What the...?

You know the moments in comedy shows where music is playing in the background and then somebody says something so audacious that the music stops and sounds as if the needle has scratched its way quickly off the record? I had one of those moments yesterday:

While getting the groceries out of my car, my strange but all-too-nice, twenty-something neighbor girl approaches me and engages me in the following conversation.

Neighbor: Hey how's it going?
Me: Good. How are you?
Neighbor: Fine. Where's the baby?
Me: She's inside with daddy.
Neighbor: Oh that's good. She is getting to be a cute little munchkin.
(At this point I am not in the mood for a long conversation, what with the gallon of milk, large bottle of liquid detergent, and Diet Coke fridge pack I am trying to haul along with my three bags of groceries.)
Me: (Trying to walk away therefore ending the conversation.) Yeah I think she's pretty cute.
Neighbor: Do you mind if I call her "munchkin?" Because some people don't like that.
Me: (Mostly concerned at this point that I will drop my precious Diet Coke fridge pack.) No that's fine. I don't care.
Neighbor: Ok, I just think "munchkin" is cute. I mean, it's better than "shithead."

Wrrrreeee! Needle screeches off the record, music stops, and I just want to drop my fridge pack and laugh my can off. But instead I made it inside without wetting my pants so I could share with Ben. The fridge pack was going to make this week great but I think "shithead" now has it covered.

Some Boys Wear Pink...But Usually They're GIRLS

What about my baby GIRL says, "Hey old man at church, I'm a boy. What's up nosey person at the bank, I'm a dude. Hi raspy-voiced cashier lady; you can call me 'little guy' if you'd like."

Is it the pink bow on her head?
Is it the flowered blankey drapped over her?
Is it the purple binki she is going to town on?
Or is it the ruffly sweatshirt she just yacked all over?

WHAT THE HELL IS IT? I am thisclose to laying out the next person that calls her a boy.

This Maybe Was On a Christmas Card

My sister posted some of her family pictures on her blog--the ones that didn't make the cut because she was talking or had her mouth open funny--and the title was, "Photos You Won't See on Our Christmas Card."

So in response to that I have posted a picture of myself that did in fact show up on my Christmas card a few seasons ago when I was single. (Right now looking at this picture, you say, "Damn, why was she ever single?" I concur. It was hard to believe.) Since I didn't have a family or spouse-person to put on a Christmas card I decided to dress up in my grandma's slick 80's exercise suit and put my little lonesome sexy self on a Christmas card that I mailed to the whole family.

Pretty sure I caught myself a man and had him reeled in by the following Christmas. Don't ever under estimate the power of neon.

Christmas, Validations, and Other Things

Last night I did some early Christmas shopping at The Gateway. No I didn't squeal and then meet all my girlfriends or all of my sisters and mom there for a night of turkey and swiss plus dessert at The Dodo. No I didn't get all dolled up to go hang out at LuvSac to meet boys. And no, I did NOT enjoy having to go into Abercrombie & Fitch to buy a gift for somebody who shall remain nameless. (No, it's not a gift for Ben. I'd never marry an A&F boy.)

Oh, the reasons I don't care to go to A&F are insanely numerous but here are a few of my favorites. The whole place stinks to high heaven of men's cologne. I like a good smelling man but I don't like to return home to have my hair, clothes, and shopping purchases all smelling like teenage soft porn. Speaking of soft porn, (and this makes me sound old and prudish) just put the damn A&F clothes on the stupid models. If I want to see naked people running around the New England countryside, I'll watch Real World: Boston reruns on MTV. Another dislike: Loud music! Loud music! LOUD MUSIC! (Again, I sound old but I'll own it so who cares? I have a kid, I go to bed at a reasonable hour, and I like my morning workout to be followed by a bowl of oatmeal. So load up the U-Haul and move me to Florida already.) Why must it be so loud? Between the deafening music, the painfully strong cologne, and the black and white porn, it's like a sensory overload.

After my Gateway shopping adventure, I got to my car and realized I didn't ask for validations at any of the places I had shopped. I was parked closest to A&F so I had to go BACK inside to ask for one. Guess what?! They don't validate. I realize it's their choice but why wouldn't a major store in a shopping center offer validations to it's paying patrons? Now for the best part of my shopping adventure. As I walked out of the store, I said, as loudly as possible, "What freaking store at The Gateway doesn't validate?!" And nobody could hear my ranting or label me as crazy because the music was too loud.

A Lack of Self Respect

I respect those people at the gym that are willing to put aside all pretention and pride and give in to watching Saved by the Bell on their individual TV monitor while they work out. Forget pretending to like CNN, Fox, or ESPN for the sake of what others think of you; just watch Saved by the Bell and let Zac, Slater and the rest of the gang get you through your workout.

I, on the other hand, will continue to disrespect myself and worry about what others think while I feign loving the "breaking news" that isn't really breaking instead of just stopping on the channel with Saved by the Bell even though I really want to.

The First Lady's Lipstick

All this talk of lipstick on a pig has gotten me to thinking about women in the White House. For a long time at the end of his career, my grandpa was a lobbyist in DC. He spent a lot of time there and he was well-known and well-liked. My grandma was also well-liked and played very well the part of a politician's wife.

I remember once, during the Reagan Administration, my grandma was invited to Nancy Reagan's First Lady's Luncheon at the White House. Not only was Nancy into saying "No" to drugs but she was extremely into her makeup, looks, and her signature color of red. Who can blame her? She was married to a Hollywood actor. At each place setting for the luncheon Nancy set a makeup bag with a powder compact, blush, and lipstick which was a bright red called "Reagan Red" to be exact. I think it was made by Este Lauder or some other old lady cosmetic line.

How do I know this? Because my grandma gave me the cosmetic bag full of goodies when I was too young (somewhere between the ages of 3 and 11) to be wearing makeup, way too young to be wearing bright "Reagan Red" lipstick, and entirely too much from a Democratic family to be wearing something born by the Reagan Administration.

I don't know if it was the fact that it came from my grandma or that it came from somebody famous but I was too young to care that I was wearing Republican Red. I painted my lips and was as happy as a clam. And I am pretty sure that's when my love for all things makeup and cosmetics-related began. Republican, Democrat, or neither, this pig loves lipstick.

I Love You, Netflix

Due to my inability to stay awake for an entire movie, Ben and I have resorted to ordering season after season of a variety of TV shows from Netflix to watch at night. Netflix is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Ok, not true but it gets us through the dry season of no episodes of The Office, The Biggest Loser, Survivor, or the Amazing Race (which all start/ed this month). All of the laziness-inducing goodness that is Netflix is like a natural high. Every evening we run to the mailbox, eager to see what the postman has delivered to us. It's like Christmas morning seeing a large haul of presents under the tree. We can't help but cheer a little and say, with a twinkle in our eye, "Yes!" upon retrieving the post and seeing the friendly red and white Netflix envelope there to greet us. It's as if it is saying, "Hello there. Just put the baby to bed and then you can drift into mind-numbing TV-land for the next three hours." Netflix, I love you!

Thank You, Thank You

Feel free to send me flowers, chocolates, or large cookie bouquets, pat me on the back if you see me, give me a high five, or just leave a comment about how much you admire the fact that my baby is two months old and now sleeps 10 to 12 hours a night. Thank you.

