Once More...With Feeling.

It's Hard Out Here for a Caucasian

I, too, become distressed when Trader Joe's runs out of arugula.

White People Problems

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Do I What?

For those of you who don't look at my Flickr photos or are not one of my many (Oh, so, SO MANY!*) besties on Facebook, the current situation is this:

I'm pregnant.

Twenty-three weeks tomorrow, to be exact.

For the majority of these past 23 weeks, it's been a pretty easy going pregnancy...that is, until mid-March hit and my health decided not to play it cool anymore (most of which were your virus/upper respiratory related crap, not the kid). March made me its bitch,  landing me in more doctors' offices then I have seen in the past 5 years combined (at least). For that, I'm telling March to go fuck itself and begging April to be "the cousin for me".  I have a post written in my head about March, but  I'll save it for later.

Instead, I ask your indulgence for  the Weird Shit/Advice People Say to the Knocked Up .

Alright, so technically thus far I haven't gotten too much with the weird shit because my change in girth has only just started to look the part and my weight gain negligible. Therefore, my temporary "celeb status" at work, of being the only one in the "delicate state",  hasn't really hit its full stride just yet.

I did, however, receive this gem....which...I'll let you judge:

    Gal at work (had baby last year), walking towards me and I her: So, are you waddling yet?

    Me: Um, no.

I've read many a site and comments about stupid shit people say to pregnant women, but this, to my best recollection, is a first.

And, let's connect the dots here, shouldn't the Gal at Work be able to empirically derive whether or not I am waddling? Particularly given that I was, you know, WALKING TOWARDS HER?

I think this Gal at Work (GaW) is excited for me, but man, ...I dunno. Weird. And I know I wasn't going to be immune to The Stupid Shit (and I bet I could have made a comment that chapped someone a little despite my best intentions) but seriously? Do I WADDLE? 

Not quite on the High Score List for originality,  but she was also was the same woman who, when she asked what I was taking for maternity leave, I said 12 weeks (I think that's my plan anyway), laid into me that I should be taking more!, 12 is not nearly enough!, it goes by too quick!, for the first 6 weeks she felt like crap trying to heal!, you need to bond with baby!, and so on.

Well, maybe she is right.  I mean, she could be. I just hope she doesn't freak when I forward her my mortgage bill.

Anyway, I open the comments to add your gems, either directed at you or crap you've heard second/third hand.

* okay - FINE, I come from a large family.  WHAT OF IT?

(My) Old Man and the TV

My Dad came to visit us kids this past weekend.  He ended up staying at my house for his last night and  we hung out just the 2 of us for awhile before heading to bed, having a serious conversation about some stuff going on in his life.  Generally speaking, he's not the most open fella about his "feelings", but he was making an effort and I just listened because that is what I do.  Also, it's polite.

Because I have inherited my Dad's piss-poor hearing, or maybe because I didn't want to accidentally A.D.D.-it, I turned the television's volume down so I could focus.  When we hit that point that signaled "important conversation over", MAD TV was on, and I turned it back up so we could watch (to my memory, nothing else was really on at this time, and decided it was good enough for the next 20-30 minutes before I went to bed).

The first full sketch that we were met with...there are no words.

It was about a married couple (wife played by Nicole Sullivan), and the missus was attempting to have a conversation with the hubs about their sex life, specifically,  her issue with him and his Pavlovian response to anything indicating oral sex.  As she is trying to address her issue (and it's made clear the second she mentions it), is that he aggressively takes her by the back of her head and pushes her to his stuff.

This site gag (uh, whatever) is repeated ad nauseum with every double entendre spoken, be it with wifey, the flower delivery guy (whose name: BJ), and both of the wife's in-laws who stop by.

I don't know about you, but watching a sketch about blow jobs with your dad?  It's not high on my list of things to do....yeah, ever. 

So we're both sitting there, not saying a word, and I'm thinking, channel change? (if I knew Rock of Love Bus repeat was on, I would have), express view that this bit is, like, so lame? ignore it and play it cool for one lousy sketch?

I went with the last one. I am really hoping Freud doesn't have anything to say about this, because, ew.

