NaBloPoMo, 30

Whew! I made it. Thirty posts in thirty days. Well, thirty-one posts actually. I'm an over-achiever. Some of my posts have been less than stellar, more than some. The majority. Luckily NaBloPoMo is one of the few things in which it is all about quantity and now quality. But still, I did it. Go me. And now, for my final NaBloPoMo post, I shall continue with the shoddy quality.

Tonight we gave TD her first full on bath (as opposed to a sponge bath). She handled it pretty well with only minimal fussing. Once she was clean, we sniffed the hell out of her since the new baby smell was back. In addition to smelling her, we also rubbed her head because her hair is soft. How soft? "Damn! Feel her head. It's like cotton. Or dandelion fuzz." "I KNOW. It's just so soft. I want to cut it off and make underwear out of it." "?"

NaBloPoMo, 29

I wasn't kidding about my slow knitting, brain farting, mojo.


Two nights worth of work. Here's hoping I can do a little better tonight!

NaBoPoMo, 28

Seriously? I have re-knit the name band on TD's stocking five. Five. FIVE. 5. times. Holy crap. I'm not sure if it is a brain fart, or what, but it has taken me two nights to knit a six letter name band. I am amazed at my own idiocy.

NaBloPoMo, 27

I've been (finally) knitting TD's stocking and now it's late and I have no time to blog! Instead I am going to share pictures of my poor, put out, puppy dog, who was bedazzled by LB.

NaBloPoMo, 26

Now that LB is gaining some brain cells, I decided that we should start teaching her about Thanksgiving and how it is a day where you think about all the things for which you are thankful. Like mommies that are at your beck and call and daddies who read the horrible fish book over and over and doggies that play with you despite the repeated thunks they receive from the balls that you throw at them. Her brain cells, however, are not quite THAT high functioning. So I decided to dumb down my lesson. To wit:


Elmo Cake! When you are gaga over Elmo, you should be thankful at having a special Elmo cake made just for you for Thanksgiving. Right? I mean NOTHING says Thanksgiving like Elmo cake. Ha! I'm not sure if it was the neon red frosting, or the nightmarish thought of eating her fun furry friend, but whatever it was, she was not interested in eating Elmo. Not in the least. Which is fine, more cake for me! That Elmo is one tasty monster!

NaBloPoMo, 25

Today was the kind of day where I needed to get out of the house. I'm still trying to keep TD away from humans, or rather humans with germs, which means that she is incompatible with going out. Which is why my trip out of the house ended up at the drive-thru Starbucks. 20.5 miles away. Yes, I drove 41 miles for a latte. It was a good latte. But still ... forty-one miles. Wow.

In addition to being crazy-driving-for-a-latte lady, I'm also crazy-buying-a-turkey-and-the-rest-of-the-brouhaha-that-goes-with-a-Thanksgiving-meal lady. Yes, we are doing a real dinner despite the fact that we are dirty, dirty mouse ridden people, who have a new baby, a small kitchen, and no time. I just typo'd moose with mouse, which would be less dirty and more amusing. Though harder to avoid. In any event, I decided to hoop it up, step outside of the box, and am making an Elmo cake for one of our desert items. Basically LB will have something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. It is baking as we speak. We'll see how it turns out.

NaBloPoMo, 24

Today would have been my father's eightieth birthday. Given that I'm only ("only" snort, snort) thirty-four, that seems downright archaic, and surreal, to me. Anywho.

We've been having a bit of a mouse problem here at Casa da SouthPark. People that know me in real life, know that I don't say that lightly. Considering I am somewhat of a clean freak and I hate nature, mice make me want to scream and admitting we have a problem ... well, yuck. We're dirt bags. Who knew? It started the night TD was born and our dear sweet friend was watching LB. She put LB to bed and plunked down on the couch to veg with some bad t.v. Only once she plunked, Mickey appeared. Thanks for watching our kid. We're dirty. Anyway, a few days later, Boo found Mickey, bludgeoned him to death, and considered it a done deal. Unfortunately Mickey had friends, and now they want to torment us, or rather me. In the middle of the night. When I am half-asleep, defenseless and feeding TD. We've bought traps, but the fuckers laugh at our traps. So I'm thinking we need to rent a cat. I don't want to own a cat. I am a one cat human, and since Cat died, I'm done. But renting a cat, that seems like a good idea. And, if that doesn't work, well, I guess we'll move.

