Quick hit for B - The Best of WhipUp 2008: Crafting Guides

I'm back in the office again today, and being here makes me identify with the Grinch:

For Tomorrow, he knew... All the Who girls and boys would wake bright and early. They'd rush for their toys! And then! Oh the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

It just feels like a nice, quiet respite here. And to anyone out there even considering the possibility of having kids, I have one piece of advice: MAKE SURE ALL TOYS ARE SILENT. No jingles, no sound effects, no singing. Trust me. Anything that makes noise (a) usually requires batteries, and the battery compartment usually requires a screwdriver and the patience of Job to open it, and (b) will inevitably cause tears when you chuck the damned thing out the window to preserve your sanity.

I'm currently on my fourth cup of coffee.

And she's back!

A happy holiday to all. I hope everyone had a wonderful celebration (or distinct, purposeful lack thereof) earlier this week, and that family members weren't too awful. Or, if they were, that you had plenty of alcohol to muddle through. 

Lil' Puddin' Tater is well on her way to becoming spoiled rotten, as she received two dollhouses (the Barbie Dream House and the Glitter Suite Dollhouse)  from two of her three sets of grandparents. This year it was all about the dolls, and she also got a couple of Polly Pocket playsets, which are the SMALLEST TOYS IN THE WORLD. For Midget 2.0, he got several toys that light up, roll around, and shoot things into the air. Plus, he got wrapping paper, ribbon, and every little plastic bag or accessory that came with LPT's stuff. In order to properly ascertain the merit of these objects, he has diligently been attempting to eat them, one by one. 

Hubby really took the cake this year and purchased for me (after saving up for 2-3 months in secret) a new front-loading washer. It's awsome, and it's RED. He rocks. :)

And I tried, really I did, to do an entirely handmade Christmas this year. And I sort of succeeded. I made scarves out of fleece (an excellent alternative for those of us who cannot knit) and I made some homemade tea, and I printed calendars and cards (from Little Brown Pen on etsy) and put together (with lots of help from LPT, of course) a mouthwatering chocolate cobbler dry mix. I actually did sew some stuff, like a pair of pants for my brother-in-law, a twirly skirt for my neice, juggling bags for my father-in-law and an apron for my mom. But I had to buy a few things, mostly because (a) I couldn't think of a single thing that I could make for some members of my family and (b) I completely ran out of time. Literally. I caught my fingernail in the sewing machine on Christmas day while frantically trying to finish the juggling bags as my father-in-law sat in our living room. It was definitely cheaper doing everything hand/home made, but lordy, the stress level increases exponentially and I frequently has to re-asses what gifts people were going to get from me. Luckily, my dear group of friends decided that we would give time this year instead of gifts, and we have a wonderful dinner party planned for New Year's Eve. 

And my resolution for the new year is: keep this blog updated. I have lots of exciting stuff coming up and I want to share it with everyone! 

mmm hmm

Eye candy for my homeys. And a great way to waste some time: www.morphthing.com

must...bitch...or head...will...explode...

Most who know me or are in contact with me at all are aware that there was a storm here on Sunday (a strange one - all wind, no rain. Just sunshine, as all our trees came toppling down) and as a result, we have no power. Now, it's not all that bad. I was fine on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and most of yesterday. But today, I'm completely over it. The novelty of using candles to read or go to the bathroom is gone. The open windows, while at first were nice, what with D's aversion to fresh air, are kind of old, since all we can hear at all hours is the humming chorus of several generators. I'm putting off cleaning out the refrigerator, because I'm a procrastinator and a glutton for punishment. (in my defense, D hasn't made any attempt to do it, either) I've come to work looking like ass every day because I can't see in the bathroom to do hair or makeup, and I'm a little wary of shaving my legs in the dark. Yesterday I took the kids to the laundromat (my first time!) and managed to wash some clothes. Notice I said "wash." Not "dry." The children could only put up with so much at one time, so both loads of laundry are hanging out to dry on our porch. Luckily, I have absolute saints for friends and they offered their washer and dryer for our use. They offered last night, and damned if I didn't take them up on it. Tonight, I will.
The main thing that is so irritating is that I can see where the problem is. There's a pole that snapped in two and the transformer is lying in bits all over the street a block away. It has been this way since Sunday. And there have been no trucks nearby at all. Down the street, a mere block in the other direction, there is power. There are people watching tv, running dishwashers, reading by lamplight, maybe even sewing. Gah.
And I swear, if the power isn't back on by the 22nd of this month, heads will roll. I'll have to move in with B & P.

So, when I'm bored at work I sometimes look up a random city and see what types of homes are for sale there. Today, my city was Portland, Oregon. People, I want to live there. Badly. Now the only thing I need is about a billion dollars (Portland appears to be pricey) to move my friends and family with me.