Our Summer Preview

A much needed trip to Naples, Florida from last week.  More (actual content*) to follow, but thought I would humor some folks so they don't have to see that wedding picture for another day.

*Am not even lying this time.  I even have a topic: How this blogger not blogging brought down the financial markets (oops, my bad).

This day in history...365 days ago to be exact....(and oh look, girlfriend posted something new!)

I did this:

 

And some of you were like:

Wtf?

So you mean you aren't a lesbian? But you play soccer. Huh.

Sure you're not pregnant or something? 

How did this not turn into a wedding blog?

Did Mike lose a bet? He lost a bet, didn't he.

Well,  I didn't respond then, but I can now: OMFG!!!1!, No, No- I think you're confusing that with basketball (not that there's anything wrong with playing basketball...or being a lesbian), Beats me, No, he didn't lose a bet,  he WON me in a bet, thanks.

Anyway, wow, a whole year of wedded bliss.  So something to write about and now you nice people can GET OFF MY ASS ALREADY.

(oh yeah, didn't I ask for suggestions some time back? heh. this is awkward.)

Recent conversations  between us that have amused me...

Convo 1: After him expressing that this is the first year he really didn't know who he was going to vote for (he usually votes one way), I offered that there's always the write-in.

Me: "well, there's always that fella - whats-hisface - Ron Paul . He's got a following, right?"

Him: "Hey, if I'm gonna do the write-in, I'm gonna do the write-in..."

Me: Meaning you're gonna swing for the fences? Like, "The Fat Guy from P.M. Dawn"?

Him: Yeahhh.

Convo 2:

Me: [interrupting him watching Bears/Falcons game] seriously, I need to you drag me away from the TV right now.  I'm watching (on Lifetime) Confessions of a Go Go Girl.  I'm not even kidding. And I'm getting sucked in. Help. Meeee. (using trademarked Owen lisp) Pwwease, Mike, PWEEEASE.

Him: Oh, I believe you.  Y'know, you could always just change the channel.

Me: Uh, I KNOW THAT, but how do you think I ended up watching the entire True Confessions of a Hollywood Starlet [featuring Joanna "Jojo" Levesque]that was on right before it. I thought I could walk away from that one, but I couldn't.  I have been Lifetime free for 3 years....totally blown in one night.

(I ended up catching the end, by the way - and by God, was it as bad as you would think it would be. Couldn't spot that acting class monolgue GoGo Girl ends up giving at the end a mile away.)

Convo 3 (this morning):

Me, my back slightly disabled from yesterday's soccer game, and displying some difficulty putting on clothing south of my belly button:

Him: What the hell is wrong with you?

Me: Uh, yeah, today's really off to a banner start. I had trouble putting on my underpants. Not faring much better with these either.

Him: [grabs top of pants, yanks upward]

Me: Hey buddy- ya wanna take it easy?  I have a crotch.

So there you go...a post. On my anniverary. Ending with the word Crotch.

You are most welcome.

Sorree Libby, You Tigah Now.

COME THE FUCK ON, Bridget!

What's that the kids say when the ball rolls into another team's field? "Lil' help?"

yeah - I need you help.

Am. blocked.

No, not like that. (though most days you'd be right)

I mean, writer-blocked.

So, where you come in...questions for me? Ideas? Something you want to hear?

Am totally whoring myself out for you. My public. My friends. My.....soulmates. (you're my density, ...I mean - destiny!)

Just be breezey.  This site doesn't cure cancer or anything.

Winner of best of ideas, wins A Major Award.

And by major award, I just recently rediscovered the worst picture of myself and maybe I'll allow you to caption it.

For reals.

Listen- I'd help you out. Or maybe I have already.  Be mah friend.

Jesus. H, people.

Chip-chop-chip.

Thanks.

In the spirit of things that ARE a good read as of late (unlike these digs), might I walk you over to this gem about butter. And kitchen drawers. Burberry cars. oh yah, and arson.

Not your mama's babysitter

It's never too early to teach them the importance of proper pretty summer feet.

Sar, age 5.5.

