Just Shut Up....

So, my darling husband says to me last night:

Him:  "So, do you need to take your rings off soon?"
Me:   "Um, what?"
Him:  "Well, you said that your hands were getting swollen.  I figured you would have to  
         take your rings off soon.  I don't want them to have to cut the rings off you."

I have no idea who "them" is, or why they go around cutting people's rings off their fingers, but at this point I'm having the idea that this is another of husband face's insult-laden bits of stupidity.

Me:  "Honey, my hands are getting swollen because I'm pregnant, not because I'm getting
        fatter.  Swelling goes up and down.  Don't worry about it."
Him:  "They do that when you get in a car accident you know.  Cut your rings off."

Holy crap, now he's off on his own little tangent.  Best to back away slowly now before he remembers he was trying to make another fat joke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Later that evening......

 

I'm about to take a bath.  My husband, as horrible as he can be when he opens his mouth, was sweet enough to clean the tub for me after his little bathroom tear-down project.

 

In case anyone was unaware (all 3 of you), I'm about 18 weeks pregnant.  I'm starting to show.  I have also definitely gained 15 lbs. and I'm really unhappy about it. 

 

Our bathroom is still in disarray thanks to hubby's little rip out the floor and put in a new one project.  They still aren't done.  So, while I can use the bathtub, there are tools all over the place and I'm not allowed to get ANY water on the floor.

 

So, to avoid the likelihood that I will leave my dirty clothes on the bathroom floor and chance my father-in-law spying my under garments the next day, I got undressed in the bedroom.

 

As I'm taking my socks off (the last article) husband says "I see a pregnant chick".  I'm thinking "oh, good job sweetheart, want a cookie?"

He says "I see a pregnant slut".

 

I do not know where this stuff comes from.  I don't know if that was his idea of dirty talk.  I don't know if he thinks about these things before they come out of his mouth.  I'd like to think he doesn't, so it doesn't look as hopeless for me.

 

So, instead of entertaining whatever-the-fuck he was up to, I walked away and got in the tub.

 

It was glorious.



Turkey and Disappointment

(picture courtesy of http://gobbl.us/)

I have no idea what I was thinking.  I have 13 people coming to my house to eat food tomorrow.  This is completely ridiculous.  Thank GOD that most of Husband's family cancelled.  Not that I don't want to see them. Just that four more people would require a third dining table.  Two is plenty.

We usually do Thanksgiving at my mother's house.  My Aunt and Uncles and Cousin join us, and we all cram around their dining room table, unable to eat without elbowing one another, while we look down at the whelping box full of month old puppies that's right next to the table.  They're all cute and stuff, but they shit everywhere and, well, it's not such a nice aroma to go with the stuffing and mashed potatoes.

For the last couple of years I've had to bounce between my parents and Husband's parents.  Go eat some dinner at 1:00 at his father's girlfriend's house, then go try to eat again at my mother's at 4:00.

In an attempt to consolidate everyone, and make it so I don't have to try to stuff down two separate Thanksgiving dinners, I suggested we celebrate at our house this year.  I've done this before, so I really don't know why I thought it was a good idea again.  Maybe I have family gathering amnesia, kind of like labor amnesia that women get between kids.  You only do it again because you don't really remember how much pain was involved.

What that means



Guests:
My parents
My brother
My sister, her boyfriend, their daughter
Our roommate
My aunt & uncle
My other uncle
My grandmother
His father
His sister & her baby daughter
(For those who are counting, that's 13 guests.  This doesn't include myself, husband face, or my daughter)

I bought a 21lb turkey.  I actually got the thing for $10 because I'm awesome.  It was the largest turkey they had in the store.  My mother is determined that 21lbs is not enough to feed 16 people.  Maybe she's right.  So she bought another 15lb turkey that she will cook at her house and bring over.

