Hey 7-11 Man: MINDJA OWN BUSINESS

I go into 7-11 every Sunday for a large decaf coffee.  Don’t ask me why, but I still drink decaf even though it kinda tastes like licking a tire, particularly the brand of nasty that 7-11 brews.  Every week, the same example of why it is important to complete high school always rings me up.  You know what I’m talking about: this guy is probably 35 but looks 50 or 60, clearly spends every other paycheck on the sterling silver jewelry variously shaped like gargoyles, skulls, and gothic crosses that he sports on every available square inch of skin, and greets every customer at the door with a look of disdain because they are interrupting his chain-smoking.  So this morning I walk in and, fortunately, there’s already a little old lady at the register that he can take his nicotine rage out on before I get there with my cup of year old motor oil decaf.  He rings me up, wordlessly, and I pay, wordlessly, until on my way out the door he snarkily says, “Hope you and YOUR BABY enjoy that coffee.” ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME?  Mr. I-can’t-be-bothered-to-provide-reasonable-customer-service-without-a-cigarette-hanging-out-of-my-mouth is going to pass judgement on my health choices?  “It’s decaf.  And I hope you don’t get a stuffy nose this winter because that would make it awfully hard to breathe WITH YOUR JAW WIRED SHUT AS A RESULT OF BEING ROUNDHOUSE-KICKED IN THE TEETH BY AN ANGRY CAFFEINE DEPRIVED PREGNANT LADY.”

P.S – Try blowing smoke rings with as much sterling in your mouth as you wear around your neck, bitch.

Pregnant Brain

 

If you ever doubted the reality that is pregnant brain, please let me be your shining example of this very real phenomenon.  I am not for one second denying the fact that I just happen to be really freakin’ absent minded a lot of the time.  Have I mentioned that one of the top five reasons I married my husband is because of his innate ability to find my keys, a valuable skill that I somehow never developed?  Can I just tell you that after living with my college roommate for a mere two months she stopped saying “Goodbye” to me as I left our dorm room because nine times out of ten I would have to come back in within five seconds of leaving since I had somehow forgotten to take my purse, or my jacket or my pants?  

But the former are examples of, what I consider, normal, run-of-the-mill absentmindedness that was more than likely passed down to me genetically from the paternal side of my family (sorry dad, but TRUTH.)  Pregnancy brain, on the other hand, is a far more frightening and serious form of absentmindedness, commonly characterized by a sheer, overwhelming panic that takes over once said pregnant lady finds herself in a position of not being able to find what she is looking for/remember what she came into the room to do/finish a sentence without forgetting what she was talking about.  Or any combination of the three.  

Let me give you a couple of examples.  A conversation I had at work with a co-worker today went something like this: 

*Note: literary license used sparingly. 

Me: Hey, ya know how this place would literally fall apart at the seams if I didn’t work here? 

Co-Worker: Totally. 

Me: Well I gotta go and, once again, save the department by using my awesome and indispensible skills to, ya know, keep us in business. 

Co-Worker: Cool.  Oh um…yeah, I was thinking…ya know that whole baby thing that you’re gonna be doing here in a couple months? 

Me: Yes… 

C0-Worker: Well, I know that it would be impossible for you to convey even a fraction of your vast knowledge and unparalleled skills to me, not only because the depth and breadth of your abilities rival those of the greatest minds of our time, but also because I’m a little dull.  But, ya know, since you’re gonna be out for like three months and all, it may not be a bad idea for me to at least try to understand some of what you do so that I can attempt to hold this place together and avoid calling you during your maternity leave every five minutes.  

Me: Yeah…I can see your point.  I don’t think I’d like taking work calls while breast feeding.  K let’s go.  Oh…hey wait a minute (looks around confused) 

Co-Worker: What’s wrong? 

Me: I’m looking for my phone.  (Starting to panic)  Oh crap, hey I can’t find my phone (hysteria creeping up) I just had it where is it?! (Stands up looks under desk/under chair/turns around in maniacal circles like a dog trying to find a comfortable place to lay) HEY, HEY, HEYHEYHEYHEYHEY HAVE YOU SEE MY PHONE I JUST HAD IT WHERE THE HELL DID I PUT IT? 

