Thank You Momma GT

ok... no secret I'm in a blogging funk lately.

Thanks to Momma Ginger Tree for tagging me. more thanks for it being easy. The rules are to choose the sixth photo from your sixth album and post it along with a description or the story behind it. There's no rule saying I have to tag anyone else.. so even better.

I went on to shutterfly, and my sixth album happens to be the birth of Rhena. The sixth picture is one of me laying in the hospital bed.. moments after another voracious puke session. I'm gonna spare you that picture, cause really? do we NEED to see me big and pasty? didn't think so.

So since I'm bucking the rules, I'll endow myself with bad luck and pick picture #13.

This is the very first moment I saw Rhena. September 17, 2004. She was eight days late, and after being in the hospital with contractions for about 18 hours... her heartbeat kept dropping. Despite the 12+hours of pitocen, my dilation hadn't progressed past 6cm . and did I mention we were told the baby's heartbeat was getting weaker?

We went with the C-section, and had an amazing nurse in the OR who took these pictures for us. I can't remember his name, but to have this picture? it's been a wonderful gift.

See her arm hanging down? she was reaching towards me. I didn't get to physically hold her until about an hour later.. but that moment she reached out was the instant she grabbed my heart.

She just turned four last month, and to this day... when she looks at me a certain way or reaches out helplessly yet purposely? I'm right back there in the operating room in Reno... unable to move yet soaring in space; just from her love alone.

How NOT to go into Labor

well--- here it is---- Labor Day. well, at least by what the calendar tells me, anyway. I know I'm sure as hell not having a baby today!

So.... in honor of me STILL not having this baby--- I thought I would compile a list of things to do to avoid going into labor.


Ironically, this list is also the same list of things I've been doing to try to coerce my unborn monster out of me.... but I think my direct relationship to the Murphy Lineage and assumed laws might have something to do with that.


but enough of that--- off we go!


1. Raspberry Tea.
ok--- I admit.... I've drank/drunk/whatever enough of the stuff to fill a bath tub. it makes me wonder if I should have just tried that in the beginning.... (filling the tub, that is...) maybe the raspberry soaking INTO my skin would have had a more direct effect on the womb? I do know that not one cup (nor two or three) has had an impact on me going into labor. It HAS upped my TP usage, though---- I pee like a banshee these days.


2. Packing My Suitcase
yeah--- this was probably the killer without me knowing it. I mean... what was I thinking???? getting P R E P A R E D for something in advance????? surely God laughs at me.... I know the suitcase did for a whole week before I finally put it in the car. Now I only hear it when I drive somewhere or go out to the garage to get something from the extra fridge. Thank goodness I'm lazy and don't do much of either these days!

3. Long Walks
well--- I wouldn't say I've been tip-toeing through the tulips or anything, but throughout this pregnancy, I've been on my feet A LOT. the mafia kept me busy all summer, and I have tried to take the stairs when possible, but I think the rumor of moderate exercise or walking to induce labor is some skinny aerobic instructor's way of selling her workout. I've tried the walking... it doesn't work, and it hurts my hips. Come to think of it... I'm actually kind of glad this one didn't work!


4. Shaving
Any woman who has gained a severe amount of weight or increased her body size in a short amount of time can attest that shaving becomes increasingly difficult the bigger she gets. If I wasn't sweating all the time, I swear I'd maintain an average leg hair length of about three inches, but the extra hair isn't so pretty when you're wearing shorts. Therefore... I have kept to my smooth and clean regime... even to the point of using a mirror to catch those hard-to-see areas. - this has been quite difficult, but far better than being caught unexpectedly. I mean--- who really wants to bust out the weedwacker when a head is coming out of you? --- I'd also hate to be the one girl in labor and delivery who's being referred to as 'the wooly mammoth in room 6' by the nursing staff. But... back to the problem with being prepared.... I sure as heck believe my smooth areas have kept things from happening.