NaBloPoMo, 23

I'm typing this with a munchkin asleep on my chest. Normally I'd put her down and let her nap in her crib or bassinet, but today I need to feel her warm little body mushed up against me. We had our two week check up and though she is fine, it turns out that she broke her collar bone during delivery. Though "common" with babies who get stuck, it also happens with babies who deliver rapidly. No one caught it when she was first born, and so it healed, or is healing, in a way that TD now has a bump on her collar bone where the bones knit together a smidge unevenly. When the pediatrician said this, I valiantly managed to keep my shit together. In fact, I very calmly said, "Wow, I'm freaking out right now." I love my pediatrician and she greeted this statement with, "Don't freak out. She is great." The pediatrician went through all sorts of range of motion things and strength and stretching things and determined that TD does everything evenly. She then got her partner, another pediatrician (obviously) to check TD out and he did a bunch of exam things and also thought she did everything evenly. Which means that she is not handicapped. But still, my baby broke her collar bone. And she has an umbilical hernia. It was not what you would call a gold star visit.

Also not gold star worthy, semi-homemade Sandra Lee's Thanksgiving meal, or rather the side dishes. They look so repugnant that I am amazed that the Food Network let her make them. And yes, I realize that is totally bitchy and catty, and I realize that it might be me being bitchy and catty because I am upset about poor little Deuce. Transference anyone?

NaBloPoMo, 22

Christ on a cracker I'm cutting it close, it is almost tomorrow and I'm just now blogging! But blogging I am. If I wasn't on the verge of going to bed, I might make a better effort, but my pillow is calling.

NaBloPoMo, 21

In a few hours I am going to oogle an under-aged boy. Maybe I shouldn't announce that on the internet ... but then again, impure thoughts, in and of themselves, aren't criminal, right? Anyway, what I am saying is that I'm going to see New Moon. Me, and several of my nearing middle-aged friends.

NaBloPoMo, 20

Seriously dudes, I am the tiredest person ever. Due to a series of unfortunate encounters with other people's bodily fluids, I found myself naked and in need of clothes at three different times between the hours of 1:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. As if that wasn't pathetic enough, these encounters culminated with puke in my hair and the need for a shower when it was still dark out. You know you are tired when a shower does not wake you up in the least. Surprisingly, this morning was atypical and not a regular occurrence in my life. Which could be why I am wrecked. I had visions of starting on TD's Christmas stocking during nap time today. But instead I am eeking out a blog post and then falling asleep face first on the floor. The couch is just too far. And the bed? Separated by two sets of stairs.


I am partially responsible for my own tiredness as I stayed up later than I should have making a Caramel Brulee Cheesecake. It is pretty damn good so I am not sure, even knowing what lie ahead, that I would have skipped the baking and gone straight to bed. I do know I'm not skipping the eating before I take a nap!

NaBloPoMo, 19

I'm not sure if it is unfortunate or fortunate, but I did managed to leave the house last night, but I did not manage to do anything asinine enough to be blogable. Considering that I forget my name half the time, the fact that I left the house and returned to it a few hours later, all in one piece, seems like a win-win.

Speaking of win-win, can we talk turkey? For the record, turkey has nothing to do with win-win. That was my attempt at a seamless transition. And though it might have worked, it make no sense. Moving on. At my husband's urging, I (probably) will not be cooking a turkey this year. Instead, I plan to buy a pre-made turkey. Anyone ever purchased a pre-made turkey and if so, thoughts? I am leaning toward the Honey Baked Ham Company as it seems to be reasonably priced (unlike Williams-Sonoma ... deep-fried turkey teasing bastards!) and I have heard of it which implies that the food does not suck. Well, not really, I have heard of many places with sucktastic food. But I don't recall hearing bad things, so that's good. Sort of.


Here is a random picture of TD. She is not a turkey, and though she has the skinniest little chicken legs, she will not be gnawed on (by anyone other than me) for Thanksgiving.

Anywho, the upside of not cooking a turkey is that I will have more free time on Thanksgiving. Normally that might mean baby time, but BiL5 will be here, as will a niece, so I am thinking knitting time ... we shall see.

NaBloPoMo, 18

18 Things I Wish I Did Today But Didn't
Another list, because it is the eighteenth day of NaBloPoMo and I still have nothing interesting and I could type this on my phone while I was pumping.

1. Hang curtains, any curtains, even toilet paper curtains, in master bedroom.
2. Clean the bathroom floors.
3. Make a Goodwill donation run.
4. Starbucks ... going through Pumpkin Spice Latte withdrawal is ugly.
5. Organize TD's room (I did sort of start on this but then there was hunger, poop, and a need for attention so I'm not even halfway done and it stays on the list).
6. Cure LB's cold - granted this is an impossible thing to do, but still.
7. Make dinner that consists of real food, not prepackaged microwave foods or fruit.
8. Make extra dinners and freeze them, 'cause if I'm gonna cook, I might as well cook.
9. Go for a walk - I did ponder this but decided it was too chilly for TD. Also, I'm not sure where my bra is.
10. Do my laundry. This might have unearthed a bra.
11. Paint my toenails. They look sketchy.
12. Paint my fingernails. They look plain.
13. Nap. Actually this can be replaced with "Sort out misc. papers in office" as I did doze off for thirty minutes.
14. Swap out LB's toys for the ones in the basement.
15. Shave my legs. I did get a quicky quick shower so I shouldn't complain.
16. Wax my eyebrows, or rather eyebrow. I need to make the one furry one into two.
17. Clean the hardwood floors. I'm thinking we need a steam mop. Or, rather this is my excuse for not having done them.
18. Fix LB's blackout shade. I broke it and kind of rigged it which means it can't open.

