Things don't change THAT much

It seems like the one common saying I've heard throughout my 7 1/2 month sentence of parasiteville is that (cue the music)


THINGS WILL CHANGE...

when the baby is born. Like some Ominous Cloud will form the day the monster is pushed out---- water will separate, four guys on horses will come riding in--- oh wait. wrong monster.


But seriously--- everyone seems to be under the adage that having a baby changes everything. Don't get me wrong; I appreciate the immature thought behind this saying. I realize that a LIFE will be dependent on my husband and me for the next 60+ years, be it physically, emotionally, FINANCIALLY, or some combination of all aforementioned and more.

But HOW freaking stupid do you have to be to think that it happens when the uterine growth finally comes out?????


while I'm at it--- how unconscious does someone have to be to not recognize that life changes ANY time something is added or deleted to one's life? Am I the only one who took Algebra?????


LIFE changes when you learn how to walk. Life CHANGES when you learn how to drive. When you learn about the opposite sex. when you go to college. when you move out. when--- GASP---- you have to pay bills. (on your own, that is....)


Not to throw a big "neener neener" at the world of ignorants, but seriously--- NO SHIT, SHERLOCK! My life changed the minute I knew I was going to marry Troy. No more independent-thinking 'oh he's just some guy I know' thinking for me. This man became my partner. I knew and accepted the challenges of compromise, forgiveness, give and take WELL before I walked down the aisle.

SO why should things be so drastically different with a child? my life changed the minute I knew I wanted to be a mother someday. It changed when my husband and I decided we wanted to go forward and BRING a child into this world. It changed when I turned around after flushing one day to see a blaring pink line on a piss stick.

I guess what I'm saying is you really have to be under a rock to think that things will change drastically once a baby is born. there is no ON/OFF switch or magic lamp that turns on when a baby arrives. In my opinion, it's kinda like a sunrise. --- God isn't stupid, ya know.... I think He was on to something when He made pregnancy last 9 months, kids not walk until after they've been crawling, and several other small wonders beyond this blog. In other words, dear reader--- shit's changing all the time.

If you can't tell the changes that go on in your life on a regular basis, well, I guess you're one of those wise sages that runs around telling people like me about the major changes coming my way. --- Do me a favor, will you? Go home and wait for someone to turn a light on for you. At the very least, there'll be one less shitty driver on the road for me to worry about.

I'm a weenie.

ok--- I admit it. I've reached a new level of shame for myself.


I'm a big weenie.


I went to the dentist yesterday, and it was the most horrific experience of my life so far.


Had I known how much MORE painful the direct scraping of my gums would be while preggo, I would have waited on this appointment. Seriously--- I mean; I've gone more than 6 months of no dentist before... try like 3 years!!! And yes, the first visit back really sucked ass, but I was allowed to pop some advil afterwards, naturally washing them down with several Jack and Gingers.

But being the new-improved, 50% more free mom-to-be... I kept my appointment. I don't want cavities.... I want my in-utero monster to know that Mommy takes care of her teeth cause she wants to set a good example. MOMMY can handle a simple dentist appointment, and she can do it without silly little pills or alcohol as a reward, even though she hasn't been flossing like she should, and has been neglecting her back molars due to the gagging reflex her gigantic sonicare causes, and knows that this month's cleaning is going to be especially rough.


So I went, and didn't eat anything prior to prevent any queasiness from the barrage of tools about to spend time in my mouth, or possibly that distinct yummy latex taste. Nothing like the taste of latex in the morning.


I threw up three times.


for a basic cleaning.



HOW IN HELL AM I GOING TO HANDLE BIRTH?????????


Granted, the whole birth thing doesn't happen in my mouth, and there ARE drugs allowed in THAT party, but still..... bleeding gums is probably a walk in the park compared to the Vietnam that's going to come out of me with the monster's arrival, and there's a LOT less stretching, cutting and/or ripping involved with dentists.


I keep hoping I'll wake up some morning and there'll be a child in our bed. It's not that I don't want to go through with the whole birth process (oh, ok--- twist my arm--- you caught me. I really wouldn't mind skipping it altogether) but my theory is--- the monster isn't going to remember. Why should I have to?

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.

You win some, you lose some

well--- so much for my glory days of high-fiving doctors.