The Contemporary One (late 1970s, early 1980s flavor)

The House on a Hill

The Duplex

And then, just for kicks, some European abodes:

Outside of Stockholm: little & cute. And cheap? If the price is listed in Euros, wr're talking $52,018.50. Not bad.

France, gorgeous farmhouse that I must have. Costs a little bit more. Like $631,987.40.

And I've also been sewing recently. I'm going to post pictures for all to see just as soon as I can round everything up and get the camera going. My goal this year is to make all Christmas presents for friends & family. Which is why I'm starting now.

And just so you know: Wilco's Sky Blue Sky is amazing. I love it.

So I've found another website that is a total time-suck. (but such fun!) You can put together outfits/collages on Polyvore. Mmm. Clothes. My ensembles, below:

nom nom nom

This weekend, D and I began watching season one of Heroes. (Finally - A brought it over for me to watch when I was on bed rest before the debut of Midget 2.0) And I am addicted. Not only does the show completely suck you in, but you get some serious eye candy with it. My top pick: Mohinder Suresh (that's him right there). One of the other attractions is his (character's) accent: a British-Indian mix. (listen here)

I don't consider myself squeamish when it comes to things eye-related (contacts, etc.) but this makes my skin crawl.
Another day, another something(s) overpriced and ugly (encore!) from J.Crew. (Ooh! I forgot slightly pointless in addition to the overpriced!) But kudos to them on naming these shoes.
Uhm...what?
On the other hand, these something(s) are overpriced and beautiful. And I want so many of them. Yes, I do.

So a thirty-something douchebag tries to meet up with a 14 year old girl he met on the interweb, and he shows wearing a "World's Greatest Dad" t-shirt. Priceless.

We have a new definition of abortion, brought to us by ol' Bush himself: “any of the various procedures — including the prescription, dispensing and administration of any drug or the performance of any procedure or any other action — that results in the termination of the life of a human being in utero between conception and natural birth, whether before or after implantation.” (emphasis mine) The pill prevents implantation. So now I am taking abortifacients each time I take a birth-control pill? This is one hell of a slippery slope, friends. Add to that the fact that any entity receiving federal funds is not allowed to discriminate against (read: discipline, fire, etc.) any employee who is opposed to birth control, abortion, or women's general well-being. I'll be so glad when this poophead is out of office.

Worst headline ever: From Fistula to Fab! (and no, it's not a joke) First, do you know what a fistula is? Yeah, makes me cringe just thinking about it. The text reads:

"Lovinsa, mother of two, is recovering from surgery to correct the vasco-vaginal fistula (VVF) that she endured for over ten years. Though she has borne five children, three died at birth because of the fistula. She has been deserted by her husband and is raising her children alone. Lacking self esteem because of what she has had to go through, African Woman decided to lift her spirits. And makeover they did...who knew that behind the facade of a she and depressed young woman was a hot and sexy babe just waiting to get out? Look out world, Lovinsa has arrived!"

Sarah Illenberger makes wonderful organs. Here, have a heart.

Second worst headline: "80 year-old Vegas stripper still does it 'classy'"

No. They. Didn't. But unfortunately, they did. Folks, at left, let me present to you the Brum. Kind of like the Bro (mansiere?), but for ladies' bums. Apparently, anal cleavage (yes, that's what they're calling it) is the new thing. To me, having pants that go so low as to reveal your crack (or the top of uber-low-rise underpanties) is plain ol' plumber's butt. Not glamourous. Not sexy. And those underpanties (the Brum at left) are just asking for trouble. Can you imagine what your behind would look like after sitting on that for any length of time? Stripey, that's what. No, thank you. (For more cringe-worthy options, go here.) For a slightly different take, try this on for size.

How do we feel about perms? (as in permanent wave) I had a few when I was younger (much younger) and they looked like poo. But I think it's because I never did anythign with the curls, just brushed my hair a zillion times like I always did and wound up with a huge puffball on my head. But now that I'm older, wiser, I think that I could make the curls work to my advantage. Am I completely crazy to think this (incredibly chemical-laden, thoroughly stinky) action is a plausible idea? Will my nearest and dearest relentlessly make fun of me? Would I make fun of myself? Something to ponder...

Veto. That's all I can say. Veto. And maybe ick.
And yay for George Clooney not taking himself too seriously.
I find that crap like this makes me all twitchy. Because it's a terrible idea to actually assist in the prevention of a disease. According to the American Life League (real winners there), “They’re pushing pornography and contraception onto young children – beginning in kindergarten. Now parents aren’t even safe to go shopping without worrying Planned Parenthood will pressure their kids into promiscuous lifestyles that will increase their bloated birth control and abortion profits.” Yes, Planned Parenthood is just rolling in the proverbial dough. That's why they didn't need all that Title X funding. To quote Gray's Anatomy: Seriously?
Maybe I should move to Virginia.
The headline says it all: Mother, daughter use beer to escape attacker

I'm lazy and slightly stressed today, and I'm not in the mood to talk about myself, so you get links! Enjoy.

