Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Aha, I remembered

What I meant to write last night...things you should never do and/or say to a pregnant woman. Mine eyes hath been opened and mea culpa if I have done any of these to anyone else. Bless them for smiling and pretending like nothing was wrong.

-Never touch a preggie belly, especially a stranger's, unless you have permission to do so. Creepy. It's still my body. I wouldn't want you touching it if I wasn't pregnant, so why would it be okay now? My personal space bubble still surrounds me. Darn kids at school think that I don't mind. It's almost creepier when teenagers do it. What's their deal?

-Never make jokes about a pregger's size. I know I'm the size I am. It's not exactly funny to have skinny people laugh about it. Let me make fun of myself by myself. Men are especially good at this. This is just another clue that they are often inferior in mental quality and capacity. Think about it boys--do girls like to be laughed at about their size?

-Never assume that it's twins. This rather goes along with the last rule. And quit the joking that it will be twins. Again, this is always a guy thing. Seriously, what are you possibly thinking, boys?

-I don't need to hear all of your pregnancy stories unless I ask. Really. This one is generally aimed at older ladies who are for some reason feeling the need to re-live their own pregnancies vicariously through mine. But then again, it's way worse and creepier when my (male) principal decides to tell me all about his wife's very personal problems with her pregnancies. He's definitely lacking some serious ability to filter information.

-Advice is great and fine in context. Random advice gets old and preachy.

-It's great that you care, but you really don't need to ask how I'm feeling (which is inherently different than the proverbial question, "Hey, how are you?" that everyone asks everyone and really means nothing) every day / every time you see me. I think this is more of a personal pet peeve; like I'm going to go into detail about my itchy skin and nose bleeds with random work colleagues.

-Really, no need to help with names unless we're talking about it ('s the whole context issue). We're good. And, my fetus doens't need another nickname. When you have a parasite attached to you, sucking up your nutrients, preventing you from sleeping well, and causing you to avoid the smelly grocery stores like the plague, then you really have earned the right to nickname it whatever you so desire and all will be fine.

This sounds like I've been harboring a lot of irritation. I even sound a bit maniacal. Maybe my next post will be something a bit more lighthearted--evolution of a mouse (really, I will post about this someday) or private/public schools: pros & cons. Suggestions?

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Points I've pondered lately

I'm really glad that the people whom I work with are by and large enjoyable people to be around. But it's going to be a long 4 months of tirelessly not original jokes. Oh look at her--eating two cookies since she's eating for two! Ha! I didn't see you there but then you turned sideways and whoa! Oy vey.

It was fun yesterday to get my checkup and have an unscheduled ultrasound. Without a monstrously full bladder this time, it kinda felt good, like a bit of tummy massage. A nice dark room, only me and the doctor, beautifully clear pictures of the little one made for about 5 minutes of happiness. Apparantly my doctor got a new 3-D ultrasound machine and wanted to try it out, so I got lucky and got to be the guinea pig. We have a little 1-lb. 2-oz. bundle of baby love at the moment. I used to think and kind of still do in a naive sort of way that how I eat now may or may not influence the dessert addictions of the little one in the future, but the way I've been gnoshing on all that I love unrepentently (i.e. several forms of chocolate and sugar), I apparantly don't care anymore. Not quite true, I do care, but I just feel all blubbery on the inside with the thought of not being able to relish in my indulgences. I don't know what kind of motivation I'll ever need to even try to give up my love of sweetness, but apparantly the impending possibility of an extra 60+ pounds doesn't even phase me.

I only have one sweatshirt left that I can still zip up. Even though you know that you're going to be gaining weight and it's a good thing to gain weight and you want to look all cute and round and preggie, it still goes against everything that society tells females we should be. I say goodbye to each piece of clothing one by one that I can't really fit into or use comfortably anymore. It's not like I shouldn't be able to wear this again, but it almost feels like putting away your former self permanently. Maybe that will be my motivation later on...maybe. (Should I note the fact that I'm eating another brownie...mmm and warm...while typing this??)