And Now I Am Over It

My baby is the cutest thing I've ever seen so why not be the cutest thing anybody else has ever seen? Last week I went to a baby shower for a friend and rather than leave baby home with Ben I decided, "I am going to take her and let everybody love her." A few things you should know about me: 1) I do things fast. Walk fast, eat fast, clean fast, I try to get ready fast. No dilly dallying here, 2) I perspire when I do things fast and when it's hot outside, 3) I also perspire when all attention is on me, 4) I like to be the center of attention when it's for a good reason, i.e., a funny joke I so wittingly told, looking nice, giving a good lesson at church, etc., 5) on the flip side, I loathe myself and everyone around me when I am the center of attention for something bad, i.e., "Hey your skirt is tucked up in your underwear," falling down, or saying something stupid.

Back to the story. This shower came on the tail end of a rough day. Baby had cried all day--due to acid reflux that we didn't know she had--but we got her calmed down, fed, dry, and mostly happy. I pulled myself together (as fast as I could) after crying right along with the baby all day too and off we went to the shower with me in a sweaty ball of quickly expiring makeup and a soon-to-be frizzy hairdo. I thought I could just blast the AC in the car and it would be ok. It sort of was.

Upon arrival at the shower, I was the instant center of attention. Yay! People wanted to see my cute baby. I know she's not an arm charm but I also get nervous that when I take her places she is going to scream and crap her pants all over at the same time. As a new mom, I am not used to having to take care of another person like this so it's slightly overwhelming.

She began to fuss when another invitee's two-year-old daughter decided to rock the carseat back and forth as hard as possible, causing her to spit up. I decided that rather than try to calm her in her seat, taking her out would do it. Instead, her little arm got caught in one of the car seat straps and she wailed when I didn't notice and nearly ripped her limb out of the socket. Feeling like a total tard at this point, I didn't know what to do because she was screaming during one of the lame shower games the old ladies had planned for my friend.

I noticed her acting hungry. It seemed odd because Ben had fed her an hour previously. (Turns out babies confuse acid reflux with hunger. So frequent feedings are a symptom of the nasty that is heartburn--just FYI.) I decided to be the "fun party" mom who could participate in the game from behind everybody and mix up a bottle while standing, holding my child in the other arm. Remember how I do things fast? Sweat when I do things fast? Sweat when all eyes are on me? At this point sweat was running down my face. It's not a lie. After about 10 intensely warm minutes of feeding, standing, baby bouncing, shushing, etc., I told the guest of honor to open my gift because I needed to go.

She opened it and then came to say goodbye. I was spent and literally washed up. It had already been a rough day. Can you guess what the cherry on top of the whole thing was? Well there are two cherries. Cherry #1: While walking to the car I noticed my shirt was entirely soaked where I had been holding the baby against me. Cherry #2: When I got in my car, I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed about five little strands of hair swept all the way across my forehead and PASTED there with nothing other than my own sweat. I felt like a pitiful, embarrassed, wringing wet mess. I cried the whole way home, telling myself that motherhood is not my bag.

Subsequently, we ended up at the pediatrician's office the next day and then at the pharmacy buying acid reflux medicine. Baby is better and much happier. And I have decided that momhood is my bag after all. I called Beej to tell her about my horror and she just laughed said, "Well you get over that stuff." And my reply was, "Well the only way to get over this is to post it on my blog for all to laugh at." And now I am over it and none of you are actually staring at me.

That's What I Would Say

If I was an Olypmic swimmer and the Beijing correspondent from Lame Local News said to me, "What are you going to have to do to win the gold in the next race?" I would say, "Swim faster." And then I would walk away.

Mahjong for Insomnia

Thank you to China for some great Olympic hosting. That's a party I would liked to have gone too.

Instead I can thank China for the invention of Mahjong and Steve Jobs for making it downloadable to the iPhone.

The recent birth of the cutest little baby I have ever seen has me getting up every night between the absurd hours of 2am and 5am to feed her. That's ok. I knew I would pay that price when I decided to have a baby. What I didn't know is that after spending around 40 minutes to go through the whole changing-the-diaper/feeding routine, I wouldn't be able to fall asleep again. So I find myself lying in bed at 4am, wide awake, wondering when she'll wake up again and thinking of odd ways to drop the baby weight.

One day Ben told me to download all the updates for my iPhone so I did. Lo and behold, one can now download free games to play. I have never been into playing games on my phone but I discovered Mahjong and I can't thank China enough. Requiring just enough concentration for me to not think of other things, it relaxes me enough to fall back asleep. The gold medal goes to China for neat-o tile game invention!

I Gave Birth and Other Things I Learned This Week

Yes, the wait is over. Our baby is here. No, I won't post pictures on this blog--it's not that kind of blog. If you would like pictures, you can email me and I will send them. If you don't know me or my email address, then I won't be able to send you pictures and that's probably why I am not posting them on my blog. I am sure that everybody on the internet is *totally normal* but once again, it's not that kind of blog. And as my dad maintains, "Once it's on the internet it's permanent and you can't take it down."

Rest assured that she is pretty much the cutest baby I have ever seen and it still seems surreal that I have a baby complete with a car seat, the good baby smell, and crying in the middle of the night.

And now, on to other things I have learned this week:

1. I can and did take a lot of pain during my labor until I got my meds, but all you natural birthers out there are tough.
2. Having a baby will lower your standards of cleanliness significantly but hopefully only for a little while.
3. There really isn't time to shower, at least in the beginning. I never got why the mothers on the TLC reality makeover shows never had time to get ready but now I see why. I eventually squeeze mine in but here I am at 9pm and I just got out of the shower. Much like Number 1 above, I assume it will only be this way for a little while.
4. I never thought I would be excited to see so many poopy diapers in my life. Apparently, poop means she's well-fed.
5. Not every woman can lactate and don't let the Lactation Station make you feel bad if you can't.
6. Birth is the coolest experience ever.
7. I'm an overly protective parent but I also assume that will mellow out.
8. My husband makes up words to lullabies because he knows absolutely no lyrics to any song ever written.
9. Powdered milk and other mixed drinks are really expensive during your first year of life.
10. I am actually proud to walk around the block pushing a baby stroller. I can't believe I would ever say/admit that. But here I am.

"The Passion is Raw but the Hot Dogs are Cooked"

With Independence Day comes fireworks, BBQs, parades, festivities, camping, and Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest at Coney Island, NY seen only on ESPN. Since 1916, people from 'round the world have been gathering to down as many hot dogs as they can in an allotted amount of time. Oddly becoming a viewing tradition in our home, the hot dog eating contest has never been more exciting than it was this year. Not really an avid fan of the "sport," I watch it for the commentary, because phrases like, "The passion is raw but the hot dogs are cooked," and, "He's just an all around great eater," only come out on the 4th of July.

Overheard at this year's contest:

• "That was the most exciting finish in all of sport."
• "These guys attack hot dogs like Lindsay Lohan attacks a mini bar."
• "'The Black Widow' is the cheesecake eating champion of the world. Let's see how she takes on the hot dogs."
• "This really is an endurance sport."
• "That last dog was a photo finish."
• "We have a tie to be settled by a five-dog eat off."

Lessons learned at this year's contest:

• This "sport" is actually called Competitive Eating
• There is an International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE)
• The timed contest used to be 12 minutes, it's now only 10
• Dipping the bun in water makes it go down faster
• Those who qualify for the hot dog eating contest are generally world champions of some other food eating contest, namely, ice cream, cheesecake, cranberry sauce, and seared cow brains, to name a few
• Despite being a six-time hot dog eating champion of the world, coloring your hair with ketchup and mustard won't secure the win. Better luck next year my Japanese hot-dog-eating friend

Memorandum Monday, Posted on Tuesday: Harshin' my Mellow

Memorandum
To: S'more Bloggers
From: Mar
CC: My Adoring Blog Readers
Date: 6/30/2008
Re: Your Spelling Habits

For all of you who find it necessary to post about your trip up the canyon to roast weinies and make whatever version of S'mores you find necessary to share on your blog, those squishy white things you put in the middle of the S'mores are spelled Marshmallow, not Marshmellow.