In other news, I am hoping to leave the house tonight for a short stint of knitting at Starbucks (hello lover, I mean latte). Maybe something will happen which will be blogworthy and I can get past the lists ...

NaBloPoMo, 17

On this seventeenth day of NaBloPoMo, I shall list seventeen things that I enjoy eating or drinking from outside establishments (in other words, the well has run dry of blogging ideas) (also, the word establishment makes me think of a titty bar, and, for the record, those are NOT the types of places where I will consume either food or beverage. I am using establishment to refer to places not my home. Because you might think my home is a titty bar? I make no sense. Moving on).

1. Outback Steakhouse's Outback Special
2. Starbucks' pumpkin spice latte
3. Mom & Dad's stuffed eggplant
4. Dairy Queen's Brownie Batter Blizzard
5. Panera's breast cancer bagel
6. McDonald's french fries
7. Cheesecake Factory's ranch salad dressing
8. Bertucci's lestina pizza
9. Taco Bell's taco salad
10. Dunkin Donut's iced coconut coffee
11. Outback's coconut shrimp
12. Publix' subs
13. Melting Pot's fried broccoli
14. Puerto Vallarta's fajita salad
15. Harvest Cafe's coconut muffin
16. Silver Slipper's kumbak dressing
17. Red Robin's teriyaki chicken burger

NaBloPoMo, 16

Despite the fact that my daughter was a full-term, full-sized baby, she received handknits from the nursery.


When it was time to leave I tried to give them back but was told we got to keep them. Which I thought this was quite neat as I thought handknits donated to hospital maternity wards were for NICU babies only.

NaBloPoMo, 15

It's amazing what one day can do to improve your disposition. In other words, I have emerged from my hormonal pity-party and am now among the land of the living, or at least the land of those who wash dishes. Because nothing says normalcy like washing dishes. Oddly enough, last night was the least amount of sleep I have gotten in the past week as my boobs mysteriously dried up and TD was pissed and nursed for four hours straight. Which in addition to being sleep deprived, means my boobs are sore (and that is an understatement so understated that I can't think of anything dramatic enough to illustrate my point other than ow. Ow. OW.). So all things considered, I should be even more pathetic than I was yesterday. But I'm not. Go figure. Instead I am chipper and ready to share a funny anecdote. If only I had one. Which I don't. But I do have something. A weird food. Perhaps one of the weirder foods I have ever stumbled upon. To wit:


Yes, that's right, organic pancake batter (not weird). In a can (weird). We saw it and knew we had to get it because really, how could you pass it up. Should you decide you can't live a complete life without trying pancake batter from a can, then I direct you to the cans of refrigerated whip cream. Nestled amongst the whip cream you'll find this little gem, just waiting to be devoured. And, for what it's worth, I did make one pancake and it was okay. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but what I got wasn't too terribly special.

NaBloPoMo, 14

This is another one of those posts where I am gonna whine and indulge in hormonal self-pity balderdash, so if you are not currently sitting in a dark room, chain smoking Marlboro Reds and listening to The Cure, you probably are going to be annoyed and have the urge to smack me and utter "Snap out of it!" Which is fine. You can do that tomorrow. But for now, I'm suggesting you take your perky happy self elsewhere.

I've heard over and over that bringing a new baby into the the mix will be "trying" or "hard" but that it gets easier. And I know that I can be a wuss. So I don't know if I am being a wuss, or if people aren't telling the truth, or I am just totally fucking lucky. But bringing a new baby home is like jumping into a volcano. Of acid. With open wounds. Naked. While being bombarded with country music. In other words, from this little portion of the universe, parenting two sucks right now. Surprisingly, it isn't TD that I am struggling with, oh no, she is easy peasy and the antithesis of LB at her age. In fact, she is napping. On her own. And during this nap I have showered, shaved (and what does it say that it has been so long since I shaved that my razor was RUSTY when I went to use it - which, incidentally I did, because my tetanus is up-to-date and I am a risk taker), cleaned out my maternity clothes, and started this blog post. Good baby, no?