My face turned bright red as I read this. I think I am a prude at heart. But it is an interesting article.

And I need a vacation, according to The Baltimore Parenting Examiner. And really, I'm not sure I know of anyone (with or without kids) who could take that quiz and not need a vacation, (except maybe my sister.)

And (finally!) an explanation as to why so many children are uninsured!

Apparently, birth order affects divorce liklihood. My dad and stepmom, sister and brother-in-law and my friends B & P and E & T show that the study is correct. But D is an only and I'm an only/middle. Where does that leave us?

Want to see something creepy? Go to Google Maps and look up your residence. Go to street view. Here's my trash can. (and apparently, it was no longer trash day. we rarely bring the empty can back in on time. busted.) And here's the Barbee House. And here's my car at my parent's house. And my old apartment! Granted, these pics are outdated by about a year, but it's still a little weird that I can see my house (or anyone else's, for that matter) in such detail so easily.

Last night I was at the aforementioned Barbee House and imbibed some (many?) of the finest mojitos I have ever had the pleasure to taste, with some of the finest people I have ever had the pleasure to know. I love that I have friends with whom I am so comfortable; who know my story and still like me anyway. I love that we have jokes that go back years, and that we all have our own little quirks that can always be counted upon to make appearances. My friends are truly like an extended family, and I absolutely adore all of them. Even the ones who moved to Maine.

One quick note: This is great. Women are victims of domestic abuse because they refuse to be good Christians and submit to their husbands. And according to the op/ed, I'm going to heaven, because I've given birth. So there.

Anyway, this weekend, D was a saint and offered to go to Ikea with me and the midgets. And no, we didn't trek to Chicago, because there's a brand-new store in West Chester, Ohio! And, my friend, that is only about 2 hours away. And how did everything go? Pretty good. Not a total disaster, but the kids will not be going to Ikea again. At least not together, and not with me.

But we got some SPIFFY stuff. The bathroom sink downstairs (a sad little sink, with zero charm, less efficiency, and no storage) in our house was looking like it was about to fall off the wall, was so low that LPT could reach just fine without a step stool, and the handles for the water were so hard to turn on and off that there was a stream of water left running every time LPT washed her hands. Something had to be done. So D and I bit the bullet and bought a new sink, cabinet, and faucet.

And then we decided that we would become plumbers. As a result, the sink is almost functional, (the pipes were just a skosh too short.) and I have a blister on my finger. Good times. But the bathroom already looks 100% better.

Another side note, falling into the "Kids say the darndest things" category: The family is snuggling in (our) bed this morning, and apparently my shirt had ridden up, exposing my stomach under the covers. I feel little feet on my tummy, then Lil' Puddin' Tater says, "Mommy, I can feel your wrinkles. On your tummy. Pull your shirt down."

On the tail end of my lunch hour, I was looking on the interweb for a birthday present for J when I saw the cutest thing EVAH. Little heart sugars! With a space to hang them on your mug!

And then there's these. Which are just ingenious. Just the other day I sent rice flying when I stepped away from the stove and left the spoon in the pot.

I've begun to double brew my coffee in the mornings - I think this means that my tolerance to caffeine is growing. But the double-brew method works wonders for my energy levels, and I think there's a psychosomatic effect as well; just thinking about how productive I will be gets me moving. I even got up (not woke up to feed the baby, but actually got myself out of bed and began my day) at 6:15 this morning, leaving LPT and D snoring in the bed.

And then LPT woke up (she could sense, from the depths of her sleep, that I might be doing something somewhere without her, and it might be fun) and we turned on cartoons (well, Noggin. Not cartoons exactly.) And we saw the coolest show! It's called Oobi, and the concept is something I could easily recreate with LPT and some craft supplies.

A side note to Banana Republic: this photo does not make me want to purchase these shorts. At all.

I didn't feel like posting this with my other post on Michelle Obama - it just didn't feel appropriate.

On Thursday, 29 May, my grandmother died. It was my mom's mom, and being one of the closest grandchildren (one is two hours away, another lives in Tennessee, and yet another in Georgia), and owing to the fact that my mom was the de facto caregiver for the majority of the time (living only an hour away and retired), I saw her quite a bit. She lived long enough to see my wedding, and the birth of my two children, even if she was almost completely gone (mentally) when the second was born. After my parents divorced when I was two, my mom and I lived with her for about three years and commuted to the city every day. She was an amazing woman.