We have an incredible expanding bed. It's like the Weasley's magic car in the Harry Potter series that doesn't change size on the outside but has an unlimited amount of space on the inside. I remember, ah so fondly, the days of yore when I could sleep on my back and the bed didn't always seem big enough for both Ben and me. Now that I have to sleep on my side, which isn't at all as easy or comfortable as this typically-a-side-sleeper thought that it would be, we've found out that our bed can comfortably (ironically) accomodate not only Ben and me but 2 cats (suddenly they both want to cuddle all night, not just the little one even though she can be more compromising than her fuzzy counterpart who is twice her size) and a huge body pillow. Add in a comforter and a couple of additional blankets and it's veritably womb-like. Maybe that's why the little one was all scrunched up yesterday instead of stretched out...taking after her parentals.

Ben's been really super nice to me lately more often than not. I swear that the nice guy that I married got nicer. He swears that he's the same. I like it.

I really really like the fuzzy orange Weight Watchers mascot--the motivation guy. I also like his theme music.

I know know what kicking feels like. That's a warm fuzzy moment.

My memory is horribler than normal, which is why I just forgot what I was going to write. Sigh. I can understand other side effects. But, I don't understand this one.

"The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose." William Cowper (an homage to my Romantics class for this semester even though no one will get this but me)

Tuesday, January 13, 2009


I have a crush on kitchen gadgets, appliances and bowls. When I recently found a $20 gift card for Bed Bath & Beyond that I received for Christmas 2 years ago (thankfully, they don't expire), I was in a lovely state of happy planning. What to get? What to contribute this toward? What to add to my collection that Ben swears is too big as is. I only have 16 varying sizes andy types of mixing bowls. How could that possibly be too many?

I literally spent 2 or 3 nights last week searching through their internet site (after making an actual trip to the BB&B store) in hopes of trying to decide on what to spend my newfound wealth. Even more problematic, the online shop now carries all sorts of things (i.e. baby items) that it doesn't in the store itself. Indecision reigns supreme with me sometimes.

However, I finally found a gadget that I've been wanting for 2 years at least, and it was around $20 exactly. (In fact it was $18 something after the 20% off coupon that I used, forcing me to purchase a $4 bar of awesome crunchy, dark, Lindt chocolate (with a mousse filling...mmmm) to use up the rest of the card.) So I used my dishwasher safe potato ricer last night to make mashed potatoes. Mind you, all of the food network chef-ies claim this tool is essential to make the best mashed 'tatoes ever, so with some amount of faith, I gave it a go. Oh My Mashed Potato Goodness. So good. So good. So GOOD. I'm a potato ricer believer.

"Preach not to others what they should eat, but eat as becomes you, and be silent." Food for thought. Epictetus

Saturday, January 10, 2009

My take on the famous scene in A Christmas Story

After doling out big, luscious scoops of Breyers mint chocolate chip ice cream (mmmm.....what a fantastic surprise!), in fact after scooping through an entire "half gallon" (p-shaw) of ice cream, my ice cream scoop was creamy and delicious looking. In fact, it was delicious looking enough to lick. I mean, you're not human if you can resist the temptations of certain delights--beaters laced with cake batter (the flavor is fairly incosequential), wooden spoons used to stir brownies (50 times, no more and no less), and scoops dripping with half melted ice cream (lucky you if there are any chunks of the chocolate sticking to the metal as well). Basically, I had an enticing treat awaiting my tongue. Of course, to be fair, I had a bowl with ice cream in it waiting for me, but why forsake the tasty treat that no one else would be allowed to partake in? Bless the scooper.

At any rate, after scooping through an entire "half gallon" of Breyers mint chocolate chip ice cream that suddenly made an appearance at my house, my scoop was oh so ice cream-y cold. I licked that scoop before it lost its creamy appeal. But, it's kind of a deep bowl, and my lip touched the top of it. And it was by this point and frigidly cold scoop. My lip got stuck to the ice cream scoop. Que embarrasing. (I am also, of course, embarazada, but that was another post.) It actually hurt to rip my lip from the scoop. Who else do you know who has ever gotten a bloody lip from an ice cream scoop. Only me. Only me.

It's not quite like licking the hot end of the lighter to get that last bit of melted sugar, though. Or sticking the hot end of a car lighter to your nose to see if it actually got hot. But still funny for those who aren't bleeding.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

19 weeks

I've been meaning to take a picture and post it here so that my peeps who don't live around me (i.e. all of y'all) can see the chubber preggie me. At least I'm past the point where it's nebulous whether or not I really am, so the is-she-or-is-she-just-fat-off-of-french-fries looks are no more. :-) Here I am, in all of my 19 weeks glory. I probably gained a couple more pounds tonight, though. Mmmm, I love good food.