It, life, the here and now, it sucks because LB thinks I am the anti-Christ and would rather hit me, throw food at me, kick me, or tell me to go fuck myself (in toddler speak, she lacks my refined vocabulary). I have no concern that I am ruining her life. Instead, I feel as if I am ruining our relationship. And just typing that makes me cry and also take a step back and say, Really Drama Queen? And yes, Inner Monologue, really, so shut it. In the last few weeks of my pregnancy LB was testing me. Asserting her independence and will of iron. So it is no surprise that she is continuing to do that now. But it still hurts. It hurts when she won't hug me or kiss or cuddle with me. It hurts when sees me coming and runs the other way. It hurts that she so totally tunes me out that my voice is silent to her. It hurts when I try to feed her and she would rather shake her head violently, throwing everything to the floor and kicking so hard she sends her highchair across the room. It hurts that starving is more appealing that being with me. It hurts when I grab her, go for a hug or cuddle and hold on as hard as I can, despite the fact that it feels like my retarded boobs are being sheered with glass, and she writhes away from me with all of her strength. It hurts when the one second of the day that she wants to relent and give in and acknowledge me is when I am nursing her sister and have to distance us because LB has a cold and I don't want TD to catch it. And it makes me angry. With her and with myself. It makes me seethe because I am trying. I am. I am trying everything I (and the internet, and the random people I've asked for insight) can think of. And yet. And yet I find myself yelling at her, pleading with her, walking away from her with the tears streaming down my face because I am so frustrated and I know I am making the situation worse. I want to cuddle with her and I want to giggle with her and I want her to know that I absolutely love and adore her with every fiber of my being but I don't know how to bridge the chasm that seems to be in the way. I have to say, that right now, right now parenting two sucks. It is heart breaking and draining and gives you puffy eyes.

(ETA: I realize that with all of my woe-is-me, it might sound like I am alone here on Mt. Pity Party. And I am totally not. My husband is being awesome and doing everything he can to make things better. From cooking and cleaning and fetching me water and cookies to taking TD in another room to give LB and me alone time, or rather LB time to practice her throwing accuracy. Unfortunately all of his helpful awesomeness does not include mind control over LB.)

NaBloPoMo, 13

Friday the 13th?!? Spooky. Or not.

I started a new knitting project. While I was in labor. I haven't gotten far, but still, it's progress.


I did have some technical difficulties as the anesthesiologist who put in my epidural moved it and dropped five or so stitches and then it got caught on my purse and the yarn tore. But, a little fiddling here and a spit join there and I am back in business. Well, until TD's stocking kit arrives. I did order another one and paid for it, and am waiting for it to ship.

NaBloPoMo, 12

(Whoops! I did type this long and detailed post yesterday and then hit "save now" instead of "publish post." Not sure if this means I am DQd for NaBloPoMo or not, but I am leaving the original date stamp. So there.)

Today we had our first pediatrician appointment for The Deuce (TD ... I guess it is better than TB). Anyway, it was a totally different experience since my child was not starving and dehydrated. Granted she isn't a plump porker, but she's okay. Overall the experience was much easier this go around, though we still ended up with a referral to the lactation consultant. I think, after 30+ years, my boobs have comfortably settled into the fun bag category and don't want to move over into the working horse category. We'll see how it plays out, but if it doesn't work, that is okay, I have a fabulous bottle of Riesling with my name on it.

NaBloPoMo, 11

Night two of breastfeeding and I've already been reduced to tears ... um, crap?!?

I think I'll go with a "Happy Veteran's Day" and bury my head back in my pillow now.

NaBloPoMo, 10

Cheesy Joke #1: What time do you go to the dentist?
Cheesy Joke Answer #1: Tooth-thirty

Cheesy Joke #2: When do you wear your feet on your face?
Cheesy Joke Answer #2: When they're crow's feet.

Cheesy jokes courtesy of my during-labor popsicle stick.

And now, without further adieu, The Deuce (also known as Our Very Serious Little Girl)...

The Deuce

Having done a recap of LB's pregnancy journey, I figured I'd do the same for The Deuce. I have to admit this is pretty much a snooze for anyone not me, so, in an attempt to appease you for coming over here, I am providing a terrible joke. Enjoy!

Baby: My Father's name is Laughing and my mother name is Smiling.
Teacher: You Must be Kidding ...
Baby: No, that's my brother, I am Joking.


Since this pregnancy was wonderfully similar to the first one, as in easy peasy, there isn't much to say. But I am a talker, so I always have something to say. I wrote those last two sentences several months ago when I decided to recap this journey ... and proceeded to jinx myself circa week twenty-five. Say it with me, I'm an asshole. Carrying on.