Rebecca Joyce Mattingly (nee Cook)

Born 22 August 1930 to Beckham & Janie Mae Cook; second of three daughters (Joanna & Murna). Married summer of 1948 to Billy McMurray (high school sweetheart). Gave birth to Larry Gean in October 1948, then Rebecca Jo in February of 1951, then Patricia Joyce (my mother) in July of 1952. In August of 1958, Billy died of leukemia (6 weeks from start to finish). Remarries Charles Mattingly in 1961, and gives birth to Michael Owen in August of 1963. Divorced in early 1970s. Worked at Crume Drug Store for the majority of time that I can remember, and had to retire when macular degeneration began the process of rendering her blind in the mid 1990s. Founding member of Parkway Baptist Church. Talented piano player. Immaculate dresser. Generous to a fault.

Wonderful grandmother, loving and kind.

Wow.

Uhm. Usually I refrain from using that term with highly accomplished, intelligent, admirable women. But apparently, that's just me.

(and technically, "baby mama" doesn't even apply in this case.)

Fox News can suck it.

back to life

After almost three weeks of the requisite "hiding out" (so to speak), we're finally getting out of the house a bit more. LPT 2.0 will be three weeks on Wednesday (btw: Lucas Alexander: born on 30 April at 3:23 p.m.; 7 lbs. 14 oz.; 20" long. Male. Full head of black hair. Pleasant disposition. See below.) (And the scratch on his face is self-inflicted.

Thundercats are go*

Well friends, today is the day. Please note the ungodly hour of this post. The rule around here is that is that if LPT gets up before 7, we have a problem. But we had to call the hospital at 5 this morning to make sure there wasn't a rush on the delivery beds (thank goodness for the lack of a full moon, eh?) But I have to say that all this complaining about the hour is kind of moot - D and I didn't really sleep that well (who could?) and we were both up a bit before 5. I need coffee.
My next post should be from the point of view of a mother of two. Maybe I should spike that coffee.
P.S. Dan in Real Life is an excellent movie and everyone should see it with kleenex nearby.
*Since D just gave me a strange look, the title of this post is in reference to Juno.

D-Day is on the Horizon, etc.

Not to get too graphic here, but I am so happy you may just have to put up with a bit of detail. MY CERVIX IS DILATED. Which means that I will be induced on the 30th of April, officially. Which means there is an end in sight. A light at the end of the tunnel. Ah, certainty. It's a wonderful thing.

On a different note, I've been on bed rest for the past few weeks, and have thus had the privilege of watching lots of tv, and by default, commercials. I love the following:
E-Trade (1 & 2)
Kia (I've done this more than I care to admit)

And I hate the following:
Mighty Putty I think that if I had to interact with this man on a daily basis, I would have to kick him in the shins regaularly. What's with all the shouting?
Trains (!)

and the hits, they keep on coming

Well, I went to the doctor for my strep test (and they ain't swabbin' the throat for this one) and an initial dialation check (still shut tight), and we discovered the I am borderline for preeclampsia (high blood pressure during pregnancy along with protein in your urine). So what does this mean? No work for me. Lots bed rest. No walks. No IKEA on Saturday. (sniffle) Mostly, I have to lay around a lot of the time, but since it's not a case of "oh, the baby might fall out if you stand up," I can still do stuff around the house. Everything just has to be low-key. Which should be a snap, given that LPT is crazy. Oh well. I'm not that worried about it, just one more thing with this (final) pregnancy. My mother asked if I would be able to do things like answer the phone. I said yes, I would be able to do that and lots of other things, like lift my head and move my arms and legs. D told me I should have said that I can take phone calls from anyone but her - since she stresses me out. If that were the criteria, I would have a lovely little list of no-answers.

Maybe I can use this to my benefit after all.

I discovered that by drinking an espresso beverage around 5pm does wonders for what I can accomplish at night. Three loads of laundry, plus straightening the house after LPT hit the hay. And somehow, I was actually able to get up this morning and bathe, get myself and LPT dressed, put makeup on and be in the car by 8:20! This never happens. SO I kept it up with the coffee this morning and I am on top of things. Perhaps I'm going into some weird nesting phase, and my impending crash will completely do me in. Oh well.

I'm officially sick of rain. I never thought that I would say that, but here's the thing: I have short legs, and my pants are always a bit long. Which means that they soak up water EVEN BETTER since they are constantly in contact with the wet ground and/or puddles. And the damp makes its way about halfway up my calf, just after the point where my socks end, and then I get that cold sensation every time I sit. And if I want to sit in my chair with my legs crossed beneath me, I can look forward to two wet spots on my ass. No more rain.