5. Astrology and God
anyone that knows me knows I was wanting, for household harmony, to give birth to a Leo. this would have meant that the monster would have had to come early. I've actually (albeit now shamefully) used some of the moments of silent intentions at church to pray for an early arrival. Yes--- not only does this hit up Murphy, but probably pissed God off that I wasn't praying for some starving kids in Africa.... so I now wait in my Purgatory of Being Childless. I've since come to mentally accept that we will have a Virgo, and am now praying for the patience to accept that the monster will come out according to His Will. But--- my God being a Catholic God, I think I have to have at least three weeks in a row of good praying behavior before He'll allow the confinement to end. (yesterday made two, by the way...) I've toyed with idea of going to confession and getting a clean slate, but then I would have to hear the suitcase, so that idea has been bagged.



there's a ton of other things---- like wearing a pantyliner, having one of those plastic liners on the bed and in my car in case my water breaks (don't want to ruin any outfits, mattresses or new car's leather seats with baby juice) starting my leave of absence sooner than necessary from the mafia.... washing and folding all of the baby's clothes so the room is ready for his or her arrival.... they all add up.


The good news is that the doc won't let me go past 41 weeks, and they believe the monster will be no more than 8 pounds. so at least there's an end in sight. or beginning... depending on where you're looking from, I guess.

But enough kavetching. Happy Labor Day, kids.... the calendar one, that is. enjoy the BBQs, drunkeness and three day weekends. I'm going to go enjoy the rest of my non-labor Labor Day as well. I may even eat cake.

Till the next time....

All that for nuttin'

yeah--- so I went for the sonogram today.


long story short--- they didn't tell me diddly-squat.


the 'tech' was not allowed to guess what the monster's weight was, as then I could hold her liable to that number and sue her ass if she's wrong. Not really my style, but given the world we live in, I suppose it's plausible.

SO now I have to wait til thursday, when my doc can look at things and tell me what's going on in his small head. (Not that he's stupid... I just think his head is a little small for his body....)


the good news is, I actually saw Monster's face. it's FAT. I mean... this kid has a set of cheeks on it that would make the good humor man set up camp next to us at the beach.

But still--- it was MY little fuzzy black and white chubby-cheeked monster that I was looking at, and that alone was pretty darn cool.

We tried to get a picture... actually had a snapshot of it's face.... but then my hair started getting hot, the room began to spin, and I almost passed out again. In the frenzy of trying to get my bloodpressure back up and keep me from puking my guts out, (and thus cure my ghost-white skin complexion) the tech forgot to print out the kid's face.

oh well.... this too shall pass. So thursday it is.... Maybe then we'll have an idea of when and how this kid will be making its debut. No sense me stressing over it... the kid is what it is... and an extra piece of anniversary cake isn't going to change the kid's weight too drastically, so I may as well enjoy myself.

more tea, anyone??? I do have a fresh pot brewing......

The size of things

Some people say that size matters.


I'm one of 'em.



So.... I had my 38 week appointment yesterday. Typical appointment.... pee in a cup, step on the scale (up another pound, BTW), take the blood pressure, drop the pants, and dig up the cooch.


I'm not going to get into the whole cold-sweat thing I experienced when I actually LOOKED at the scale this week. True, I'm up a pound, which is good.... which makes my gain like 11 or 12 pounds... also good. what's not-so-good is realizing that if I've only gained 11 or 12 pounds for this pregnancy.... eeeeek!!!! how big WAS I before I got knocked up???? but again.... I'm not going to get into that. the past is out of my reach, and pictures proving my former bigness are well hidden, so forward march!!!!!


yes... what clicks my door opener this week is what the doc said after he inspected the inner sanctum of baby-land. After fiddling on my monster's head for a minute, he took off the gloves and started palming my stomach like he was Spreewell on a free throw line. After a few hmmmm's and huh's, gropes and squishes, he sat me up and said I needed an ultrasound.

Ever the glutton for punishment, I asked why.

He said he wanted the techs to do a fetal weight check. yeah...... annnnnnd?


well, he *could* be wrong, but he's thinking that the babe in said toyland is rapidly approaching, or possibly already AT the nine pound range.


excuse me, I'm sorry... I was distracted by the paper sticking to my bare ass..... did you just say NINE POUNDS?????????


obviously, being naked from the hips down removed my option of running screaming from the room... or at least waddling away as fast as a woman with 90 year old hips can manage.....

I impressed myself by not screaming, but I do believe my jaw dropped and a squeak came out.