A few months after LB was born (a/k/a when I no longer needed to get drunk to have sex for fear of something bad happening to my lady bits), we decided to try for another kid. Everyone knows that you get pregnant on the first try when you are going for number two so we look forwarded to a summer baby. Nothing happened. I started taking drugs for my PCOS. Nothing happened. Well, I mean something happened, hell, it happened at least five time a month, but the proverbial payoff was lacking. For the next eight months we tried. Again and again. My math skills suck and every other month, I would think I was late. I was not. I was a math-impaired tool. When we eventually got knocked up, it was quite anti-climactic as I had already had a Oh-I-think-I-am-pregnant-why-is-this-test-negative-oh-wait-Aunt-Flo-isn't-due-for-another-week moment. After repeatedly testing in one month because I can't add, the eventual positive test was regarded with a "Sure. Whatever."

Eventually there was a sense that maybe, just maybe, we got lucky again. Since I felt fine, as I did last time, I took it as a good thing. I was somewhat chipper and optimistic. Until I noticed The Rage. Well actually, RRRRAAAAGGGGEEEEE. I was ready to lose my shit at a moment's notice on anyone. I was surrounded by idiots and imbeciles and dickheads that talked about stupid shit and wouldn't shut up. At one point my husband was talking on and on to a cabinet salesman regarding cabinets we could not even come close to affording and I got so annoyed that I actually could see the word RAGE flashing in front of my eyes. I realized that it was hormonal, well somewhat, but it didn't make me any less angry. I kept wondering, why is everyone on the planet so fucking stupid and more importantly, WHY DO I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THEM? I decided that I was so angry because there was no baby; the pregany tests were lying. Obviously I was drinking from the crazy juice. So my first "new" symptom was The Rage; crazy and denial, they were old friends.

Eventually though, The Rage subsided and all was smooth and dandy. Well until I woke up in the middle of the night, sick as hell in the middle of the first trimester. I had food poisoning or a 24 hour stomach virus which caused me to puke. Repetitively and often. I called my OB and he gave me a nausea drug for cancer patients. It worked. I no longer tossed my cookies, but oh the stomach ache. I figured if there had been a human forming in there, it would have been evicted via vomit. My next doctor's appointment happily proved this theory wrong.

The repeated theme of, "Whoops, there goes the baby!" was present a lot in the first trimester. After the vomitathon, there was the tumble down the stairs in which I started at the top with Lady Bean in my arms but landed at the bottom alone, at some point seeming to have ejected her from my safe embrace with a mental, "Every man for himself!" I figured that if I was willing to ditch the, up until then, perfectly normal human in my arms, the one that I bonded with and love a whole lot, there is no way the pre-human inside me stood a chance.

When we finally made it to the second trimester, having seen ultrasound-ing proof that there was something moving (maybe a weather front) inside of me, I relaxed enough to agree to tell people that there is a slight chance that come November, I would be certifiably insane, or rather a parent to two.

Since I maintained my workout schedule and followed (sort of) my low carb diet, all things looked well and I was hunky dory. The second trimester was gonna be great! Up until the twenty-fifth week when I hit a bit of a rough patch. It started when I slid into the baby gate and broke my foot. I had to decide which was less undesirable: never walking again or nuking my baby with x-rays. I went with the x-rays and felt incredible guilt. More so than when I ate swordfish while pregnant with LB. Two days after I broke my foot, I was basically paralyzed from walking with a gimp. Broken foot + pregnancy back issues = paraplegic. As if that wasn't fun enough, at week twenty-six, I woke up with the most excruciating stomach pains ever. It hurt to even have the sheet on the bed touch my belly. An early morning trip to the doctor's revealed that I was a puss. I had musculoskeletal (the hardest word in the whole wide world to say) pain but all looked well. For what it is worth, I AM a puss, BUT the baby had moved from sideways (positioned from head at one of my hips to feet at the other) to up and down (normal). I hypothesized that this is what killed me. Nonetheless, later in week twenty-six I started to perk up. I was able to "walk" and get around. Which meant it was time for the next thing ... hello fever! For three days I ended up with a fever around one hundred-three degrees and was convinced I was cooking the The Deuce. As soon as we determined I had not cooked The Deuce, and that my health was returning to normal, my husband took a trip down the stairs. On his ass. He managed not to break anything but ended up with a bruise that looked like a tramp stamp tattoo of angle wings spanning his entire lower back and butt crack. And then he caught a cold. By the time week twenty-seven finished, I had been the antithesis of "second trimester easiness and glow" and I welcomed the third trimester with open mouth kisses and promises of illegal sexual acts if only we could get to November with no more shite. Apparently these promises paid off (though my lady bits are scared and fear having to pay up) as the third trimester rolled along smoothly.