My father is making the stuffing.  He's the stuffing king.  Sausage and celery and chicken broth and who the hell knows what else.  His stuffing rocks.  So he's going to make the stuffing in the morning, stuff his turkey, then bring the rest over to my house so I can stuff my turkey.

I'm making the mashed potatoes.  I also decided today that we should have butternut squash.  Because I'm a glutton for punishment.......and squash.  Since I'm cooking the turkey (or one of them anyway) I'm probably going to have to do the gravy.

My mother is making the green bean casserole.  My aunt is bringing the yams and cranberry sauce.  My grandmother is bringing the rolls.  My father-in-law and sister-in-law are bringing the pie.  My sister is bringing soda. 

That does it right?  Plenty of fucking food?  I actually have issues with serving food.  I'm always horribly afraid that I haven't made enough.  I have a horrible fear of running out of food at a gathering and everyone looking at me like I'm a shitty hostess.

On top of all of the cooking and serving and dishes I will have to do, I have to super clean my house tonight and tomorrow.  Having 7 dogs does not make for a consistently clean house.  I swear that the only reason my husband puts up with having some kind of major get-together at my house nearly once a month is that I'm going to clean like a champ in preparation.

I have to go buy a couple of table cloths.  My dining room table has been painted on, scratched, glued, and otherwise maimed in a number of ways.  My kitchen table has a leaf in it that I intend to make use of.  This leaf is maybe 5 shades lighter than the rest of the table due to never, ever using it.

I have to figure out where to put the mangy mutts.  They make horrible dinner guests.

I've done this before, so I really don't know why I thought it was a good idea again. Maybe I have family gathering amnesia, kind of like labor amnesia that women get between kids. You only do it again because you don't really remember how much pain was involved.

Wish me luck.

(Side note:  to find the picture above, I googled "retarded turkey". The 13th result was a picture of Eminem.  Ah ha ha ha ha)

Update:  I checked out the website I stole the picture from.  It's actually kinda nifty.

Fun with the Family

Last night my mother treated my sister and I to a matinee performance of Twilight Breaking Dawn Part 2.  I'm a closet Twi-hard.  (Tell anyone and I'll slit your throat in your sleep)
I've read each of the books at least twice.  I've listened to the audio books at least once, more than once for a few of them.  I have been to see each movie during opening weekend.

That said, I typically dislike the movies.  I'm a lover of books.  Once I've read the book, if I loved the book as is the case here, I become very disappointed with the movie.  They always leave so much out.  Things that I feel are important to the overall story line (and my opinion is the only one we'll be worrying about thank you).  I usually disagree with the casting choices and I really, really hate it when they add things.

This one time, I didn't hate the addition.  I will not spoil this for anyone interested.  But it was a cool addition.

But this post isn't about the movie.  It's about my evening with my mother and sister. 

The original plan was to leave around 2:00 and grab some lunch before catching the 4:00 movie, which we already had the tickets for.  My family absolutely can not be on time for anything.  It's as if it's not in the stars for us to get any where when we are supposed to be there.

So, after all the fucking around is over with, we finally leave around 2:30.  I feel that, even though this is opening weekend, 4:00 isn't a super popular time to see a movie and so we still have time for lunch.  My mother feels differently.  She wants to be there like 45 minutes early so we can get good seats.

Mom:  "I'm not sitting at sea level.  If we have to sit up front I'll just leave."

Everything, always and forever, is about my mother. 

So we end up at Wendy's.  I hate fast food.  This pregnancy has me eating celery stalks and cheese because I can't stomach grease in any form.  So we get our shitty fast food lunch and sit down (which only happened because I insisted on at least going inside the restaurant instead of hitting the drive thru).

The only person that ate their entire meal was me.  My sister ordered some burger and chili cheese fries.  She took one look at the fries and declared with an up-turned nose that "these are too wet.  I can't eat them".  I've never thought of chili cheese fries as "wet".  Hey, whatever.  I enjoyed mine.