He must have seen my eyes triple in size, cause he then began to say that it COULD be that I was having a contraction when he was feeling the monster, which would make him over-estimate the size of the intended vaginal projectile.

Through the dull ringing of the words 'nine pounds' being repeated in my head like the Brady Bunch episode where the kids remembered only too late that mom always said not to play ball in the house.... yes....through the the ringing I heard something to the effect of him being wrong with tall girls, but since I'm neither tall nor comfortable with a nine pound child, I really couldn't tell you what he said.


nine pounds. good gravy. and it's still got another 2 weeks to grow!!!!!


So I go on Tuesday to get this kid sized up. what all of this ultimately means, I have no idea. There was talk that if the kid is indeed that big, it may have a problem coming through the chute, so to speak. maybe they'll induce me and get it out sooner---- maybe I'll have to have it cut out of me.... I dunno.

So I'll continue to sweat it out until Tuesday. My next appointment is on Thursday, so I guess that will be decision time... especially if the kid is a heffer.

think small thoughts in the meantime, kiddies----- I don't even BOWL with a 9 pound ball, ok?

ok... enough on this. me and Baby Huey have to go lay down.

Grass is always greener on the other side of the cervix

yeah.... so maybe not the visual y'all were hoping for, but I was thinking about that today..... you know--- the whole "grass is greener" adage.


By nature I wouldn't call myself a JEALOUS person, per-se. I would say that I'm very aware of my surroundings, and acutely aware of what's going on with other people.


Sometimes this does result in frustrations on my end---- I have too much, I don't have enough... whichever, whatever. But to really soak up and live the word JEALOUS... well, that might be a bit extreme. If something burns my chaps well enough, I'm more likely to get off my butt and make it happen for myself than to piss and moan and vibe ill wills on someone else for having what I want.


But here I am, wanting something that I don't have, (read... baby outside) which could easily and lickity-splitty flip to wanting what I JUST HAD when I no longer have it.

side note--- this does not mean I'm conceding to possibly agreeing with the amazon fatty who said she missed being pregnant. I firmly believe her wanting to be pregnant was out of quests for attention.


Anyways--- what I'm thinking is maybe, just maaaaaybe, I might think it was better when the monster was inside after it comes out. Now, fear not, dear reader--- I promise I will make NO said attempts to get it back inside.... but--- doing the math... I can see the positives for having the devil inside.

less messy.... more quiet..... easy to keep an eye on..... feeding time presently makes BOTH of us happy....


aaaaaaah, but the list seems short. I still think that the kid on the OUTSIDE is the far better scenario.... at the very least more interesting. I may have a different opinion once the beast actually learns to talk.... but I have a few more months before I need to worry about that. Right now, I need to set the table---- it's time for another tea party.

Suck it, Tri-Star!!!

ok---- so I've come to the conclusion that I may never answer the phone again. EVER.

ditto with the front door, but I'll get to that.


I really DO love to talk on the phone. any of my girlfriends can attest to that, as can my husband when he's at work creating meeting to go to just so I'll finally hang up. But there exists an evil in the phone industry called "Out of Area" and its sidekick "Private".


Not only are these two people MY arch enemies--- they plague many other innocents at every possible hour of the day.

No-- they're not unstoppable; I could invest in a fancy number blocker that requires people to state their name and numbers before being allowed to disturb the peace in the Johnson Manor. But let's face it--- I'm cheap.

so I don't answer the phone. EVER.


Well, that's not true; I have actually risen from my gorge-fest (or movie, or slumber, or some other sacred home activity that should ordinarily not be disturbed) to take a peek at the number on my phone. If I recognize it--- I'll answer it!

But 9 times out of 10, it's Mr O. of A. or Private. So we let the machine pick up.


On our machine, we sound pleasant, and we assure people that if they leave a message we'll call them back. And for the most part that holds true--- but does O of A or Private ever leave a message? nope. they just wait another 2-10 minutes and call back.

I'm on to their game, and personally, I don't want what they're selling. I know it's not creditors or debt collectors calling--- my husband and I have paid our haunting credit debts, and are in good credit standing now. Besides... creditors ALWAYS leave messages.

but night after night, day after day--- the calls come... as soon as the machine picks up; they hang up. well --- screw you, too, buddy!!