Please ensure that subsequent posts, because we know you can't go up the canyon just once, contain the proper spelling in order to keep my blood pressure down.

Breastfeeding 101

Last Monday I attended a breastfeeding class at LDS Hospital in hopes of learning techniques to ensure that my child will be well-fed and happy. Those of you who don’t have children and probably don’t have siblings with children are saying, “Weird/Eww/Gross, they teach breastfeeding classes?” Yes they do and I can say that after reading the books and going to the class, that it's not something I would have known how to do on my own so thank you IHC for the not-free classes.

I was the only one there that did not bring a support person of some kind. Not about to make Ben go with me to something like that, I didn’t feel bad. In order for him to be supportive, I will teach him things I learned and let him do his fatherly thing but I won’t make him sit through two and a half hours of nipple discussion and practicing latch on with a Cabbage Patch doll.

Every woman, except for one, brought her husband. Exception girl brought her mom who was visiting from out of town. That’s fine. I am sure she was being as supportive as possible by coming to the class. Mom, however, became the class party pooper instantly. Upon the instructor informing us that breastfeeding is beneficial in many ways to women, especially because it reduces the risk of breast cancer, pooper raises her hand and says, “Well I breastfed five kids and I still got breast cancer.” Turning herself into the rule rather than the exception, she basically told all the wide-eyed first-time mothers in the room that if we breastfeed, we will, in fact, get breast cancer. I wanted to throw my Cabbage Patch doll at her and tell her to shut it. And apparently, so did the nurse teaching the class. She calmly, yet firmly replied, “Congratulations on beating breast cancer, but I only said it reduces the risk; it doesn’t eliminate it completely.” Score for the mammary teacher!

Since the mom/daughter feeding team was sitting next to me, I could hear the mother’s constant side notes to her daughter during the instruction and the video. “Oh I didn’t do that…that doesn’t work.” “That hurts—I wouldn’t do it that way.” Thank you, Milk Maid, but we came to learn from a lactation nurse with knowledge of current research and breastfeeding methods, not from the woman who last breastfed in the days when babies were spanked right after emerging from the hopper.

The other winner in the class was the girl who said she was afraid to buy a nursing bra. I guess I can see how little clips at the top of the bra cups can really stress you out.

The "Potty" Awards

Following up to a previous post, I have decided to hand out an award for the Best Restroom during my 2007 to 2008 pregnancy. I have appropriately named it the “Potty.” “Pottys” are awarded based on a strict judging system in which I, armed with pregnant rage, use a public restroom and then gage my irritability after exiting said bathroom. My irritability, or lack thereof, is based upon the following criteria: (This list is not all-inclusive and can be changed without notice because it’s my award.)

• Bathroom or stall size (private, one-room bathrooms receive preference)
• Touchless flush, water, soap, and paper towels (touchless does require no spraying back at the user, simply a clean stream or flush—I’m glaring at you, Target toilets)
• Doors that open out
• Overall cleanliness and lack of “findings” on the toilet seat
  
  Preference will be given to those bathrooms with:
• Extra décor matching the restaurant style
• Lotions/perfumes/hairspray
• Full-size mirrors
• A bathroom attendant

Without further adieu, the winner of this pregnancy’s “Potty” award for the Best Restroom goes to…..Pawit’s Royal Thai Cuisine in Holladay! The restroom is not only clean, it has doors that open out, it’s private, and it’s clean. Lack of touchless amenities did knock it down a bit but the royal throne was redeemed by oriental décor, a trellis with flowers that blocks the view of the toilet from the door in case somebody busts in, large mirrors, smelly soap, and complimentary hand lotion. Congrats Pawits on your “Potty!”

Memorandum Monday: To the Fallen Stars

Memorandum
To: Fallen Stars
From: Mar
CC: My Adoring Blog Readers
Date: 6/23/2008
Re: Your Reality TV Cable Stints

Congratulations to all of you for landing a hosting deal on a cable reality TV show!

Joey Lawrence, you have shed your luscious locks of mullet but you talk the same as during your Blossom days and we love how well you host Master of Dance on TLC. Riveting is your ability to explain the rules and introduce the judges in the exact same script from week to week, without variation or much personality. We are semi-rooting for you to make it through an entire first season and on to season 2.

Mario Lopez, sorry that the all-male version of The View didn’t work out for you but your stint as the host of America’s Best Dance Crew is inspiring and you currently are in Season 2 and kickin’ trash. What a good example you have set for Mr. Lawrence.

Joey Fatone, you were upstaged by Justin and then by Lance Bass’s coming out of the closet but you have managed to land a post as the co-host (not as good as host—sorry) on TLC’s The Singing Office. It has yet to air but we hope the best for your first season as you humiliate people in their office setting and then air it for all desperate TV watchers with cable access.

976-CHAT Single and Ready to Mingle, Even at Age 12

When I was about 12 or so, my parents trusted me to stay home alone with my younger sister and have two friends over...what were they thinking? We called the 976-CHAT singles' line for fun and told people we were 35 because 35 sounded old and mature. Now it just sounds desperate to be calling a singles’ line. We thought nobody would find out until my dad got the phone bill for 99 cents a minute at 60 minutes. Needless to say, the friends' parents got a phone call and we split the bill between my friends, my sister, and me.

The lessons I learned are that you can’t hide bad things you do from your parents and you can meet special people via modern technology. Take it from the girl who met her man on the internets.

Memorandum Monday

Memorandum
To: The Condo HOA
From: Mar
CC: My Adoring Blog Readers
Date: 6/16/2008
Re: Sprinkler Tips

Regarding last night’s watering session at the condominium complex, I, as an owner, have three tips:

1. To avoid wasting water and money, please refrain from using the sprinkler system at 6:00 pm when the temperature has reached 90 degrees.

2. To avoid watering ME while I walk on the sidewalk leading to my condo, please refrain from using the sprinkler system at 6:00 pm. Preggers here can’t run and no matter the pregnant hot flashes, I do not enjoy being sprayed in the face by the sprinklers because there is no dry way to get to my home.

3. Please water at night when, a) the heat doesn’t evaporate over 65% of the sprinkler water, and b) when people aren’t trying to exit or gain entrance to their homes.

Memorandum Monday

Memorandum
To: The Waiter at Citris Grill
From: Mar
CC: My Adoring Blog Readers
Date: 6/9/2008
Re: Your Crappy Service

When my friends and I are seated for lunch, we have a few expectations. They aren't outlandish or anything that involves you peeling my grapes or bringing me three different entrees because this one is overdone or that one is not spicy enough. They are simple, straightforward, waitering techniques that any waiter, rookie or veteran, should be able to handle.

1. Don't wait for us to request, 15 minutes after being seated, that a waiter be sent to our table. Just come over say hi and take a drink order.

2. When my friend asks for a recommendation on your favorite dish, don't say, "I don't know what are you in the mood for?" Generally, if she is asking, that means she would like a recommendation and is willing to be a bit adventurous.

3. Don't, under any circumstance, walk past our table, look at our empty drink glasses, make eye contact with me, and not offer to refill them until I say, "Excuse me, can we get our drinks refilled?"

4. Generally, a decent waiter remembers what his patrons are drinking.

These four points, if carried out, should result in a happy customer as well as the minimum tip for you.