My mother ordered a salad.  She has a tendency to run. her. fucking. mouth.....forever.  She never stops talking.  I actually have to walk out her front door in order to stop the conversation so I can leave.  Even then, she keeps talking.  To no one.

So she's yapping away and opening her salad.  She opens her dressing packet and starts pouring it on the salad.  A couple of tablespoons later she stops and says "God I hope this isn't fucking ranch, I'll have to puke on my salad."

Meanwhile, at the table next to us, a 7 or 8 year old boy looks distressed.

Me: "Mom, there's definitely a little kid right there."
Mom: "Shit, it is ranch."
Me: "Yeah, it's the avocado ranch that comes with that salad."
Mom:  "They never asked me what I wanted for dressing."
Me:  "No, because that's the dressing that comes with that salad.  They assume you want it because you didn't say you didn't."
Mom:  "Well (pushing the dressing coated leaves of lettuce to one side) I'll just eat this side."

This happens all the time.  My mother is never, ever, ever happy with what she orders.  Ever.  It's like a lovely little family ritual now.  We get food, she hates it.  No matter what.  No matter where we are.  She's going to hate something.  I've actually seen her spit food out of her mouth. 

Even taking pregnancy into account, I can recall every time I've had to actually spit food out of my mouth because it was so bad I couldn't eat it.  Every time involved a texture issue.  Like an egg shell in my eggs or an underdone potato in the potato salad.  The potato salad was actually hilarious because I was pregnant with my daughter and walking through the mall eating potato salad from a deli in the mall.  I bit into a potato that wasn't cooked all the way and my gag reflex went into psycho mode.  If I didn't remove the offending potato from my mouth immediately I was going to be the sad, sad person that threw up in a mall garbage can.  All was well in the end.  I didn't have a napkin or anything so I had to actually spit the unfortunate mouthful into said garbage can.  No vomit though so I call that day a win.

If I find an egg shell in my eggs, or something crunchy in something that should definitely not be crunchy (like peanut butter??) I nonchalantly spit my food into my napkin and just stop eating whatever it is, pretending none of it ever happened. 

If I don't much like what I've ordered, I'll still eat it.  I really can't think of ever eating anything that was so un-tasty that I just couldn't eat it.  I'll just avoid ordering it again next time around.

Not my mother.  She once spit hummus right out of her mouth back on to the plate because it was a little spicy.  It was unsettling to watch.  (Like "bleechhh" mouth totally open with a little bit of velocity, but not much.  Fucking gross mom.) And this sort of this is pretty common.   One would think I'd be used to it.  That I would be expecting it.

Nope.  Not this girl.  I'm hopelessly naive about the situation.  So every time this occurs, I'm surprised.  Not as in "I can't believe that happened", but like "I can't believe I didn't see that coming".

Attack of the BLOB!!

So, I didn't really want this to turn into a pregnancy blog.  The same went for the wedding blog concept.  They're not funny.  Only ladies who have had the unfortunate experience of being with child will get a giggle out of any pregnancy related humor.  But, sadly, that's all I have to talk about.

I'm so fat.  This isn't funny.  None of my jeans fit me.  NONE OF THEM!!!  I went from eating like a super model pre-fashion week to squeeeeeze into that wedding dress, to eating like a pregnant chick.  I've gained 10 lbs, and I think it's all in the belly.

Thank god that it's in the belly.  Hopefully this time around I'll look pregnant instead of fat sometime before the 3rd trimester.  Not so much last time.

I'm down to 4 pairs or pants that fit me.  All but one pair are yoga pants.  I refuse to buy maternity clothes.  Firstly, they're freaking expensive.  If I'm going to spend $50 on a pair of pants I'd better be able to wear them for a lot longer than the next 6 months.  Next, I won't quite fit into the damn things yet.  They're all built with a belly panel, and I don't quite have the preggo belly yet.  I really refuse to buy pregnancy clothes in stages.  If I'm going to break down and buy them, they'd better fit for the whole sha-bang.  Lastly, as with many other clothing lines, these designers apparently feel that all pregnant women are 5' 10" and size 2 to 12.  Yes, only tall slender women are attractive enough to get knocked up anyway, so we don't have to make the pants in plus size. 