SO back to my point. this past weekend, we had some friends visiting. Not wanting to appear like lazy people who have disassociated ourselves from the world, I actually answered the phone when they were here.

BIG MISTAKE.

Pregnancy, 2 friends you haven't seen in about 2 years, their 2 children ages 3 and 1 1/2, a hungry husband and a woman talking 1000 miles an hour on the phone do not mix well in the comprhension boutique, if you catch my drift. So while I thought I was agreeing for her to call me back at 6pm on monday, I was setting up some appointment for a guy to drop blah blah blah a travel voucher blahbitty blah for a 3 night stay in some hotel somewhere blah blah tropical or local places to choose from.

Can I hang up yet?


Moral of the story is--- the guy did NOT show up at 6pm last night. he showed up at 8:30pm. while I was in the middle of putting my prodigal child's dresser together. His 20 mintue demonstration of some Tri-star vacuum cleaner took approximately 3 hours. While the invention was quite wonderous, and my husband and I were dually impressed with its sucking power and disgusted at how much dirt was actually in our carpets, this poor kid would not leave.

I say poor kid cause he had red hair, and would surely be beaten by SOMEONE in the near future for not taking $3000 from us for one of these sucking machines. he also was about 7 feet tall and awkward as a teenager on a first date.... but my pity level only goes so far when someone stays in my house for 3 hours trying to push something on me that we can't afford.

SO dear reader--- if you call me.... leave a damn message. More importantly, if you're visiting us--- don't give us dirty looks cause we don't answer the phone. otherwise, we'll schedule the next demonstration at YOUR house.

I'm no better than a Drug Dealer

SO if there's anything I've learned about working for the Make-Up Mafia, it's that there was a mix up in the Reno Division of Ego Handouts.

Why is it that I find that the prettiest girls that come to my counter have the lowest self esteems, whereas the most haggard of two-bit whores tend to not realize that THEIR roses smell like Poo-poo? (Thank you, Outkast)

The other thing that truely amazes me is how much money women will pay to acquire someone else's definition of beauty. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with cleaning yourself up and presenting yourself as best you can, but the extreme measures some women go through is just crazy. I mean, let's face it---- if you're in or beyond your 40's, chances are, you might get a wrinkle or two.

that happens when you smile sometimes, ya know.


but they come in droves, armed with their credit cards to purchase and slather on products that will seemingly stop Father Time. And I'm a greedy commission hungry fool, so I help them. I create morning and night skincare regimes, I personalize their color story to highlight their eyes and draw attention to their voluptuous lips.... I push and pimp products like some common Brooklyn Street Hustler.

I used to try to tell women they didn't need this or that, but each time I did, I found I was faced with a crazed stare that could have only meant that if I didn't give it to them they would make me do shots of estrogen til my eyes bled. ---- Of course now, I have the baby to think about, so I give the ladies what they want, and they go away hopeful.


I suppose when this little monster comes out, I'll be happy to be reprieved of my psuedo Drug Dealer status. I won't miss the desparation on the customer's part, and I certainly won't miss having to tell someone that Youth Dew actually smells wonderful. But that mental toying with people.... the suggestive selling..... that's gotten fun. There will be part of me that misses just how far to the edge of their bank statements I can make women go, but hey--- I can always take up that sport again with my parents.

Run for the Border

Today, my dear readers, I'm going to surprise you. For your cyber selection today, I am NOT going to talk about food.


I know--- the blog title is misleading--- and I can CERTAINLY fill the time and space continuum with rants about Taco Hell's latest "get full" campaign... but my attention is consumed with the baby's room.


Last night, my husband and I performed Operation Put the Border Up.


The painting, to my relief, was finished this weekend. There's still some touch-ups to be done, and probably a few more will be seen once the tape is removed, but the big-roller stuff is done.

Knowing how PATIENT I've been these past 32 weeks, you can imagine how frustrated I was to read that paint must be allowed to dry 72 hours before a border application is attempted. (and yes, the directions actually said that) I toyed with pushing the envelope--- much like I do with the idea of reclining my seat or dropping my tray whenever we're trying to land in a plane.


But something stopped me. what if--- what if the room WOULD actually crash and burn if attempted before the paint was fully dry?