And LPT, in all her adorable honesty, watched me get out of bed this weekend and exclaimed, "Mama, you're really BIG." Ah, to be young. And tactless.

D has promised LPT that, if she can be 100% potty-trained by her birthday, we can get a ferret. My main concern about this is (a) we're going to have something small and needy already, and very soon [the baby], and (b) I lose my keys, wallet, earrings, change, other jewelry, etc. on a daily basis without the help of any furry creatures. (though it has to be said that LPT helps more than I would like.) I don't like cleaning up poo, whether it's the human variety or otherwise - presumably ferrets, if not properly trained, will require cleaning up, or at least their cages will, and frankly, I'm not going to do it. This pet will be the sole concern of D and LPT. Though we'll see how it goes on the fragrance front - ferrets have quite the odeur and must be descented and bathed regularly to not stink up the place.

Of course, it cannot be denied that ferrets are adorable, and very smart, and that I almost got all weepy (hormones, people!) when LPT pressed her little face up against the glass case containing about twenty baby ferrets, and the wee ferrets did the same thing. If this plan goes through, the little addition would be called either Archimedes or Mr. Magoo. (Ferrets don't see so well, but they can smell and hear beautifully. As for the senility, I have no clue.)

Braxton-Hicks contractions = the devil. FYI. (and painless, my ass!)

I survived Easter without any major mishaps, even though my mother had the tastiest non-chocolate cake EVER and there was plenty of sugar-coated ham. Most everyone was sick in some way or another, but we managed to keep the candy consumption to a minimum re: LPT. And I still hate peeps.

What I would wear if I had my body back

I'm entering the blah phase of pregnancy (though, aren't all stages a bit blah? Discuss.) in which the very act of rolling over in bed takes gigantic effort, and there's not a single piece of clothing that is 100% comfortable and that also looks good. I'm starting to waddle (oh! the indignity!) and even though there's about 6 weeks left, I look like I'm done. The strech marks have shown up, and all the romanticism associated with reproduction is spent. The rose is off the bloom, my friends. And so, since I am a bit bored at work today, I will submit a list of clothing items I would wear, if only my waist would go along with the deal.

Even though I consider myself very familiar with death and the loss of loved ones, I cannot say that I have ever experienced losing someone with whom I was once romantically linked.

It's a strange feeling to know that you once kissed someone who is now gone.

J was an all-around great guy, and could never fail to make me laugh. He was one of the smartest people I've ever known, and I have no doubt that his life would have been a rich one.

I miss you, buddy.

Obituary

Not sure if anyone watched the Oscars last night, but I got a wonderful heartfelt thank you from Daniel Day-Lewis when he won for Best Actor.
Here's the video. And Daniel, you're quite lovely too.

To all you childless folks out there: if you decide to have children, I have a warning. It will be unrelentlessly messy. You will need to develop the indifference of a medical professional (preferably a maternity ward nurse) to ALL bodily fluids. And you will also have to be okay with those bodily fluids covering your person. Lil' Puddin' Tater is sick (...again) and when she is sick with any sort of respiratory infection, she hurls. Lots. And I should already know the signs by now: she looks pained and begins to whimper and cry with no apparent reason. Silly me, instead of rushing her to the bathroom (where she prefers the sink to the toilet for all purposes vomiting-realted, and there's no resaoning with her) when all this began, I foolishly held her in my arms while sitting on our (somehow, it's never hers) bed. And I was promptly covered in dinner and all evening medication, plus mucus and a little stomach acid. She rushes, in the buff, to the sink in the bathroom and throws up again, except that since this throw up contains food chunks, the sink stops up. (usually, it's in the wee hours of the morning when this happens and she's expelling snotty mucus that she had inadvertantly swallowed, and it goes through the literal pipes much easier.) We both hop in the bathtub, since we're both covered in a stinky film, and suddenly she better and asking questions about my boobs. I quickly rinse and se asks if she can play for awhile, and I am left with the disgsting task of cleaning up all things vomit-soiled. My clothing, the towels in the bathroom, our comforter, and the floor. And it's really an interesting smell, that of all-purpose cleaner (method brand, in case LPT wants to inhale too closely) mixed with throw-up. At least there's a 2-foot section of the floor in the bedroom that is REALLY clean now, since usually I cannot be bothered to get down on all fours and wipe the floor down with a cloth. So now, LPT is in the tub, singing happily. Me, I just feel a little dirtier.