So I'm going to live in yoga pants.  This is acceptable right?  Last time around I was a teenage pregnant chick running around my senior year in pajama pants.  I didn't give a hoot what I was wearing.  As far as I was concerned the school was lucky I'd decided to wear pants.  I can't really get away with that this time.  You know, I like work and stuff now. 

I'm also a cheap bastard.  So they idea of spending $20 on what I feel double as pajama pants is painful for me.  I'm like "I could make that.  If I had a sewing machine.  Or extra time.  Or ambition.  Oh fuck it give me the pants." 

The husband thinks this is all hilarious. I've written about my surety that he's a masochist in disguise. I've said that I didn't think he was mentally challenged, because what would that say about me? I have changed my mind. He's fucking touched all right.

My dear, sweet, darling husband thinks it's acceptable to make jokes like "have you seen her new shoes? Well she hasn't either". Yeah, fuck you honey.

I had a prenatal appointment last week. I got to keep my pants on this time (woo hoo) but they took 18 gallons of blood. (I really, really hate having my blood drawn. Like I get sweaty, and turn white. Passing out isn't really unlikely, though it has yet to happen.)
I come home from this appointment and sorrowfully tell my husband that I'd gained a total of 10 lbs. since I became pregnant.

His response? "That's it?"
My response? ::SMACK::: upside the head
Him: "What did you hit me for?"
Me: "That's it? Fuck you. If you told me that your penis had shrunk an inch, and I said "that's it?" how would you feel about it?  Prick!"

Maybe that hit home.

Happy...Er....Halloween

I used to love Halloween.  When I was a teenager Halloween was a blast.  It was a dark, and sinister and an excellent excuse to wear fangs to school.  I actually managed to get fake vampire fangs into my yearbook picture.  What school plans picture day on Halloween?  Sounds like they should've expected some of the shenanigans that took place.

Now that I'm a mom, Halloween is a giant pain in the ass.  It was fun while the kid was little.  I'd buy some cute little costume and we'd go out for maybe an hour before she got too tired of walking around, then we would go home and I'd eat most of her candy.
She's 10 now.  The costumes are getting more and more involved.  We made this one.  She is an eagle.  To be fair, we actually made it last year, and she was a snowy owl.  This year we dyed it brown and she's an eagle.  This was her idea, I would've gotten her a new costume.

I also have to argue with the hubby about what the kid will be for Halloween.  She wants to be things like a Snowy Owl, a Hummingbird, a Gnome, the embodiment of peace and love itself.....fucking hippie.  He thinks she should be death, or a zombie, or something extra super scary that only his twisted brain can conceive.

 (I think she should be Pestilence Pony http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIY41LrvMFQ)

This year we had a Halloween party.  My darling husband is all about Halloween.  His favorite movie of all time is Halloween.  He already owns most of the decorations required, including random body parts.  So we had to decorate. 

My idea of decorating is throwing up some orange lights, and maybe some window stickies (maybe).

This year, we went crazy.  I made (yes MADE) ghost lights.  I made hanging ghosts out of cheese cloth.  We made paper mâché pumpkins.  We put up spider garland.  We hung a dummy in the tree out front.  We put a bunch of grave stones in the yard.  There was more.  Lost more.

My daughter had fun though, so I guess that's the whole point.