Co-Worker: Um…you mean the phone in your hand? 

Me: Ohhhhh…..yeah.  MmmmmmK.  Well, now that we’ve taken care of that, let’s go so I can bounce some of my awesome off of you and see what sticks. 

Nice huh? 

Later this evening I came home and amazed my husband with the powers of pregnant brain.  For those of you that don’t know, I live in the desert, the land of sand and sun, but very infrequent rain.  So, of course, when there is even a 10% chance of rain we all know about it and get so excited for the potential precipitation that we almost pee our collective pants.  That’s why tonight when I screamed to the hubs from the kitchen “Dan! Dan! It’s RAINING!” he immediately came out of the man cave to investigate while looking at me like I had just told him I was making out with the Easter bunny.  While he could clearly see and hear the water spattering against the kitchen window as I peered out to wonder at the delight that is unexpected rain, he did not, as I had expected, begin to marvel at the blessed drops as I had expected.  On the contrary, he continued to look at me as if the Easter bunny was not only making out with me, but also attempting to make it to second base.  “What?!” I half-screeched at him indignantly (okay it was a full screech).  “Babe…It’s not raining.  I’m just watering the flowerbed under the kitchen window, ya know, like I do every other night.”  

So yea…I would seriously be considering counseling or a lobotomy at this point.  Except that I know it’s just pregnant brain…so whew.

These Days You Can Find Me…

with one or both hands half down my pants, Al Bundy style hoping to feel the slightest kick from the meatball.  What’ll prolly be weird is when you can find Dan with one or both hands half down my pants, Al Bundy style hoping to feel the slightest kick from the meatball…especially while I’m driving, or cooking dinner, or grocery shopping.

Things that Should Embarrass Me…But Really Don’t

When I know that the person operating the car in front of me is scoping me out in their rear view mirror while I proceed to dig at my nose like I lost my car keys in there.  I should be even more embarrassed when that car and I then pull into the same parking lot, proceed into the same doctor’s office, and have to sit uncomfortably across from each other in the same waiting room.  I know that one of the properties of glass is transparency, and I know that my car windows are made of said material, I just couldn’t care less when I’ve got a boog that’s just gotta come out.

I’m Not Posting Much Here

because I’m using the time while my bowl of smoked gouda chowder cools off to post these pics.  Here’s a quick before of the kitchen:

And after:

Here’s the livingroom before:

And after:

Reasons of the Day that I Should Not Be Allowed to Live Alone

Dan’s out of town.  He’s in Ohio taking care of his recently passed Uncle’s affairs.  I’m alone for nine days, and I’ve come to realize that this could be hazardous for the following reasons:

1. I did not eat anything today until 7:30pm, and then when I did I attempted to systematically stop my heart/liver/insert vital organ by overdosing on Taco Bell bean burritos.

2. I am perfectly incapable of finding my own car keys.  Dan’s ability to always locate the keys to my vehicle is one of the top five reasons that I married him.

3. I am going to let the dogs sleep with me.  When Dan gets home, the dogs will, inevitably, poll vault into our bed with glee at the end of the day, and I will pretend that I am baffled by their sudden disobedience, and then scold them for jumping into bed when they know they shouldn’t.  (I will, of course, get up a half an hour later, give them both a treat and whisper apologies in both of their ears.)

4. Our electric bill will SKY ROCKET this month as a result of me needing to leave every light inside and outside the house on to ward off any would-be intruders/zombies/vampires/gosts.  Hilariously, bugs are the only things that have a real potential to get into my house and hold me hostage in the part of the house where they are not until either the cats kill them or they die of natural causes, and bugs, it seems, are attracted to lights. 

5. Dan always goes to get me coffee on the weekends…and coffee tastes way better when he brings it to me.

6. I almost choked taking a DRINK OF WATER OUT OF A CUP just now.

I’m certain that I will have at least a few more moments of enlightenment over the next week in terms of my complete and total inability to function without my husband.  Stay tuned.