I had my 2-week appointment today (currently at 33 weeks in this pregnancy) and the scales (despite wearing clunky high heels) did NOT lean in my favor.


I lost another 6 pounds.


Just like that, America's Pregnant Sweetheart turned into Mommy Dearest. There were no lauds.... there were no smiles.... just those damn smug receptionists looking at me like I'm intentionally starving my baby.

My doctor isn't TOO concerned, but he was stumped how I could lose so much weight. The tie breaker will be when I go back in 2 weeks, he says.... but I know it won't be good if I'm not up again.


I just don't know how I can eat anymore. Murry has filed a stalking suit against me, and I'm on a first-name basis with the girl at the pretzel counter at the mall. People at my food store are suspicious that I'm casing the joint, cause I keep showing up when the bakery section is putting out new bread. In fact, I feel guilty now as I type, cause I'm not eating at the same time. God forbid I'm burning calories with my fingers, and not ingesting 3x the amount simultaneously.


Well, like the two hopefuls on jeopardy each night, I will find a way to beat Ken. I will be heavier in two weeks.... even if it means stuffing my pockets with jars of tomato sauce before I step on the scale.

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!"

I-Heart-Murry

There's no question about it. I'm in LOVE with Murry.

If I had a pair of sneakers on right now, I would be doodling big goofy bubble hearts with Murry's name in the middle of them.


I just wish I knew who the guy was so I can personally go up and kiss him.


You see.... Murry is the maker of my french toast sticks. my beautiful, delicious, mouth-melting cinnamon french toast sticks. .... I'm positive every pregnant girl should have her own case, cause these things are amazing!!!


Ready in just one minute of prepared by microwave, these delectable sticks of sweetness just beg to be eaten by anyone with an appreciative mouth. Even now, at a little past 6am, I'm wondering what type of wine would go good with these critters. I'm thinking a hearty red like a cabernet to compliment the sweetness.

I can't explain my fascination with this processed food--- all I know is I must heed to the call. The BABY certainly likes them.... and it figures--- I just looked at the box this morning; apparently there's about 25% of the RDA for FAT in each serving. (which also makes me wonder who really makes up these insane portion sizes... I mean--- why would I only eat FOUR at a time when I can CLEARLY polish off six or seven at a time?!?!?!??)

I know I should be scared that I'm obsessing about a mythological figurehead--- but you can't tell me there hasn't been a time in a LOT of guys' lives that they haven't given Mrs. Butterworth a second look.

So Murry--- wherever and WHOever you are--- thank you. I may be repulsed by the very thought of french toast sticks when the tapeworm comes out, but for now and the next 8 weeks or so--- you are my hero.

Paint me Crazy

So within every relationship, there exists a need for some compromise, and perhaps.... just perhaps, some sacrifice.


Today is quite possibly the first time in the 10+ months I've been married that I feel my marriage is being tested.


maybe not even the marriage, as much as my sanity, but something is being tested, that's for sure.


My husband is painting the baby's room.


Now--- by nature, I'm a few eggs short of being a full-on perfectionist. I could easily blame this on my parents like everyone else in America does when they have a trait about themselves that sometimes doesn't seem to work to their advantage. But the truth is I've embraced this urge for perfection on many levels.

My husband is very much like me--- if I even go NEAR a computer with him around, I literally can see the hairs on his neck and arms standing up straight as he twitches from all the things I'm 'not doing right'.


BUT---- we're anal about different things. most of the time this works out great for us--- he's a bit pickier about how the bathrooms and house in general are cleaned.... so I let him do it. I cover the food and social interactions, and so on and so forth. we work. we fit.

but let me repeat---- he's painting the baby's room. as we speak.


I know you're thinking that it should be no big deal--- you buy paint, you put it on the walls. but you see---- painting is one of my things. it always has been. be it crayons on my radiator, markers on my body, or nail polish on just about everything--- there is a history with me and painting. it's what I do. It's what I LIKE to do.


I'm sure the room will turn out fine--- he *IS* a capable 34 year old who has two degrees---- it's just tough sitting back with my extra six pounds and watching him without saying anything. BUT--- I can do it.... it is, after all, a test, isn't it? At the very least, I know I get to put the furniture together.

"It's the Plumber---- I've come to fix the leak!"

So I like to troll around on the internet when I'm not pushing cold creams on the wrinkled faces of Reno....