Leave the Poop Out

My *favorite* thing about pregnancy is the birthing horror stories. These women should get together and write a book called 101 Things That Can Go Totally Wrong With Your Birth: Tales of Horror and Strife. It seems that the closer my belly gets to reaching the moon, the more people want to share how terrifyingly wrong their birth went. I have a sister who had a very scary birthing event so trust me, I know how it can go.

A few winners:
"My epidural only worked on half of my body and it numbed my entire right side rather than just from the waist down. So during birth I felt everything on my left side."

"I was all ready to give a natural birth when I passed out and woke up after a C-section and I couldn't move and they wouldn't bring me my baby."

"The epidural just didn't work. And then I was throwing up and pooping at the same time."

What are women trying to do to me? For some reason it seems more acceptable to share birthing horror stories than it is to share bathroom horror stories. Although probably severely less painful and what you would think to be less embarassing, women just can't talk about pooping in the toilet but they are all about telling you how they pooped during birth. Can somebody explain this to me?

Memorandum Monday

Natalie, who adores me, my blog, and my ability to IM her all day while we are at work, read my last Memorandum and suggested that I make my memos more frequent, such as a “Memorandum Monday.” So I have decided to start the aforementioned segment and title it just as Natalie said. She can have the credit and if the segment fails, she can take the blame.

Memorandum
To: The Mispronouncing Citizens of this Nation
From: Mar
CC: My Adoring Blog Readers
Date: 6/2/2008
Re: Mispronunciations A-Go-Go

It has come to my attention over the years that many of you are mispronouncing the easiest of English words. As of today, it will no longer be tolerated. Words such as ibuprofen, February, and Wednesday will be overlooked because, regardless of their spelling, they have been mispronounced for ages and trying to fix that would be akin to converting to the metric system in the US.

Words, however, which are said as they are spelled will be recorded as a strike against you and will be reflected on your permanent record. Please refer to the following list, which is not comprehensive, nor in any order. Except the first three, which are so annoying that if said, you will incur double the strikes on your record.

Nuclear – not nuc-yaler
(Despite what Bush says)
Escape – not ex-scape
(I wonder if people are referring to some extreme landscaping competition in the X Games)
Especially – not ex-specially
(Sounds like something that used to be special and no longer holds such status)
Keep track – not keep tract
(What?)
Ask – not aks
(Are you a contestant on Flava of Love? Speaking of said show, while flipping through channels last night, Ben and I actually heard a girl on Flava of Love refer to her kids as, “My’s skids”)
Height – not heighth
(It’s just not a word)
Florida – not Flar-ida
(I realize this is a regional accent thing in the US but it's intolerable)
Another – not nother
(As in “a whole nother hamburger”)
Prerogative – not perogative
(Thank you Bobby Brown for popularizing this word among teenagers in the early ‘90s, however nobody can say it correctly)

As stated above, this list is not comprehensive and can be amended at any time. If you would like to contribute to this list, please do so in the comments field below.

"Cartoon Character on Line 2 For You"

Nobody at work reads my blog. I keep it a secret. I don’t know them well enough or trust them to just hand out my blog URL. I guess they might find out and I could get “dooced” but I am outta here in roughly six weeks (hopefully fewer). Anyway…

There is a man that frequently calls to discuss projects with one of our project managers and when she is unavailable the receptionist pages her. The caller’s name is Buster and he happens to work for the Acme Co. Ok, Buster from Acme. Is this dude from Toontown? “Buster from Acme is on the phone for you. He and Wyle E. Coyote will be dropping off those sticks of dynamite you ordered.”

I see two issues here:
1) Who names their kid Buster (besides the Bluths)? Enough said.

2) Who names a company Acme? Wikipedia defines the Acme Corporation thusly:

“The Acme Corporation is a fictional corporation that exists in several cartoons…most significantly in the Loony Toons…which made Acme famous for outlandish and downright dangerous products that failed catastrophically at the worst possible times.”

Because every real company name should be associated with something that makes “products that fail catastrophically at the worst possible times.”

Memo to the Annoying People at Work

Memorandum
To: Everybody at Work
From: Mar
CC: My Adoring Blog Readers
Date: 5/21/2008
Re: Your Annoying Habits That Make Me Want to Slap You

Effective immediately, the following actions will not be tolerated:

Walking past the metal file cabinets on the opposite side of my cubicle and hitting them with your knuckles, thus creating a metal reverberation fit to drive me insane,

Using your speaker phone with your office door open for all to hear,

Failing to silence your cell phone, and

Calling out, “Hey preggers,” when I walk past you in the hall.

Employees who engage in the above mentioned activities will be put on probation and yelled at by “Preggers.”

Public Business

As a pregnant woman with a fetus that sits on my bladder 24/7, I have gained more public restroom experience than I care to reflect upon. Generally, before leaving the house, I use our bathroom even if I don’t really have to. When I arrive at my destination, I use the restroom there and then depending on my length of stay, I go one to three more times.

Notes about some public restrooms:
Target’s bathroom toilets are a lot like fireworks. With an extremely touchy automatic flush that could ignite at any moment, it is necessary to pull down your pants and be at the ready before placing the toilet seat protector. Otherwise the fuse is ignited and the toilet will erupt into a flush just as you sit down, creating a bidet-type bum spray but without that clean European-chic feeling. Target’s toilets also have a flush that I like to call “light fuse and get away.” After business is done, you must rise and cling to the stall door (but without actually touching the door) in order to avoid the Vesuvius-type spray emitted by the toilet flush. It’s not a fun process and I try not to use the bathrooms at Target.

Albertson’s toilets are a fun story as well. In the last two months I have had to use them twice and both times I was forced to use the handicap stall. The issue here is that the rolls of toilet paper are enclosed entirely by a plastic snail-like shell that sits only one foot off the ground. Contrast that with the abnormal height of a handicap toilet and one has quite the conundrum in reaching down and then back up into the snail shell to retrieve toilet paper. Not to mention the toilet paper rolls are in there so tight they don’t turn, leaving the user with nothing but small particles of toilet paper at each attempt. I resorted to the Kleenex in my purse both times.

One of the cleanest, easiest to use bathrooms I have been in is at the Chevron just off of the Parkway Blvd. Exit of I-15 in Orem. It’s crazy because it’s a gas station but they take wicked good care of that thing.

Rumbi has decent restrooms with an automatic light that you don’t have to touch. I am all about automatic sinks, toilets (when the spray is under control), paper towel dispensers, and doors that open out so I don’t have to touch them very much.

The Red Iguana on 7th West and North Temple down town has sweet restrooms. They are a one-toilet-in-the-room-deal with separate restrooms for the “Damas” and the “Caballeros.” I obviously haven’t checked out the bathroom for the hombres but the one for the chicas is nice. It has artwork, a full-length mirror, a slider lock on the door to ensure privacy and safety and when you turn the light on, the Mexican Hat Dance begins to play. Just kidding about the Hat Dance but I secretly thought that should have happened.

Apocalypse Now...er at 5pm

About a week ago, a person* I know of told some other people** I know very well that the Apocalypse will occur at 5pm today. Ben and I have some food storage and enough fresh water for 72 hours packed into our more than at-capacity condo so I am feeling pretty prepared. I also have a Gerber multi-tool that my live-in Scout Master told me to buy so I am hoping that I might get to use it.