And by smoothly I mean no major catastrophes. Did The Deuce flip over so she was breech? Yah. Repeatedly. In fact with all of her flipping back and forth, I suspect she will have a future in politics. Did I have excruciating sciatica in my ass cheek? Yes! Did I end up seeing a physical therapist who felt up my ass more than anyone other than my husband, so that I could, you know, move? You betcha. Did I feel ungainly and frumpy? Yes! But I stayed healthy and so did The Deuce. Well mostly. There was the whole SKIN CANCER thing at thirty-three weeks. Well not skin cancer, I am being dramatic, but you know, a mole that was hinky and had to go and then was still hinky and take a good chunk o' my knee with it. Which incidentally never happened because there are no surgeons in my state who are not booked months in advanced. So, as a fun post-partum treat, I have a large chunk of knee flesh removal to anticipate. And there were more colds because apparently I am a goddamn petri dish of funk. But in the grand scheme of things, all was well in the third trimester.

At thirty-five weeks I went to Rhinebeck and did not give birth amongst the sheep. The Deuce did make herself know and performed Tae Bo on my cervix, but she didn't fall out. She did maybe cause some dilation as I came back from Rhinebeck with a gaping cervix. I did mention to the doctor that I AM ONLY 36 WEEKS AND NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY YET and she said that was okay. She also said that The Deuce may have flipped over again and that if so, whenever we caught her positioned properly, they might just go ahead and induce. I said, WHAT? and then, I AM ONLY 36 WEEKS AND NOT READY TO HAVE A BABY YET and she said that was okay. I suspect she thought I was a bit unhinged and was appeasing me. So, you could say that at thirty-six weeks, I realized I was going to have a baby and um, maybe I should dig out some clothes for her, and get her sleeping quarters put together. I didn't do any of this, but I did realize I should. The following week I took the Deuce to Stitches East, twice, and she only caused my loosey goosey cervix to gape another centimeter. Incidentally, in case you couldn't tell by the over use, gaping cervix is fun to say even when it isn't your first pregnancy. Anyway, at thirty-seven weeks, my doctor scheduled my induction, on the chance that I did not go into labor before then. Given my gaping cervix, there was a chance that I could go into labor on my own. But I like order and predictability so I vetoed this idea. Which was actually a little hard being that my induction was scheduled for five in the fucking morning. REALLY? I asked the doctor why he did not like me and he laughed. I was not joking. I was nice, I made sure to bathe before appointments and I used breathe mints. What more could a girl do? Five a.m. Bahhhh.

Five a.m. notwithstanding, me and the gaping cervix were quite content to go forth with the status quo. At thirty-eight weeks, I had my final ultrasound (where the estimated weight was eight pounds, six ounces to eight pounds, ten ounces, or in my parlance - BIG) and a regular check up and all was fine. Incidentally, the appointments were on November 2, the day my physical therapist predicted I was going to go into labor. Being that she cured my sciatica by simply groping my ass, I feared her witchdoctor powers and spent most of the day with my legs tightly closed. I also seemed to realize that I was going to have a baby in SEVEN days and um, I REALLY should dig out some clothes for her, and get her sleeping quarters put together. Since I did not want to unseal my legs, I didn't do these things but I did locate the bin with the small clothes so that was something.

Over the next week I ended up going about my bidness with my four centimeter self. Well, except for the gym, I was quite paranoid about my water breaking as I was ellipticizing away. The baby never fell out, and I had a big whopping three contractions (though it might actually be two as I ate too much one night and may have experienced digestive ailments). A friend pointed out that Superman might have been the man of steel, but I could claim the cervix of steel! During this last week, my body decided it was done being pregnant and everything ached. The couch crippled me, the desk chair crippled me, even my bed crippled me. I couldn't find s single position that was not painful. It was awesome.

Which brings us to today, at 3:30 a.m. when I woke up (well, actually got out of bed, as I was unable to sleep from 2:00 a.m. on) and prepared to get ready to have a baby. Being that it was still dark out and my brain was not functioning, I was not too stressed. It also helped that it wasn't my first time at the proverbial rodeo.

Overall, I can't complain. I think this pregnancy was a lot harder on me physically. Probably because I am older. Knocking on the door of "advanced maternal age" and all. Or because I can't walk without falling and I spent the first two-thirds of my life baking in the sun. These things tend to negatively affect one's physical well being. Emotionally, it was somewhat easier. I still missed having family. but I did have LB's pregnancy as a barometer of what I could expect and I did not have as much time to dwell on my missing family as LB kept me on a short leash and liked to crack the whip. MORE MILF NOW! MORE! MORE! MORE MILF!