Speaking of Cleaning the Floors…

My dogs think I’m the biggest asshole ever when I scream at them for doing that doggie-butt-drag thing across my rugs.  You know, the one where they sit, strategically raise both hind legs up, and then use their front paws to army crawl across the floor with only their buttholes and front claws touching the ground?  Yeah…when I see that I emit a scream of horror unlike anything from even Wes Craven’s most terrifying nightmares.  Unfortunately, it does nothing but annoy my itchy-assed dogs into giving me a look that I interpret to say, “What the hell do you expect? I don’t have opposable thumbs with which I can ever so delicately pluck toilet paper from the bathroom and wipe my nether regions, so unless you want to scratch my ass, stop bitching!”

Vrooooom!

My dog Gaizen is terrified of the vacuum cleaner. He truly believes that all of hells demons reside within the contents of this cleaning apparatus, and have congregated therein for the sole purpose of sucking all of the fur off of his (VERY) hairy body, and then promptly chasing his naked skinny dog body around the house for eternity.  I hate to vacuum, and because of this I agree with Gaizen about our vacuum being the residence of, at least two to three lower-ranking demons, however it doesn’t terrify me unless I’ve accidentally sucked up a screw or one of the cats and the vacuum proceeds to protest by bucking like a bull in the rodeo.But for Gaizen, the vacuum cleaner represents all that is wholly evil in this world and those beyond.  Every time I drag that vacuum cleaner out of the closet, Gaizen is reduces to a trembling, furrow-browed ball of trepidation, and looks at me as if to say, “Mom, I know that you enjoy clean rugs, I know that you take the slightest speck of lint or cat hair on any rug in the house as a personal insult.  I understand and accept your obsession with clean floors, and accept responsibility for my part of dragging dust and dead leaves from the yard into the house and leaving them velcroed to your precious rugs. But Mom, do you really have to torture me in return by unleashing the hosts of hell from that big noisy red box thing?” It’s almost precious enough to persuade me to simply pick the individual specks of dead grass and pebbles out of the carpet.  Almost.  I am convinced that if poor Gaizen could crawl under the refrigerator in an effort to hide from the clean-demons, he would; but he doesn’t.  Instead, my dog stands vigil about three feet away from me, in all his trembling, barley continent glory, waiting for the day that the vacuum cleaner, instead of merely screaming and pacing the floor, finally pounces and takes his unsuspecting owner hostage by wrapping it’s evil cord-tail around her wrists and ankles, and devours her from the toes up. It’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen!  When I’m finally done cleaning the floor and the vacuum in safely contained in the hallway closet, Gaizen always bum rushes me in a frenetic display of glee because we have, once again, cheated our most certainly eminent deaths at the hands of the vacuum cleaner demons. Best. Guard Dog. Ever.

Flooring Update!

We FINALLY got the livingroom and hallway flooring done, thanks to an early Christmas present from the in-laws.  Check it out:

Pretty slick eh?  More updates to come…wait for it…baseboards and trim!

Our Little Meatball

Three weeks ago tomorrow we found out that we’re going to have a baby.  Dan and I had been trying for a baby for a year and a half.  It was the most frustrating experience of my life (yes, even more so than that of adding on to our house) and I wouldn’t trade one minute of it.  Every day that I was not pregnant made me realize, just a little bit more, how much I wanted to be.  We saw doctors, read everything we could get our hands on, changed our diets changed our habits, all to no avail.  After a year and a half I decided that it was time for us to take some time off of the whole trying business; I was freakin’ exhausted.  I rationalized the decision to take some time off by saying that I wouldn’t want to deliver right in the middle of my last semester of grad school, which is exactly what would happen if I got pregnant.  In my heart I didn’t care if I had to deliver in the middle of my Grammy Award acceptance speech, I wanted a baby, but at the same time my gut was telling me I would never be pregnant.  Dan’s response?  “You know the minute you start saying you don’t want to try anymore you’ll wind up pregnant.”  Thus, this experience taught me not only that God has a plan, but also that Dan has a weird way of being right when it really counts.