BUT SERIOUSLY! She claims that it was “revealed” to her through some higher power that the world will come to an end at 5:00 pm on May 8, 2008. Maybe it’s a numbers thing. At 5pm, the 5th month, the 8th day, and the 8th year of this millennium. It totally makes sense. In that case, depending upon your spiritual outlook or otherwise you will either want to get on your knees and cry repentance or eat, drink, and be merry for at 5pm we die.

*I know of her; I don’t even consider her an acquaintance.
**Names of those I know very well have been withheld, just in case. (In case of what?)

"Excuse Me, There's a Chair on Your Butt"

Certain circumstances landed me at the Olympus High dance concert last night. Over a decade has passed since I last was in that high school auditorium and I noticed a few things.

When I was in high school my hips never touched the sides of the auditorium chairs like they did last night. I blame pregnancy. And I worried that if I stood up too fast I might detach the whole row of chairs from the floor and have to walk around with them squished onto my backside. Luckily my self esteem is award-winningly better than it was in high school.

The girls’ bathroom smelled like a tanning salon. Are teenage girls fake baking so often that the restroom just continuously smells like burned flesh? I also forgot that the stall walls and doors in the bathrooms only rise to armpit height so when standing up, you can see the head of the people in the stalls next to you. Ever the tightwads, Olympus won’t buy paper towels for hand drying. Or even install a hand blower. It is still using the towel roll that just goes around and around on that spool in the box on the wall and gets reused an unbearably gross amount of times. I opted for air drying, which I think I always did during high school. I guess this method would be considered “going green” in this day and age. Fortunately for Olympus, its bathrooms didn’t have to “go” anywhere to achieve such environmental consciousness.

My last horrific observation: there were more boys there than girls. I know why and I probably noticed it during high school but now that I will have a little girl of my own, I don't like anybody that might look at her as something other than just my little girl. If my daughter ever decides to be in the dance company I will gladly attend all performances. But I will probably freak out if at the end of her dance, some sorry piece of high school schlub yells, “Gracie, you’re hot. Wanna go to prom?”

A Friend in Piglet

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

~A.A. Milne, from Winnie the Pooh.

It’s probable that nobody cares about this, let alone anything else I post on my blog. (I blog to entertain myself and if others find it worthy of a read, then kudos.) I recently registered for a 14-inch stuffed Piglet from the Classic Pooh collection at Target. Whenever I log into my baby registry on Target.com to add/change items, the oversized Piglet is the first thing on the list and I sort of chuckle and wonder how I got to the point in my life that I would actually want such a large stuffed animal. Let alone a Piglet. It’s not that it’s a huge stuffed animal. It’s what Piglet’s character represents.

I have always loved Winnie the Pooh and it was no question that I wanted my first baby’s nursery to be decorated with Classic Pooh. Luckily, Ben is on board. The literature-dissecting English minor in me likes to understand the relationship between the thoughtful honey bear and the sweater-sporting porker. Now, honestly, I haven’t researched Pooh’s and Piglet’s relationship past my own exposure to the book and movies. But I do know that Piglet loves Pooh and they are friends until the end.

To me Piglet signifies a loyal, loving, and humble friend. Thanks to my mom, my unborn child already owns a pair of pink pants with an embroidered Pooh and Piglet and the words, “My favorite place is next to you.” Now I hope that she can have an over-sized Piglet; she won’t know what it means but, for me, it signifies an uncompromising friendship "to be sure of.”

That's What I Call "Viewer Discretion Advised"

Does this seem wrong to anybody else? Currently, Babies-R-Us is featuring a Pregnancy Belly Cast Kit, with which an expecting mother can paste goopy strips of casting material all over her bare overstuffed breasts and protruding tummy “to create a lasting memory of her pregnancy…that will be treasured for a lifetime.”

No, seriously. What the hell? Check out these pictures. Because I want my baby/milk factory immortalized and hung on my wall for all to see. I especially like the flowers on the breasts with stems attached to the belly button like umbilical cords. What is wrong with people?

Soap-rah Box

I have always ranted about this in private. Alas, the day has come for me to take my ranting public.

Oprah is not the news. She’s not Fox. She’s not CNN. She’s not the NY Times. She’s not the Washington Post. She’s not even close to being a local news station.

Oprah is not a preacher. Oprah is not God. Oprah is not an elected official. She doesn’t teach gospel or make laws and if you don’t do what she says, you will not go to hell or prison.

Oprah feeds the “herd mentality,” as Ben calls it when something that is just ok suddenly becomes the thing that “everyone” is doing.

I am tired of going to social gatherings, church, work, or wherever and hearing women say, “Oh did you see Oprah yesterday?” As if I missed the final election returns. Or as if she was reporting for the first time on the war in Iraq.

I don’t think that Oprah is all bad. She has done some nice things for needy people and has proven that one can maintain popularity even with roller-coaster weight fluctuations. (Her niceness doesn’t include “EVERYBODY GETS A CAR!” or the Massive Give (what’s it really called?)) My panties just get in a bunch when I hear women all over say that Oprah told them how to vote, which bra size to buy, or what book to read. She’s fine for entertainment’s sake but she’s not a world leader.

Those Selfish Babies!

Today, while having my blood pressure taken at the baby doctor, the nurse said, “The doctor had to go to the hospital.” She had a delivery and a C-section and they weren’t sure when she would be back. I could either wait or reschedule. Neither option was my favorite but I decided to wait it out and read Pregnancy magazine (which is not that great) to pass the time. If she didn’t show within 30 minutes or so, I would reschedule and head back to work.

Another mom-to-be wasn’t so into just biding her time while the doctor delivered some petty little baby and performed a C-section with bad timing. Oh no. She was up in arms that the doctor would go away and ditch her appointments.

“This happened to me the last time I was here,” she complained to the receptionist.

Guess what? It happened to me that last time I was here too, but I dealt with it.

“Last time I waited THREE hours for her to come back. I run a business and it’s hard enough to schedule these appointments and then have to leave my business for three hours to come wait around for the doctor.”

I understand her pregnant rage. But seriously, who the hell does she think she is?

I suppose the selfish babies that decided to join the world on this day are not as important as her regular checkup at the baby doctor. I also suppose that she will lecture her baby in the same manner that she did the receptionist. “I have been nursing you for ONE hour now. I run a business and it’s hard enough to schedule your feedings but to nurse for ONE WHOLE hour is unacceptable.”

Sometimes I think women should reconsider before they decide it’s time to have kids.

Cuddle Up With a Giant Microbe

Two weekends ago Ben and I ventured out to the Clark Planetarium at Gateway to nerd it up at the IMAX movie called “Sea Monsters 3D.” It was educational, interesting, and less than 40 minutes so I could sit through it comfortably without having to use the restroom halfway through.

In true nerd fashion we arrived early so we decided to slum around the gift shop for a few minutes. Among playing with the ultra-strong magnets, deciding that I did not want a sucker with a scorpion in it, and wondering what I might see through the HUGE $1,200 telescope, I was also secretly looking for anything pink and soft that a certain daughter-to-be might one day suck on and wave around in a frantic excitement.

Then I saw this:

It was pink…and soft…and had sort of a cute face. But wait…what is it? Why is a pink snake being sold at the Planetarium? Turns out, as indicated by its tag, it’s Syphilis.

Yes, the Clark Planetarium has taken it upon themselves to not only market this STD as a stuffed animal for children, but to portray it as a fuzzy, cuddly, cute disease. Just as toy makers would have you think a bear is safe to hug, Syphilis has made its big break on to the scene as something you’ll actually want in your bed.