Also, my concerns and nerves and fears have not been on the pregnancy and birth so much as LB. I went through a period where I was extremely annoyed at my in-laws for not offering to help us out with LB during our delivery time. When friends offered help, I said thanks but didn't commit because I was sure some family member would offer to help. They didn't and I was pissed, mostly on my husband's behalf, but a little on LB's and mine too. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure LB and The Deuce don't have this type of relationship and are instead more likely to drop everything to help each other out. It did turn out okay as I'm really fortunate to have friends that were willing to help and even watch LB for an entire day at a time. I've concentrated on that, and managed to let go of any in-law angst. Also, I have centered my angst on LB and not fucking her up with our new addition. There is definitely a part of me that feels like we are about to ruin her life. She is going from one hundred percent attention to less than fifty. She is going from being doted on and humored, to, well, not being doted on and humored nearly as much. It is going to rock her world and that totally has to suck. As an only child, I suspect that I feel nervous about this a lot more than my husband, who as the youngest of six was on the flip side. Hopefully LB is young enough that it won't send her into therapy for the rest of her life. And if not, well, universal health care should cover her phyche bills, right?

NaBloPoMo, 9

You Know You're Up Too Early When ...

The glass of ice water you brought to bed with you still has ice cubes in it when you wake up.

NaBloPoMo, 8

I guess I should assume that these little tomatoes are not going to ripen, you know, being that the rest of the plant is dead, Dead, DEAD, eh?

NaBloPoMo, 7

A little over a week ago, I sent my husband the following two pictures:


I explained in my e-mail that I had heard someone banging on the front door and when I opened the door, I was greeted by this guy. I made a snarky comment regarding the recruitment of various organized religions, smirked at my own cleverness, and then went on with my day.

This my friends, is called hubris, or maybe karma. Either way, both hubris and karma always, repeat ALWAYS, bite you in the ass. Especially when Mother Nature is involved.

This afternoon I decided to clean out a space in the basement to make room for some tubs o' yarn. Well one thing led to another and I stumbled across this:


That is where the *&^%!#$ squirrel chewed through our house and into my basement. Yes, that's right. Some freaky religious squirrel managed to break through our formidable (NOT) defenses and chill out in our basement! Hell, we even found a friggen half-eaten acorn on the other side of the basement.

Needless to say, we shop vac'ed the crap out of the hole (and by we, I mean my husband, the whole thing made me squirrelly ... ha, ha, boo). Now we are left with:


The only good thing I can say about this mess is that last weekend, when we blindly sealed up the hole from the outside, not knowing what had happened and just trying to patch the random hole we had found, we did not seal the bastard in the basement.

In light of past experiences, I feel comfortable saying that MOTHER NATURE IS A VENGEFUL BITCH.

NaBloPoMo, 6

Ten Things I'd Like For Christmas
a/k/a I have Nothing Interesting to Say

• Clean floors
• Snow
• Bumble & Bumble Curl Conscious Curl Creme for Fine to Medium Hair
• Two words: Louis. Vuitton.
• A healthy family
• A year membership to the Veggie-of-the-Month Club
• A winning lottery ticket
• Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (preferably already unwrapped and waiting for devourment)
• A Miami Hurricane National Championship
• Clean floors (I wasn't kidding)

NaBloPoMo, 5

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who's dic....

Oops! Not here to recite dirty nursery rhymes, but instead to educate, enlighten, and broaden your horizons. Okay, who am I kidding? Not that either. I'm here to tell you about the public graft I saw today, IN MY FRONT YARD!

A little background ... Our street successfully petitioned to have a sewer line put in so that we could get rid of our septic systems. You may recall, we had strange happenings in our plumbing and septic lines and so when given the opportunity to give the town a new car's worth of money for the right to send our poop down its pipes, we said HELL YES! The work commenced sometime in September and has been ongoing ever since. Part of the work included replacing the main water line that runs down our street. And somehow that meant that our (the street's, not ours personally as our estate is too modest for its very own) fire hydrant was moved about ten feet over. Not sure why, other than the fact that the town is charging us an arm and leg for this project and so they needed to make it look good?

In any event, that brings us to today, when I found myself coming home from the doctor's and having to wait for a huge wide-load truck to pass before I could continue up my street. I was maybe fifty yards from my driveway, so I pulled over to the side of the road behind a parked silver truck that had an official looking plaque thing attached to the license plate stating "FIRE CHIEF." I assume that the huge wide-load truck was blocking me which is why I was able to see one of the workers hand the Fire Chief a HUGE WAD OF CASH. HUGE. Now, maybe it wasn't some sort of pay off. Maybe there was no corruption and our new fire hydrant will work just fine. Maybe the worker was the Fire Chief's son and he was paying his dad back. Maybe they had a friendly wager on the Yankee game (27 World Series Championships!!). Heck, maybe the Fire Chief is a bookie collecting is illegal gains. Whatever the case, I can say with certainty that I saw a man take a wad of money from another man, fold it in half, put it in his pocket and then walk to his truck. A truck that had a special thing attached to its license plate that stated "FIRE CHIEF." And for the record, if you are going to do suspicious stuff, you shouldn't do it while driving a car that advertises who you are.