P.S. I feel like a complete tool since my post in which I bitched and moaned about having gestational diabetes. I spoke to an old friend and he was very nice in welcoming me to the wonderful world of diabetes. When I asked if he had familiarity with it (since to my recollection, he himself was not afflicted), he responded yes, his wife had type 1. Now, I'm not sure if anyone is familiar with the difference between type 1 & 2 and gestational diabetes, but gestational diabetes is pretty much a cake walk compared to type 1. The way I see it, GD requires slight temporary altering of diet (and possibly exercise) and just thinking a lot more about what goes in (and out - lovely ketone strips!) to your body while still in the family way. Type 1, however, requires (lots of) maintenance to stay alive, and even if you do everythign right, it's still sometimes a little sticky. So I would like to issue an apology (even though I was assured that none was needed) for my petty complaining because I can't eat cookie dough straight from the tube for awhile or binge-eat Honeycomb cereal. I may have to stick my finger four times a day and pee on little plastic strips, but I don't have to worry that if I don't do everything 100%, my life could be in jepoardy. And to L: you are an amazing person.

So Bill Clinton can be a douchebag. And he's really been flaunting that side of his personality during the current campaign. However, I just caught a clip that makes me respect him a little more. Never have I seen such a big-name politician (or someone so closely tied to a big-name politician) speak that way about abortion. Go Bill. (but I'm still pulling for Obama.)

All right, kids! I have opinions, and I'm going to share them with you.
First, there's a commercial out right now that I absolutely adore. It's for Tylenol (that I hate), but it is beautifully done. Part of what I like about it is that the people in it are not retouched. We see them, wrinkles, rolls and all, and they are all amazing. (ok, so after searching a bit, I can't actually find it. But if you watch tv at all, I'm sure you'll see it soon.)
Second, the soundtrack to Juno completely rocks my world right now. A, you have a copy coming already.
Third (and finally), D got me a book for Valentine's Day that is so spiffy, I feel compelled to share parts of it with you right now. It's called Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure, edited by Smith Magazine. Inspired by (my beloved) Ernest Hemingway's response to a challenge that he couldn't write a complete story in six words, ("For sale: baby shoes, never worn.") the book asked all sorts of people what their six-word memoir would look like. And the book is truly addictive. I finished it in about a half hour, because I could not put it down. I've already dog-eared (the horror!) pages with my favorites. I will now proceed to (a) loan and/or give a new copy of the book to all my friends and realtives who would appreciate such a thing, and (b) reproduce my favorites here.

And he nerded as never before. - Jon Thysell
I wrote it all down somewhere. - Ben Greenman
Verbal hemophilia. Why can't I clot? - Scott Mebus
Artsy married Fartsy, has two kids. - Mary Organ
No shit I'm critical - you're flawed. - Elizabeth Koch
Boys liked her. She preferred books. - Annelise Cuttle
Beat death thrice. Still not religious. - Shan Palmer
Without me, it is just aweso. - Chris Madigan
Hope my obituary spells "debonair" correctly. - Gregg Easterbrook
Underachieving...but willing to overcompensate halfheartedly. - Frank J. Lepaine
Where the hell are my keys? - Brady Udall
Well, I thought it was funny. - Stephen Colbert
Put whole self in, shook about. - Melissa Delzio
God who? Oh, him. No thanks. - Carin Rhoden
Cheese is the essence of life. - Mary Lynch
Maybe you had to be there. - Roy Blount, Jr.
Surname rhymes with profanity. Childhood torture. - Noah Smit

And just a little aside...Obama is leading! w00t.

dy-uh-BEET-us

When you become preggers and are taking a distinctly non-holistic route to getting the little booger out of you, you go to your OB/GYN about once a month until the magic time of around 32 weeks, when you get to go BI-monthly. (what fun!) Just before that happens, at 28 weeks, you take a test that monitors your blood sugar levels, to see if you might have gestational diabetes. This test involves drinking what tastes like Tang with craploads of sugar added, then waiting an hour and letting them stick a needle in your arm and draw blood. If the blood sugar level is high, you get to come back again and take a three-hour test, where you drink that god-awful beverage again, then let them stick you FOUR DIFFERENT TIMES to get blood. Do they put in an IV for this test? Of course not. You get to leave with a total of FIVE holes in your arms (four from the three-hour test and the one from the initial test). And since the gods really dislike you, you're stuck in the waiting room of LabCorp, along with everyone having drug tests. The bathroom there has no soap, and the back of the toilet is taped down like they're expecting Michael Corleone to stop by. And the magazine selection is limited to Men's Health and two-month old issues of Newsweek.

Well, kids, I've got the dy-uh-BEET-us.

I went to a class yesterday for TWO AND A HALF HOURS and got the poop on just what all this means. I could have a HUGE baby. I will probably (50% increased chance) get type 2 diabetes in the future. I can't eat chocolate for the duration of the pregnancy. It's a special kind of hell.

