fund), and living my own life (one that remarkably mirrored that of my sorority sisters').
But now, we really are on our own. My own boyfriend has become my own husband. We have our own house, that we foot the bill for; we have our own car, which needs its very own set of new brakes; we have our own baby on the way, which we have no idea what to do with her once she gets here; We have our own life. Our own consequences of choices we've made. Our own thoughts, and ideas, bank accounts and backyard. And it's really, really hard.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Cross It All.
Yesterday, my mom had her 6th bone marrow biopsy.
A doctor laid her on her stomach on a metal table, and used a corkscrew shaped needle the width of a pen to manually drill a whole into her hip to suck out the inside.
From here, the marrow will spin for 3-4 weeks and then we'll know if she is still truly in remission.
So, kids, cross it all for her - finger, toes, legs, eyes...whatever. Just keep her in your prayers, please.
A doctor laid her on her stomach on a metal table, and used a corkscrew shaped needle the width of a pen to manually drill a whole into her hip to suck out the inside.
From here, the marrow will spin for 3-4 weeks and then we'll know if she is still truly in remission.
So, kids, cross it all for her - finger, toes, legs, eyes...whatever. Just keep her in your prayers, please.
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