--- I'm sure the printed directions assumed a national average climate, not like the desert here in Reno, where there seemingly exists no shade or humidity... EVER.

But alas--- 72 hours passed.


So last night, my darling mate and I got loco on that border. I, of course, insisted we use my new laser level, and about 50 pre-steps were taken before a piece of border was even cut or put near water.... but we did it. (Apologies to the 35 people that called our house last night when we were in mid-dip or pressing, or wiping, or re-adjusting for the 7th time on the first piece..... we were a little distracted, and not in a 'talky' mood)

All in all--- the process was a pain in the ass. But- we got it done, we survived without any physical harm being done to one another, and knowing it's for our little monster, it's all worth it.

I'm just happy our voices get muffled when the kid is in utero ---- otherwise its first words will probably be some variation of "sonnuhvuhbitch!"

Independence Day

So here it is--- July 5th. As chance would have it, yesterday was July 4th--- I know, deep thoughts here, huh? Anyways, the whole 4th of July holiday had me thinking about independence.


no---- not the freedoms our forefathers fought for, or symphonies playing the Battle Hymn Republic (but Glory, Glory, by the way....).... I'm talking about the thoughts of independence from this baby.


I'm getting into the final stretch here, and not to complain or anything, cause this has definitely been a fantastic ride, but... I'm ready for this kid to come out.

I just don't get it. I was talking to this woman who was lamenting about how she wished she was still pregnant. She missed the anticipation... she missed her baby being inside of her. WTF is THAT about???


That's like saying you MISS having your brand new car or toy on layaway!!! I MISS being on a waitlist for the new X box game....


CAN I GET A DUH UP IN HERE????


The only thing I can rationalize from this chick was that she missed being the center of attention and eating all she wants. Cause, if I'm being honest, (and I might as well, since no names have been said) now she's just kinda fat looking, and the baby is getting all the oohs and ahhs.


Not me, buddy.... no way. You see, luckily, I wasn't that pretty to start with. I mean, I'm cute, I guess, but not beautiful or hot, and by no means 'ooh' or 'ahh' worthy. and now---- well, now I'm cute with a baby stuck inside of me. (translate as 'swollen') and I want the thing out.


not for the removal of physical discomfort part, (though that's an added bonus with birth...) but I'm eager to meet this creation of mine!!! I wanna play!!!! I want to know if he or she will be cute, or have to develop a strong personality like their dear ole mom. I want to teach it to read, to manipulate situations, and to be downright likeable.

"I miss being pregnant" ---- my ass. I wanna be a mom. After all--- isn't that the point of all this waiting?

Sobering Thought

I'm guessing there comes a time in every (wo)man's life when you realize that your idea of 'fun' is directly related to the amount of alcohol you've consumed.


I say this, dear reader, because last night pretty much sucked. Oh--- I got my fix of kettle corn, and stuffed a few onion rings in my mouth... there was lemonade (freshly squeezed, of course)..... but there was something..... missing.


what was missing was fun. Now before you get your panties in a bunch and say how I can create my own fun... all the crap that high school guidance teachers tell the dirtbags.... before you do that, I want you to entertain the idea that FUN is not necessarily a notion, an activity, but what I like to call an alcoholic filter.


This filter is a beautiful thing--- it allows you to ignore the fact that no other town in America has a higher concentration of red-necked white trash than the very one you've willingly decided to call home. It allows you to only hear five of the 500 decibels being created from a dirt-laden child two feet away from you.... it also helps you to filter out the apparent and crass stupidity of pretty much everyone. In some cases, my friend alcohol even makes the aforementioned situations funny. It's especially handy in public gatherings--- maybe even moreso in family reunions.


But the point is--- last night was no ordinary Farmer's Market.... well--- perhaps it was. I just saw it through sober eyes. Despite my primal urge of hunger being more than satiated, the farmer's market wasn't as much fun as I remembered it. I suppose there's a lot of other stuff that's 'just not the same' since I've gotten preggo. (which would, of course, explain why my husband and I don't 'go out' as much.)

oh well--- I got my kettle corn. We spent a LOT less money. And--- we were home in time to watch jeopardy. Sometimes you just have to focus on what goes right.