But ever the optimist (heh heh) I decided that this might be a good jump-start to healthier eating. But I was wrong. The diet I have to follow is like Atkin's on crack. It's all protein and fat. Lots of fat. Fast food is okay (just watch the buns and breading!) and microwave popcorn, movie theater butter lover's is okay. I'm sure that straight lard would be fine too, if I had the inclination to eat it. Why? Because fat doesn't do that much to your blood sugar.

So my daily routine goes something like this: wake up and pee on a piece of paper. (I have to measure my ketones to make sure that I'm not burning too much fat) Then prick finger and test blood sugar. Eat. Two hours later, test again. Eat snack. Eat lunch. Two hours later, test. Eat snack. Eat dinner. Two hours later, test. Eat snack. Go to bed and make sure not to sleep more than 9 hours.

The only perk to all this? I can eat as much sugar-free jell-o as I can stand.

Ok, I would like to post a warning to anyone who is about to use a depilatory to remove any hair around the bikini line: watch where that stuff goes! nothing bad happend to me, I'm just a little more bare than I used to be. I thought (and still do, I suppose) that using a cream to remove unwanted hair in a region I cannot see (the pregnant belly renders that whole region off-limits to my sight, unless I'm trying really hard in the bathroom by myself, and even then it's difficult) is preferable to just blindly going at it with a razor (a scene in the film La Pianiste has rendered razors even creepier to me). And I guess I can say that this product officially works (Veet, that is) because my bikini line is officially clear.

Hair removal has been somewhat of theme this past week, with D removing all facial hair save his actual goatee (moustache is gone too) and giving himself a thorough haircut, and LPT cutting her own bangs "just a little bit shorter." I fear for the locks of our new addition.

It's for kids, see? The co-founder of Wham-O, (and co-creator of the hula hoop and the frisbee), Richard Knerr died Monday at the age of 82.

And I am officially a pregnant woman. For breakfast this morning, I had toast with butter and jam, and then, filling an inexplicable craving, I ate more toast with gorgonzola spread. Now I am burping blue cheese. Mmmm.

Has anyone seen Juno? D and I saw it on Tuesday and I absolutely loved it. There's been some talk in the blogosphere (can't believe I actually used that word) about the film's glamourization of pregnancy (big fat HA on that one) and its dismissal of the "smushmortion" option. I went into the viewing with these two issues front and center in my mind, along with a slight loathing of Diablo Cody, the writer of the film. (she changed her name to Diablo. It reeks of...I don't know what. It's annoying, case closed.) First, the smushmortion as a non-viable option: well, the movie is about a pregnant teen. Ending that pregnancy in the first 20 minutes of the movie kind of kills the plot. And there's no part where Juno decries abortion - she even goes to the clinic, confident in her decision to procure a "hasty abortion." But when she arrives, she exercises her choice and leaves. And really, isn't that what the debate is about? A woman's choice? Anyway, as far as the glamourization goes, I personally don't find being pregnant glamourous in any way shape or form, so I have a bit of trouble with this one. One does have to admire Juno for making the best out of a sticky situation; she continues to go to school and toughs it out for the duration of her pregnancy. She endures ridicule, getting the hairy eyeball from all of her classmates, but the character is very strong emotionally. She is confident in her ability to get through this, and she has the support of family and two good friends to help her. So I suppose that if glamourization = not letting your life fall apart, then yes, the film does glamourize teen pregnancy. One could also see it as a form of grinnng and bearing it, and making do with what you have.

That's my two cents. Go see the movie.

Being sick + being preggers = unhappy mama. But I called the doctor and I can (safely) take any Tylenol product. w00t! So now I have medicine head, but I'll take that any day over coughing my head off (and most likely scaring the bejesus out of the midget hibernating in my belly) and wiping my nose every 30 seconds).

Next week (23 January, to be exact) we can celebrate National Pie Day! All of my cooking friends (and you know who you are, dahlings) need to get hopping so that we can indulge in this most holy of days. (p.s. I like cherry. Just sayin'.)

I'm always a little bit wistful on 17 January. I have no idea how I remember year after year, but today is the birthday of one of the strongest (and longest-lasting) grandfather figures I had during my youth. While my (only) biological grandfather died when I was six, Vernon was around until I was 10. Now, this is not at all to discount other grandfathers I have had (Sweet David, Bobby) but I saw Vernon on a daily basis from the time I was six weeks old until just before he died. He was awesome. He was an adult who would actually play with me, and I recall idyllic days spent exploring his (seemingly) vast yard, helping him in the garden, tinkering in the garage, or just watching the clouds. (I was also allowed to sneak a rose petal or two from the garden if Nell wasn't looking) He was the one who started the yearly ritual of looking for cicaida shells attached to trees, and I took great pleasure in passing this on to LPT this past summer.