If only the Mileys and the Jamie Lynns and the Vanessas knew just how little it took to freak out their target audience.

I have to say I consider myself very fortunate to live in the little neighborhood that I do.  It's nothing fancy, everybody's cool, people actually talk to each other, take in each other's mail if you're away,  and (*gasp*!) hang out with each other from time to time. I really like where we landed for this being our first house because Lord knows, it can be a total crap-shoot.

Of all the neighbors, Mike I and probably speak most often with the neighbors to our left (henceforth NTOL).  They're a fun couple with 3 kids: 1 boy who just turned 13, and twins, a boy and girl,  who just turned 11. The daughter of NTOL is a tougher version of me at that age.  In fact, I would go so far to say we even look like we could have been related, if I could transport the 1984 version of myself to 2008: very thin, lanky, light brown bobed-hair, quiet in front of adults, not a girly-girl and sports minded.  The exception to our eerie similarities is that she is can probably kick the crap out of the boys her age, maybe even older, and I was only capable of hurling a few insults... in my mind.  Somehwat due to my perceived Mini-Me of Me, I have tried to make some kind of connection to her, thinking she might like having a sporty lady neighbor who's not too old and kind of cool-type to talk to, or kick a ball around with or perhaps just a "Hey, what's up?" amidst the karate kicks she wielding on her brothers' friends' breadbaskets.  For the most part, no luck.

The girl is a soccer player, and was having some new issues crop up this year, namely with being afraid of the ball being kicked at her.   Her dad, who's also her coach, asked her if he could get Mrs. F (that would be me, although they now know I go by my long last name and not Mrs. F) to work with her, would she be down with that idea. She nodded feverishly and said, "yeah, yeah!"  So I did and despite my best jokes and easy going manner, she didn't say a word to me the entire time. 

As weeks went by I would try to engage her in conversation.  I would ask her about her games ("I heard you did well today." response: a head nod, I would respond to the nod, "Ya know, you CAN use your words with me.") and I would play basketball with her and talk trash the entire time. See me? Easy breezy.

Then one day came and out of the blue, in front of her pals, without her parents in sight, she SPOKE to me.  Really, it was such sweet vindication.  She told me about her game that she won, and a few other things I can't recall, but it was like, finally, girl realizes I'm not going to eat her brains.

Fast forward about a month, one of the hottest and humid nights of the summer so far, and the neighbors knocked on our door and asked if we want to come over for a beer and a swim.  Seeing as the temperature inside our house was what felt like 85 degrees (with the fans going), the air the consistency of pureed soup, I was all, "UH, WOULD I?"

Immediately I put on my suit, found a sixers-worth of beer for the cooler and walked over.  Seriously, if I could have married that pool that night, I would have.

Later, over a beer, Mrs. Neighbor said to me, "You know, when you first got into the pool, T. came running in to the house and over to me,  'Mrs. Lil-uh,...uh..Mrs. Fra.......JEN'S WEARING A BIKINI!!!'"

So, to sum up, an 11 year old girl saw me in a bikini (many! exclamation! points!!!).  I really hope this....this atrocity hasn't set back our relationship 10 paces.  I really don't want to go back to deciphering the tween's grunts again.

Quotes from the Potty Training Seat, The Libinator, age 2.5

Lib: Mommy! Mommy! I did it! I did it!

The Mom: [inspects Shorty's port-o-can] Uh, no you didn't. Not even a drop.

Lib: Oh.....[thinks about things] I try again.

____________________________________

(While handily courting the fruit snack bribe from Mom)

Lib: I'll take my fruit snack now.

Mom: When you've gone potty you can.

Lib: You can get it ready for me. ('get it ready' for her?)

Mom: Libby, when your done, I'll give you a fruit snack.

Lib: You can give it to me now. I'll just hold it.  Trust me.

( "you'll just hold it"? "Trust me"?? Uh...no.)

_____________________________________

On two separate occassions from her Aunt Kate and her mom, it's been asked what kind of underpants she wants.

So Lib, what kind of underpants to you want?  You want Princess? Dora?...

Lib: RED.

Yeah, I can't wait to see how this one grows up.