By the time our little surprise came along, two or three doctors had run the gamut of tests and come up with absolutely no reason that Dan and I shouldn’t be able to have children; but that didn’t make it happen.  Finally my doctor wound up putting my on Clomid, a medication that assists in ovulation, despite the fact that I was clearly laying eggs like a speckled hen. 

Month number one went by with no result other than hot flashes and some mild to moderate bitchiness.  By the middle of month number two on the Clomid I was ready to throw in the towel, but Dan convinced me just to go in and get the Clomid for the next month.  I was going on vacation for two and a half weeks–that’s 17 days out of the hell that is Tucson in July.  I was going to see my parents and family, then off to the East coast for a work conference that was to be more networking and less work, and then an 11-day trip up the West coast with Dan.  I didn’t want to think about anything except getting through the last couple of days of work and getting out of town–but there was the Clomid to tend to.  I begrudgingly made the appointment with my doctor, who insisted on seeing me every month that I wasn’t pregnant to re-prescribe the hot-flashes-in-a-bottle, which was just one more kick in the pants reminder that I was barren.  I was supposed to start my period the day of the appointment.  I came home from work the day before and moped.  I had a crappy day at work, I was feeling crampy, and absolutely knew that I was, yet again, not pregnant. 

I went into the appointment the next morning and when asked when my last period was told them that it had been about 28 days ago.  The girl taking my blood pressure (and using her baby bump to balance my wrist–yeah just twist that knife) said that the doctor would want me to take a pregnancy test just to make sure before she sent me away with my prescription for a dozen eggs.  At this point in the game pregnancy tests had lost all excitement for me.  I had seen probably in the neighborhood of 12-15 big fat negatives over the course of the last eighteen months and the only consolation in this one is that I wouldn’t actually have to see the results; they would just come in and tell me what I already knew. 

While waiting for the results I was wrapped up in a delicious true crime novel about the Zodiac killer; I wasn’t even thinking about results of the test I was more or less just happy that the doctor’s appointment afforded me the opportunity to sleep in that morning and enjoy 30 or so minutes of a good read before I had to face my last day at work before an extra lengthy vacation.  Suddenly outside the door of my exam room I heard one nurse whisper to another one, “No, she wants to be pregnant, tell her!”  And all I could think was, “Why is this chick so excited to tell me I’m not pregnant when she knows I want to be?  That’s messed up!”  She knocked on the door and came in, looked at me and said: “Sarah?  You know that test that you took?” 

Me: “Yeah…?”

Nurse: “Well it was positive!”

Me: “NO WAY!”

Nurse: “Yeah! Do you want to see it?”

Me: “Yeah…I’m going to need to…”

I walked out into the large area where all of the doctor and nurse type people hang out doing their nursey/doctory stuff and got to see it: for the first time I peed on something and got not one but TWO lines!  I literally could not speak (and that never happens to me) I didn’t know what to say.  I tried to call Dan three, four, five times and no answer.  Finally I had to call our roommate.  The conversation when something like:

Me: Rachael?

Rachael: Yeah?

Me: Hi it’s Sarah…yeah I’m sorry I hope I didn’t wake you up and I don’t mean to bother you but I went to the doctor this morning to get some more Clomid and instead I’m pregnant.

Rachael: REALLY!?

Me: Yeah and Dan’s not answering his phone.  Are you home cuz I really need to talk to him

So my roommate was the first person to find out that I was pregnant.  When I finally got a hold of Dan he received the news, but I don’t think he realized that I was pregnant until about 12 hours later. 

Tomorrow I’ll be seven weeks and I still can’t quite believe it.  We got to see our baby for the first time yesterday, and although it looked like little more than a kidney bean, we did see a beautiful little heartbeat and everything is looking good at this point.  We are the happiest parents-to-be I think God ever put on this Earth. 

Oh and about the title…my little niece decided that meatball would be the perfect nickname for our little baby.  I guess it has something to do with me being a vegetarian…