So today is Halloween and I'm at work.......in costume.  I was supposed to be a vampire but the stupid teeth wouldn't stick.  So I'm just wearing a flowy, black satin and velvet gothic dress that has BIG bell sleeves.  I've owned this dress since I was 16, so I'm rather surprised that it fits at all.  It's tight in the arms though.  The sleeves bell out right at my elbows and that's where it's cutting off my fucking circulation.  It's so uncomfortable.  I feel like I have tourniquets on both of my arms.  Which gets me thinking about getting my blood drawn.  Which makes me queasy. (I'm a pussy about needles.  Which is completely ridiculous.  I have something like 13 piercings in my ears alone.)  I have never been so unhappy that I didn't bring a change of clothes as I am today.  The thought of walking into Walmart in this get-up and purchasing horrible pants just to be able to take this fucking thing off isn't pleasant.  Although perhaps I won't be mistaken for an employee in this outfit.  (I have been somehow mistaken for a Walmart employee on something like 10 separate occasions.  One time is was twice in one day.  And I wasn't even fucking wearing blue that day!!  Oh I think I'll have to write an entire post to explain).

As I walked into the store this morning to get a cup of coffee, some douche bag at the coffee counter says "So I guess you're dressed up."  Oh, you think so fucker?  I surely fucking hope so.  If I came in here, wearing this, on any day besides Halloween, I'd hope you'd call my therapist for me.  But as it is clearly Halloween, you are safe to assume I'm not just an angsty teenager that hates my parents and thinks black makes me look paler.  (I may have been at 16 when I bought the dress, but we're not talking about that now.)

Naming the Gremlin

So....
This post is about the adventure of talking with Me Husband (still trying to replace "Fiance Face"....can't settle on anything) about baby names.  He's an asshole.  I spent a couple of hours going through the endless lists of names that are available on the Internet.  Not hours in a row of course.  Just here and there.
I made a list of maybe 15 names per sex.  Cute names.  Names that weren't so unique I cringed, but names that weren't so common place that there would be 3 more of them in the kid's kindergarten class.  Names like Claire, Aiden, Molly, Ian, Alana, and Evan.
I finally get the courage to show him the list one night (for a bit there I was afraid to say the word "baby" around him).  He glances at it for maybe 5 seconds and starts picking apart my choices. 

H:  Connor?  Molly? Issac?  These are terrible names.
Me:  Really?  You don't like Claire?  Or "Damien"?
H:  "Damien" is my step brother's name.
(Name has been changed, so someday when he finds this blog I can pretend it's not mine)
Me:  You really don't like any of them?
H:  No.  They're awful.  These are like Waldorf names.

Oh here we go again.  My daughter attends a private school.  A Waldorf school.  I'm not going to attempt to dissect Waldorf education just now, but it's a very wholesome, creative, nurturing environment.  They have activities such as knitting, making butter, puppetry, and drawing with block crayons (because life doesn't have lines around it).  I love it.  She loves it.  How many 10 year olds love going to school?  I mean LOVE school.  Are upset that it's summer vacation?  Not many.  But mine does.  She, and the rest of her class, learned to read in like 2 weeks.  One day she's picking out words, sounding out the syllables.  Then like 2 weeks later she was reading with next to no trouble at all.  It's because of the way they go about the process, teaching them the "value" of letters so they can totally wrap their little heads around it.  They also wait until late 2nd grade to start.  As a result the kids are absolutely ready to learn it.

Husband thinks its a fruity, touchy feely, hippie school.  Which it kind of is.  But he doesn't see the value of it.  We have agreed to disagree on this one. 

But in any case....they were not "Waldorf" names (examples, Tobias, Bolosai, Mytraia)  They were not generic names either.  I refuse to raise a John, or a Jennifer.  They weren't trashy names (Destiny, Amber, Dallas).

So I ask him what he had in mind.  Ready for this?  Erma....Herman....Bodack.

I'm sorry, Bodack???

He says "Bodack is a great name".

Now, I'm pretty sure he's kidding.  At least, fuck, I hope he's kidding.  I hope to all things holy or unholy that I didn't marry and procreate with a man that thinks it's totally acceptable to name his child Bodack.  And the best part?  According to him it's a dual gender name.  Ladies and Gentlemen, my daughter, Bodack.