I have no idea how old he would be today (probably up there) but I miss him all the time (even if I really only reminisce on one day in January) and I wish that LPT could have had the wonderful priviledge of knowing him as I did. I miss you, buddy.

Lil' Puddin' Tater has a new word for the week. DAMN. And each time she says it, D and I have to stifle laughter because it's so funny to hear it emerging from her mouth in her little high-pitched voice. Example:

D was in the shower and LPT decided that she needed to get into the bathroom. So while I was putting laundry away in the bedroom, I hear "Daddy! I need to get in there! DADDY! Open this damn door!" Then after that, much later in the afternoon, she was trying to get into the refrigerator for some yogurt. Unfortunately, we keep a child lock on the refrigerator since she has a habit of just leaving it open. So the refrigerator was locked. This caused her to yell, "Somebody needs to open this damn refrigerator. I'm hungry."

And though she's cursing, I can't help but take some pride in the fact that she's using this word correctly, in terms of syntax.

Since right before Christmas, life has been hectic. And it hasn't all been bad, but there was lots of family stuff (unexpected death, somewhat-expected illness, etc.) and then, of course, the customary craziness that accompanies the holiday season in general, especially when you have [a] midget[s] and everyone wants to see you guys. It kind of doubly sucked this year since D was sick and/or working for at least half of the family gatherings, and I had to go BY MYSELF, knocked up, with a disgruntled LPT in tow.

But all that is over, right? RIGHT?

Not quite. The somewhat-expected illness I mentioned is in reference to my grandmother, who had to be hospitalized on our anniversary (4 years and no murders yet! Woo hoo!) with a raging kidney/urinary tract infection that rendered her completely immobile and everyone thought she had suffered a stroke. (she went from kind of feeble to not being able to feed herself, walk unassisted, or go to the bathroom alone.) Since she was in such a state, my mother was reluctant to leave her at the hospital alone. So, she and her siblings traded shifts day and night while she looked at rehab facilities/nursing homes. The woman never stops.

I tell you all this as an introduction to the main point of this post: I am not a stay-at-home mom. I know, OBVIOUSLY, since I work full-time, but I mean that I have zero desire to be a stay-at-home mom. Basically, since my mother was indisposed this week and part of last week, she hasn't been able to keep LPT. Which means I don't work. And all that is completely fine. My mother does quite a bit for us in the realm of child care, and one of the perks of being employed by your stepfather is that if there's a family emergency, her knows the gravity of the situation and usually won't give any trouble if I need to take off. So I got a taste of the life of a SAHM, and I must say, it was yuck. The last time I stayed at home was when I was in the throes of PPD, so I can't recall much except wishing I could just go back to bed. But this time around, I'm not nearly so bad off! So I thought that maybe this would be fun, a week of me and LPT by ourselves, quality time and all that jazz.

I was wrong. Staying at home with a toddler (who is high-maintenance on a really good day) can make one certifiably crazy. LPT is not happy about having new addition to the family, and she has begun to act out regularly to communicate her feelings. Combine all this with her typical toddler behavior of ignoring me all the time and her incessant questions (Why do we have to have a baby? Why is it a boy? Why do people have babies? Can I have a popsicle for dinner?) And as a little added bonus, we can throw in a few (unintentional) kicks to my abdomen. By the end of the day, I wanted to scream and curl up (as best I could, what with the belly and all) in the fetal position and just be alone for a few days. I wanted nothing more than to get away and have a few moments of peace BY MYSELF. But that was not to be. Knowing there was an end in sight made it bearable, but I have renewed respect for women and men who stay at home (out of choice or necessity) with their kids. I cannot do it.

Since it's been almost two months, and since a brand-New Mama has asked me to, I suppose I will begin with the posting again.

And since it's a new year, and time to begin anew, I would like to start by listing some things for which I am thankful.

1. Coffee.

2. Amazing friends (the New Mama & SweetBoobs!, each and every person I saw on the 29th, J&N, R&N, D&S and if I left anyone out, it was unintentional and I apologize.). It's a wonderful comfort to know that these are the people who are there for me no matter the circumstance, and who know (hopefully) that the feeling is reciprocal. These are the people who give me the warm fuzzies whenever we are together, and who know me (perhaps a little too) well.

3. My (ever-expanding) family. It's a mixed bag of feelings right now, with excitement topping the list. But also apprehension (how in the hell am I going to manage with TWO midgets? Especially when Lil' Puddin' Tater has made it abundantly clear that she wants no part of any baby. And she wanted a sister, not a brother, thank you very much.)

4. My extended family. (Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, etc.) I come from good people. And they make me smile, even during the stress of the holidays. This is priceless. I feel very fortunate that though I am related to these people, I would count them among my most dear friends any day of the week.

5. Coffee. (deserves two entries)