Anyway, the whole thing seemed hinky and I did not like it one bit. No siree. I felt a little dirty. Uncomfortable. After the huge wide-load truck passed and I could drive, I pulled up my driveway, into my garage, and intentionally did not make eye contact with the two men. I am pretending like I did not see a thing. Not. A. Thing. Well, unless there is a fire and we don't have sufficient water in our new fire hydrant and someone's house burns down. Then you bet your ass I am SO TELLING.

I said during my last pregnancy that if I was found murdered, it was probably Crazy. All the gift giving insanity and baby lust sending her over the edge. This time, if you find me dead in a pool of my own blood, look to the Fire Chief and his money grubbing self.

NaBloPoMo, 4

I'm not what you would call a "good" pet parent. Don't get me wrong, I love Dogarella to bits and I keep her fed and watered and walked. And I love on her lots and lots, but sometimes I skimp on the extras, like puppy playground trips or you know, grooming. The grooming thing might seem like no big deal since she isn't the kind of dog that needs multiple baths or hair cuts. Actually, though, the grooming thing is extra reprehensible since I bought the uber fancy (read: expensive) Furminator so that I wouldn't have to groom her as much as one would without the fancy device. It's as if I came, I saw, I conquered, I gave up. In other words, I suck.

My predilection for grooming laziness, however, was over-powered by my procrastination for stuff needed to do for baby-on-the-way and I pulled out the Furminator yesterday. Of course, Murphy's Law was at work, so LB woke up from her nap, ten minutes into the grooming process. Nonetheless, I think that after ten minutes of Furminating I had more dog fur, than dog.


And for those of you currently freaked the fuck out because, EW! DOG FUR! FLOOR! Be at peace. I cleaned it all up and vacuumed and the floor was returned to its normal spotless state, also known as, not all that spotless, but fur tumbleweed free.

NaBloPoMo, 3

Dear Taurus Driving Douchebag,

Yah, I'm the one who called the cops on you and I hope you are rotting in jail right now. You should never have left your cute little beagle in your car with the windows all rolled up. It might have been in the upper 60's on the outside of your station wagon, but it was a heck of a lot hotter on the inside. Would it have killed you to crack one of the four windows in your car? It looked like you tried to hermetically seal your pooch in so people wouldn't hear him howling. I suspect he was howling because he was hot and miserable. People like you make me want to believe in Hell, just so I know that you'll get your just deserts.

You are a dickhead.

- The Lady Who Called the Cops on YOU!

NaBloPoMo, 2

Four. This is my magic number. In baseball, the magic number is the number of games that a team needs to win to ensure winning its division. For me, my magic number is the number of centimeters my cervix must gape before I decide to get off of my arse and do stuff around the house to prepare for the baby that is, apparently, on her way. For the record, OB's will let you wander the face of the Earth with a loosey goosey cervix. Also for the record, my husband says four centimeters is out of the loosey goosey camp and solidly in gaping.



No matter how you slice it, four got me to finish culling my yarn stash, empty the bookcases that need to leave The Deuce's future room, and pack up the yarn I plan to keep. Now if I could get to the other gazillion things on my list of crap to do, I'd be golden.

NaBloPoMo, 1

Setting myself up for failure. That is what you could say I am doing as I am intending to try and complete NaBloPoMo this year, you know, for the one month where I am suppose to give birth to a new human being (as opposed to an old human being, those are much harder to birth, but the aftermath is easier, or so says the urban legend). So being that I expect to have no time at all, I thought this would be a great time to rediscover my blogging vivre. I am a douchebag. I am also, not filled with anything of interest to say. Thus, I am following the lead of the NaBloPoMo Leader ...

Things I Do NOT Like

• Going to the post office
• Bad grammar
• Dry pumpkin bread
• Broken leaf blowers
• Scissors that do not cut
• My boyfriend A-Rod getting drilled a third time in his last five at bats (at the time I am writing this, who knows he may get hit more, 'twas only the first inning when I typed that sentence). Unintentional? My ass. Boo Phillies, boo!

Things I Do Like

• Reeses Peanut Butter Cups
• Having a date certain of when my child should be born - or T-8 days, holy shit I'm not ready yet
• Giving away a lot of yarn that though I like, I will never use, to people who will hopefully use it
• Japanese Maple Trees in the Fall
• Holmes on Homes
• Osprey, which though not done is turning out nicely, despite my model's apparent antipathy