It Will Be My Fault

Sometimes while Ben and I are driving around we unleash our inner rocker and listen to hair bands of the 80's on 94.9, or classic rock on 103.5 and we talk about how cool some music used to be. We also comment about the music that our parents listened to while we were growing up. Ben's growing up years consisted of 60's Doo Wop and mine was riddled with ABBA and Elton John (before he got the "Sir" before his name). Every time I hear ABBA or Elton I am taken back to road trips in the wood-paneled family minivan and I can't help but turn up the radio, sing along, and remember the more carefree days. I would consider my secret like for both ABBA and Elton John as guilty pleasures and my also parents' fault.

Times have shifted and Ben and I talk about what music we will tell our kids is "cool." As parents, we will play the radio trump card for quite a few years as we road trip and shuttle to and from lessons and school. With the recent emergence of Guitar Hero III for the Wii, we have decided that 70's rock, 80's metal, and early 90's hair bands will be where it's at for our kids. I apoligize to them now but they will thank us later. I am sure that other forms of music, such as the Beatles, U2, and Chicago, will be part of the repertoire. And it will be my fault when my kids are 18, driving along with their friends, and suffer ridicule as they sing the lyrics to "Cherry Cherry" by Neil Diamond.

Mom to the Rescue

Blogging has its benefits. Last week after reading my rant about the Girl Scouts, Natalie instant messaged me a link indicating which grocery stores have Girl Scouts posted in front selling cookies. Work, errands, and writing four checks at Macy's kept me from making my way to Harmon's to buy any cookies and I was left somewhat disgruntled.

Well Saturday morning my phone rang and it was my mom informing me that she had purchased Samoas,Tagalongs, and Thin Mints just for me. YAY! Moms know how to make it better. She even delivered them to my house. She, Ben, and I each had a Samoa in celebration of the over-priced once-a-year goodness. Thanks mom!

A Taxing Experience

I went to Macy's last night to buy a couple of maternity-wear items. Actually I did that instead of hitting up the Girl Scouts at Harmon’s, which I plan to do tomorrow when I have some time. Anyway, my mom correctly put it when she once said, “Buying maternity clothes is like buying a swimming suit.” If it looks mostly ok, you buy it and then never look in the mirror again.

I picked out two t-shirts to wear to the gym and then found a really cute black ¾-sleeve sweater that would work with anything. A wardrobe staple, if you will. I decided I would get that too. I got to the counter to pay and the old lady—and I mean old as the hills—saw me walk up as she was walking away. Instead of turning around to help me, she just kept walking away.

My advice here is don't walk away from a pregnant lady. Just don't even do anything she doesn't like.

I stood there for five minutes, which is pretty lengthy when you are waiting to pay and there's NOBODY ELSE IN LINE.

Another customer came out of the dressing room and said, "Oh she went to get a drink of water. She’s been working really hard." Growing ever grumpier, I wanted to say, "Well she could have rung me up when she saw me." It’s not like there was a line of ravenous Macy’s customers behind me. The baby factory right here works hard too—ring me up!

So Grandma Macy’s shuffled her way back. Did I mention that she is as old as the hills? I think Macy’s can’t hire anybody younger than 70. FINALLY, she started ringing me up and decided to tell me the price of each item as she rung it up. "And this one is $10.99. And this one...oh this is cute...what a cute color...when are you due? This one is $14.99."

Get on with it.

Then she gave me a total and I had to write a check, which I am basically against but that’s another long story. I was thisclose to being done with the check and she said, “Oh woops, dear me. I am sorry honey. Forgive me." Stop asking for forgiveness and tell me the problem!

She gave me the total before tax.

I voided the check and started writing check number two when she said, "Darn this thing, I can't get it off." She couldn't get the freaking sensor off the cute black sweater and then said, "Is there another one over there?" Yeah because maternity clothes are NEVER picked over. There are always TONS of sizes to go around. NO THERE'S NOT ANOTHER ONE!

Grandma then informed me, "Well I can take it down to security and have them take it off." Yes, because that’ll take so long I’ll just end up having my baby on the second floor of Macy’s. It took her nine years just to get a drink of water, I can only imagine the time necessary to get a sensor off a sweater. So I said, "Can you just take it off the sale?" And surprisingly that didn't phase her and she was able to do that lickedy split.

She gave me the total and I began with...you guessed it...check number three when she suddenly said, “Woops! Raspberries. Dear me. Honey, I did it again. That is the total before tax."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Seriously, my hormonal blood was boiling at this point. Any non-pregnant day of the week probably would have been ok but I just can't take it. I have ZERO patience.

Begin check number four.

When I was done and handed it to her she said, "When are you due again? Gosh you are so pretty. Look at those eyes." And I just thought, “Listen up grandma, I haven't the patience nor the time to let you try to make me feel better." And so I just said thank you and almost ran out of the store.

And then I cried when I got in the car. Because no good drama in my life right now doesn't end without tears.

*I don't dislike old people and I really appreciate compliments, especially when pregnant, but mood swings are inevitable at this point and some things are too much to handle.

Damn You, Girl Scouts!

As a general rule in the past, I have steered clear of the Girl Scout cookies. Tendencies to pull a “Cookie Monster” and start eating them like crazy with crumbs flying around are the reason I have foregone the Tagalongs, Samoas, and Thin Mints in recent years. When confronted to purchase at the entrance to Albertson’s, I politely said no. When offered a cookie by a co-worker who did purchase, I declined. When I saw the Girl Scout Cookie ice cream at the store, I purchased fat free sorbet instead.

This year, however, is different. I find myself with another life inside of me and apparently a whole new outlook on what I am willing to shove into my face. Not having any co-workers with girls in the ranks this year, I was never solicited to purchase; therefore, in my ignorance, missed Cookie Purchasing Season.

Last week Ben casually mentioned that he had ordered a box of Tagalongs and a box of Thin Mints from somebody’s daughter at work. YAY! I love a man that can bring home the cookies. In the next breath he says, “But she marked me down for two boxes of Trefoils instead.” What the hell? Not only will I not be getting any Samoas, Tagalongs, or Thin Mints this year but she brought him the crappiest Girl Scout Cookie there is. Shortbread? Who would eat shortbread when there was coconut, caramel, chocolate or possibly peanut butter in the mix? He gave them away at work because neither of us would waste our time eating them.

Needless to say this Girl Scout Cookie drought is not treating me or my pregnant hormonal rage very well.

Spring Breaker Top 10

I never went further than the Claridge Inn on Bluff Street in St. George for Spring Break when I was in college. Cozy trips in the car with three other girls was the only way I knew how to party. It saved money and chastity. Never even having MTV until I moved out of my parents' house, I didn't know how Spring Breakers really partied. I guess Cafe Rio and shopping trips to DownEast Outfitters at the St. George outlets isn't really worthy of Carson Daly's coverage.

Prior to getting married and since marriage, Ben and I have managed to take some pretty sweet vacations, knowing full well, that once kids arrive it will be camping and sitting around at my grandma's cabin in Kamas.

As previous posts indicate, this trip to Cancun was no exception. I can't say enough times how great an all-inclusive resort is but little did I know that it comes with Spring Breakers, more alcohol than Vegas, and our resort's very own Spring Break party sponsored by American Eagle. I'm not kidding.

Apparently, Cancun is heralded as Mexico's "Sin City" and is marketed that way to kids planning a vacation for Spring Break. (My internet research also shows that AE hosts Spring Break parties in Lake Tahoe; Padre Island, Texas; and the Grand Canyon where one can participate in invasive plant removal. I am sure these kids will participate in something invasive but it won't involve plant removal.) We were there at the beginning of the festivities so I can only imagine what will happen in the coming weeks.