There's a group of girls I've come to know--- quite a bunch, they are, they are! Anyways--- we co-miserate about the trials of pregnancy, spouses, relatives, strangers.... well, hell--- we talk about everything.


Anyways, given how far along a lot of us are, the topic today turned to leakage. Yes, dear reader... I said it. LEAKAGE.

FROM BREASTS.


I don't care what who says---- I understand it's a NATURAL process, and when a woman breast feeds, she ends up over-flowing, if you will. But some girls are starting to leak early.... and one woman said she STILL leaks occasionally, and her kid hasn't hit the tap in over a year!!!! Natural or not--- I still find this whole idea pretty nasty!!!

We already know my aforementioned 6 pound gain has me feeling like a cow--- but to REALLLLLLY resemble one???? this is got to be in the evidence files that God really has a sick sense of humor.


But yes--- we're back to natural and all that happy horseshit. what IN HELL looks natural about this picture??? (Marilyn Manson, please hold your comments at this time.....)


I thought the single-boob pump contraption was intimidating, but this thing--- whoa, nelly----- now I know what a few of the guys I studied engineering with have been up to.

THIS IS NOT A CELL PHONE, PEOPLE!!!! Must we REALLY have a hands-free model????


I just---- I just..... I just don't know what to say. I'm baffled at the concept that in addition to this piece of bondage, that my local Babies R Profit store has about TWENTY different contraptions like this on a shelf. WITH ACCESSORIES!!!!

If I'm going to leak, then fine--- I'll do it for the good of my country. (or at least for the good of kid that better come out in 9 weeks or less) But after looking at pictures like this... I think I'm going to do the most natural thing of all.....

I'll stay at home in my tub until my boobs stop leaking. I mean--- after all.... that IS why they invented take-out, right?

A Heavy Issue

so anyone that knows me knows that I've been having a tough time gaining weight for this pregnancy of mine.


I ended up losing a lot of weight in the beginning, and finally at the halfway mark, I started putting on the pounds. BUT--- the only feedback I've gotten from the Doc is that I should eat more.


They've given me fat pills, they've put me on a diet (one that includes a sick amount of food that was impossible for me to ingest all in one day at first).... and every week, as I slowly creeped up the scale.... my progress was met with a "that's nice, but you need to eat more".

SO.... I've turned into a human garbage disposal. I eat more food consistently throughout the day than probably my dad, brother AND husband combined. I'm no longer having a baby; I'm having a machine. or perhaps a tapeworm. or perhaps a fresh turkey with all the fixin's cause at the rate I eat, this child will be over ten pounds.

So today, I had my 31-week appointment. I have them every two weeks now, you see.... and theoretically..... I should be gaining one pound a week.


today, my dear reader, I measured in at SIX POUNDS higher than I was 2 weeks ago. SIX POUNDS!!!!!

"hi, my name is Carrie, and I'm more than a bag of potatoes heavier than I was 2 weeks ago"

While the rational side of me finds this slightly disturbing that my body can accustom to such a rapid weight gain, there's the side of me longing to be told I'm doing something right. SO while I'm quickly becoming the next case study in "Super-Size Me", episode II, I was secretly happy that the doctor actually high-fived me.

Dream On

From what I gather, there's really only a percentage of people who can regularly remember their dreams.


granted, a percentage can be defined as .00001% or something sick like 95%, so I guess the above sentence is pretty much useless to anyone who really give a shit. But I digress--- I was just making conversation.


Anyways--- so this undefined amount of people exist that really regularly remember their dreams. I'm one of those people.


My husband seems to be one of those folks too, but he doesn't always remember his dreams. (so maybe he's NOT one of those people, as I don't know how often you have to remember to be considered one of them)

again--- digression. Did I MENTION that I've come down with some serious A.D.D. since getting preggo???

but the point is--- what the hell are dreams supposed to mean???? I know there's books and actual people who get paid to interpret dreams, but really..... is there significance that I was eating pizza and burned tator tots while waiting for my husband to come inside with the movie tickets??? Or why, later in the dream, my brother and I did paper mache at my grandmother's funeral????

I used to blame my dream oddities on the drinking, but we all know THAT hasn't been an excuse lately..... Maybe it's just time for me to admit I'm more like my mom than I thought.

That in itself doesn't scare me TOO much--- it's the idea of being called a black pig that really gets me worried. ??????

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?