So today, I try again.  I download a baby names app for my phone.  What fun!!
I go through the names.  Holy shit are there a lot of terrible names out there.  I sigh, and click the button that will only show me "popular" names.  This leaves out a lot of the weirder shit.

I find some more that I don't hate (because this is all I can hope for at this point, a name I don't hate.)
Alan, Carly, Kadence, Justin (I guess).

I email him my list from the app (I heart technology).

He responds "Eww, lol".

Fuck you dick.

Me:  This coming from the man that thought up "Bodack".
Dick:  Bodack is a great name.
Me:  It is most certainly not even a name, let alone a great name.  Fucking weirdo.
Dick:  Is too, look it up.
Me:  No, you know what, I believe you.  I've got an app here with thousands of horrible names that are still better than Bodack.
Dick:  Ha Ha good for you.
Me:  Bodack McNamesbeenchanged.  That's catchy.  Tell you what, let's get the kid a guide on how to be a serial killer while we're at it.
Dick:  lol (because he's soooooo creative)
Me:  That sounds like the kind of name that a kid who went to school packing a semi-automatic weapon in order to shoot down all of the kids that picked on him for his stupid name would have.  You're right, let's keep it.  I've always wanted to be interviewed by reporters.
Dick:  Ha Ha.

Why do I bother?  I told him that we would wait to see what's going to come out of there before we argue about the name.  No sense in arguing for Claire if it's going to have a penis.
Don't worry kid.  I won't let him name you Bodack.  I swear he only said that to make Erma sound better.  Poor fucking kid.

P.S.  While spell-checking this post......Bodack is not a word.  Thank you Websters.

Adventures in Craigslist

I love Craigslist.  I really do.  You need FREAKING ANYTHING.....you can find someone selling it on Craigslist.
So, I'm having a baby.  Fiance Face.....oh shit I guess he's Husband Face (?) now....anyway...
Husband says "We're not buying brand new furniture!!".  I'm completely down with that too.  So I start looking for good deals.
I find a crib.  Yea!! It's really quite nice, a cherry color, and in great condition.  The seller has the brand name and model in the ad, so I look it up.  Oh.  He's selling is for $150 but I can get it brand new for $219, not such a whopping deal.  Then I find that there was a recall on this model of crib.  Eh, no dice.
I find another crib.  This one is white.  I like it.  I liked the other one better, but this one isn't bad.  And it's $25 cheaper than the last one.
I begin correspondence with the seller...and she's funny and sweet.  Oh, I like her.  Cool.
So I'm all set to go pick up this crib this afternoon. 
While I'm at it, I find these two dressers, that have a little hutch over the top of each of them.  And they're white, like the crib.
Not only are the dressers cool, but they're advertised for $20 each or $35 for both.  Sweet!!
So I email the seller.  She sucks at email.  Doesn't get back to me forever.  One line answer that leaves me needing to ask the question again.  But I want her merchandise, so I put up with her.
Today, she emails me and says "Hi, I've had so much interest in the dressers that I have increased the price to $30 each."
I'm sorry, WHAT?  You mean you priced your item too low like an asshole and somehow that's my fault?  No Bitch, you advertised your product at a specific price.  It's not my fault you weren't asking enough.  You just don't get to do that.
::Sigh::: But I want the freaking dressers, so I email her back with an offer of $50 for both.
Yeah, no dice.  Apparently her milkshake brings all the dresser buyers to her yard, and she already has two people coming to look, so she can get away with being a douche bag.  Oh how I hate her.
Husband says "flag her and report her to Craigslist".  Yup, that'll show her honey. 
No, I want to drive to her house, knock on her door, punch her in the fucking mouth the moment she opens the door, and walk away tossing a crumpled up print out of her Craigslist ad on her unconscious form as I go.  But this isn't something a mentally stable person would do.  So I flagged her ad.  Twice.  And deleted her emails.  Hmph, take that!  Bitch.