Sometimes I felt like I was in a low-budget teen movie. But I played a minor role as the woman, great with child, and great with yards of maternity swimming suit fabric, who sat in the shade and chortled snide observations to her husband--all the while, cooking up a post for her blog. So without further ado, I give you my Top Ten Differences Between Me and the Spring Break Chicks.

10. I know who slept next to me every night of the trip.
9. I slept in the same bed every night of the trip.
8. I remember every night of the trip.
7. I never had to watch my dinner in reverse.
6. I won my Mardi Gras beads by participating in the water aerobics class, rather than by conventional methods.
5. My beer gut is traditionally called a baby.
4. Student loans did not pay for my vacation.
3. I got heckled as a woman golf cart driver!
2. I am knocked up but I know who the father is.
1. Even though the father of my child knows we’re “in trouble,” he’s sticking around.

What About Me Says Tacky?

Aside from the hair braids with beads that one can acquire while sitting on the beach, Cancun’s other offering to the Gods of Tacky was this shirt.

If there really were fashion police, this woman would be in a Mexican prison. The fact that the belly button on the shirt is pierced with an actual earring is a fashion faux pas dead ringer. (No pun intended.) Holding her beer while she attempts a picture doesn’t sweeten the deal either.

In Mexico "All-Inclusive" Translates to All Good

Ben and I just spent the last week either swimming at the beach or sitting poolside sipping pina coladas ("sin alcohol") while doing nothing at the Grand Oasis Cancun Resort in Cancun, Mexico. Taking a gamble, we booked through SkyAuction with no other recommendations on where exactly to stay, and we beat the house big time.

Skymiles + All-Inclusive Resort = a seriously great vacation that I would do over and over again and definitely recommend. I felt like we stepped out of reality. No internet access, sketchy cell phone service, Spanish speakers galore, and subtitled movies on the hotel room cable made this a truely unreal reality for me.

This post is not intended to be a travel log but a few highlights included driving a golf cart around an island off the coast of Cancun called Isla Mujeres. Ben let me drive and when the tour guide told me to turn around in a space that was too small for my golf cart, I got heckled by another idiot tourist who decided to call out, "Woman driver." Thank you sir. Don't overlook that I am a pregnant woman driver so get out of my way before my golf cart takes you down at no more than five miles an hour.

Other highlights from that day included snorkeling the second largest coral reef in the world and holding (yes, holding) a nurse shark. I think they feed him wine and turkey and then give him a Benadryl chaser.

Our other day of snorkeling at Xel-Ha, an "interactive Sea World," as I like to call it, brought us swimming six feet over sting rays, HUGE yellow fin tuna, and a parrot fish who thought he could hide under a reef and remain unnoticed. But we got a good look anyway.

Points of interest from our trip include: a trip to the Mexican WalMart, riding the bus for just $1 each to downtown Cancun, the absolute cleanest bathrooms/amenities I have ever seen on a vacation (seriously), and every '08 Spring Breaker in existence. (Watch for a future post regarding the Spring Breakers--it'll be a must-read.)

I can't get over how beautiful the beach and water were and how awesome and hospitable our hotel and staff were. If I didn't have a baby girl to look forward to, I would have had an even harder time leaving.

I'm Too Sexy for My Car

If you’ve ever used the carwash next to Apollo Burger on Murray-Holladay Road (or Mu-Ho Road, as Ben calls it because the name is annoyingly too long) then you probably know that drivers wash their cars and pull them through to the back of the carwash to dry them off.

This self-loving showoff, however, decided to dry his debt-inducing BMW in front of the carwash right on Mu-Ho Road for all to see. Topping that, he’s so into himself, his cell phone, and his car that he didn’t even notice me taking nearly two minutes to get out my phone, figure out how to take a picture, and then find the time to take it from an additional angle.

Not Dwight What I Expected

We’re sitting on the 50-yard line of our first pregnancy with hopes of a barn-burner of a second half. And when I say barn-burner I don’t mean premature birth, lots of false labors, or giving birth in the back of the car. I mean finally knowing the gender of our baby so we can buy clothes, decorate the nursery, plan baby showers, and continue gaining weight the most delicious way possible.

Before I launch into the not-so-thrilling-but-exciting-nonetheless real story of our ultrasound this morning, I’d like to rewind to the tail of my dream from last night.

As we do every Tuesday night, Ben and I settled into bed to watch the rerun episodes of The Office on TBS. Two back-to-back episodes of this show are almost better than one episode of Survivor. So at about 11pm I dozed off with thoughts (ok worries) about the ultrasound and possibly finding out that our baby has some syndrome or not enough heart chambers or some other challenge that I don’t know if I am ready to face. I awoke at 2am, 3am, 4:45 am, and finally just laid awake from about 6:30 am until 7:30 am with excitement of seeing our baby for the first time and still those nagging little worries until I remembered my dream.

Somewhere between the 3am and 4:45 am awakening, I had a dream that we went to the ultrasound and the technician performing said service was Dwight K. Schrute, Assistant to the Regional Manager at Dunder Mifflin, Inc. in Scranton, PA. (If you don’t watch The Office, this means nothing to you.) Dwight was precise, somewhat rigid, and articulate as usual. He managed to inform us (without me crying or screaming) that we had a healthy dinosaur on the way. Additionally, he told us that its claws, large teeth, and all of its vertebrae were in tact and totally functional.

Ecstatic to potentially be giving birth to a prehistoric creature, I thought nothing of the fact that this Jurassic episode might bring back something now extinct. I would have been lauded as a marvel and possibly a hero, the science world over. The Discovery Channel could have dedicated a week of TV to me and called it “Dino Baby Week: A Bundle of Teeth and Joy.” But as any mother would be, I was just happy to have a healthy dinosaur.

Somewhat disturbed but amused and slightly diverted from my previous worries, I went to the real ultrasound today and saw an actual child moving within. Dwight wasn’t there and there were no large teeth but we got an alarmingly clear shot of the girl parts. Unfortunately, some of the first pictures we have of our child are inappropriate for public but we think she’s pretty cute. It’s a girl!

When Nature Calls

When women talk on their cell phone in the bathroom stall I find it disgusting and rude. Not only is it rude to the person on the other end of the call but it is rude to me, since I am trying to do my business in peace. And I shouldn’t even have to explain why it is disgusting. Who is so busy or important that they can’t take two minutes to hang up a call to use the restroom?

As a general practice I do a few things when I hear a woman talking on her phone in the bathroom. I try to slam the stall door as loudly as possible in order to create noise. I flush the toilet as many times as possible also to create noise but more importantly to convey to the caller on the line that this woman is in fact, in the bathroom. And I try to make those toilet seat covers be as annoyingly crinkly as I can.

Today I went into the restroom and heard a woman on her cell phone. So I did all the aforementioned activities. After entering the stall I immediately flushed the toilet. She left her stall and walked into the hall with her phone call. Not only did she neglect to wash her hands but she didn’t FLUSH. What the hell is wrong with people?

After I finished and washed my hands I walked around the halls looking for her. I am in the mood today to give somebody a piece of my mind and she is the most deserving. I swear on my life, if I ever find out who she is, she’s getting a swirly.

You Da Grad!

Congrats to Ben, who completed his MBA yesterday. Truly a day of celebration, this accomplishment brings to Ben’s life no homework hanging over his head, more time to watch TV, more time to play the Wii, less stress, more time to adore me, more time for recreation, and less annoyance at incompetent group members at school. As recently as this morning, he has requested that when addressing him individuals now use the prefix "Master" before his name.

Way to go, Master! You done did good.

Get in Shape Girl

Ladies, do you remember this? Get in Shape Girl was a way for little girls the country over to copy their Jane-Fonda–worshipping mothers. It had the pink workout mat, dumbbells, a ribbon for exotic dancing practice, and a jump rope. I think it had other items but these are the ones I remember. It really never did anything for me as the Get in Shape Girl workout audio tape wasn't very motivating. I was more fond of working out a la Jennifer Beals style from Flashdance. Only five years old at the time, I wasn’t aware that she was a stripper but I liked the music and I also had the soundtrack tape, which consequently was more motivating than the aforementioned workout tape.

As previously revealed, I am not a natural born dancer so when running around the living room like a spaz got old, I decided to slide down the stairs on my Get in Shape Girl workout mat. That was a lot more fun.

If my baby is a girl, I just might have to shell out the dough on e-Bay for the Get in Shape Girl set.

50 Things About Me

As a person who doesn't care to "jump on the bandwagon" all that often, I have to admit that I like to read the lists of things about people. You know, "croutons or bacon bits?, Coke or Pepsi?" I just like to find things out about people. So here are 50 things about me if you care.

1. My hair color has been Brown #211 for the last six years and I am totally fine with that.
2. I crave the chicken green chili salad at Bajio Grill almost on a daily basis.
3. I love Survivor and the Amazing Race.
4. I love to sleep in but I also love getting up early and getting stuff done.
5. I think the fry sauce at Apollo, Crown, or Greek Burger is superior to all the rest.
6. I love to write creatively and technically but mostly I like to be snarky.
7. Makeup is fun to play with and I would work at Sephora if there was one in Utah. (Oh and if it wasn’t really retail—I just couldn’t do that.) So basically, I’d work in a Sephora dreamland where there were no customers or working weekends and holidays.
8. I love my family and I like it when people say we all look alike.
9. I have to wear orthotic inserts in most of my shoes because my feet pronate and cause major pain in my back, hips, and legs. (I am wicked old before my time.)
10. June 21st is my birthday and I love that time of year. First day of summer, longest day of the year, and 99.9% chance of perfect weather.
11. I secretly enjoy it when people at work come and ask me grammar questions. I revel in knowing the answer off the top of my head but it’s also really fun to look things up in the Associated Press Stylebook. I am a word nerd, through and through.
12. I majored in Communication because it really is what interested me the most at the time.
13. Now sometimes I wish I could be a personal trainer or a nutritionist.
14. I did a one-semester stint as a grad student in Professional Communication at Westminster College and decided that it cost too much and I should buy a condo instead. Totally the right choice.
15. Even though I am terrified of singing alone in public, I think I would rock the Star Spangled Banner at a Jazz game. At least in my mind I would.
16. When I was about 14 my dance teacher told me that my little sister was a better dancer than I. Subsequently, I quit shortly thereafter. Beej really is a better dancer and honestly, that double-D-cup teacher did me a favor.
17. I think I am finding that I have more talents as I get older. I am a late bloomer.
18. I love Hot Dog on a Stick. It epitomizes my childhood trips to the mall with my mom.
19. One day I was cruising LDSSingles.com and saw a picture of a guy looking through the top of a water bottle. The part of his face I could see looked cute, so I sent him a message and then we got married. Oh, but we dated for over two years in between all of that.
20. I hate going to, talking about, and being involved in weddings but I loved my own and would definitely do it again and again.
21. One time, while working in a call center, I tried to roll my chair backward and the wheels locked and I fell over on my back in front of about 20 people. Not to mention I was still lashed to my phone on the desk.
22. When Nancy Kerrigan was in the Olympics people told me I look like her. I sort of liked it. Now I look back and it’s not that great.
23. I like things clean. I like lists. I like organization.
24. I love to ski.
25. I love living in Utah.
26. Subsequent to No. 25, I hate it when I go places and hear people talk too loudly about “the ward” and “stake confurnz.”
27. My Bolivian Spanish accent got so good on my mission that people thought I was from there.
28. I like being married because there is always somebody to go to parties with.
29. When I was about 13 I was in Denver and I was in the bathroom stall at a McDonald’s. I must have not done a very good job locking the door because a homeless lady barged in on me and screamed, “Move it! I gotta take a sh**!”
30. My sister used to sew clothes for herself, my little sister, and me. My favorite item was a pair of cotton tie-dyed shorts with an elastic waist band. The colors were green, purple and yellow.
31. I thought Alyssa Milano on Who’s the Boss was the rage of the late eighties/early nineties and I tried to have big bangs like hers.
32. I love DVR and I love to fast forward through the commercials but there is also something satisfying about catching up to live TV. I guess I feel like people around the nation are seeing it before we are and that bothers me.
33. I can say all 50 states in alphabetical order.
34. The cops once caught some friends and me stealing letters from the Skyline marquee so we could put something funny on the Olympus marquee. They called our parents.
35. I like Ricky Martin and I shall not be embarrassed about it.
36. When I wake up at night I shove Ben just to make sure he is breathing. He never remembers it.
37. I get entirely cranky when I am hungry.
38. Zack Morris was cuter than AC Slater.
39. I like cheese curds.
40. Sometimes I find church boring.
41. I like to make homemade pizza and breadsticks. The trick is to put balsamic vinegar in the sauce and to put olive oil on the dough before putting the other stuff on.
42. In my opinion, less is always more.
43. When I was in 3rd or 4th grade, while studying different Native American tribes, my teacher always assigned worksheets with a lot of questions for us to find out about them. In the age of no internet, the questions were nigh unto impossible to answer. Luckily, my family had a brand-spankin’ new set of encyclopedias so my mom and I answered all the questions. And then she fielded questions from the parents of neighboring children who could not find the answers.
44. When I get to work I want to be left alone for the first half hour to 45 minutes.
45. I’ll be really happy when Ben finishes his MBA next week!
46. I like to sing along to the radio in the car.
47. Yesterday I was home sick and I honestly had a hard time deciding if I should watch Saved by the Bell or the Facts of Life.
48. I never fantasized about my wedding when I was young.
49. I left my heart in Florence, Italy last fall and I want to go back and pick it up.
50. People say Ben and I should go on the Amazing Race and if it wasn’t for total humiliation, the possibility of breaking down into tears on TV, and never getting any sleep, I might consider it.

We've Drafted Our First Player

Much to our jubilation, we are adding our first player to the family team. For the past 14 weeks, we have been diligently caring for a fetus in hopes of a healthy miniature version of one of us. The main desires (aside from a totally healthy child) are that we have managed to engineer a child that receives the Moss bone structure and the Russon (Ben’s mom’s side) thin genes. We aren’t vain. We just want to have kids as cute as my siblings’ kids. Ben does not have any nieces or nephews in his family yet, so really there’s no standard to meet. We could have a litter of puppies in a box under the stairs and his family would be thrilled to have grandpuppies.

Needless to say, I have spent the whole first trimester (and the better part of my 40 hours/week of work) glued to the American Pregnancy Association (APA) website located here. Every time I add another week to my pregnancy I read about what is happening currently with my baby. Memorable milestones include, “This week your baby no longer looks like a lizard,” and “This week your baby’s eyes have fused shut and it is now the size of a grape.” I totally love that blind lizard-grape!

Not-so-amusing milestones are the ones where your body goes totally alien on you. I don’t just mean weight gain. Every time I read about changes, I think, “This is not right.” Examples range from hairloss and constipation, to enlarging glands on your nipples and Linea Nigra, or the darkening of the line that runs from your abdomen to your pubic bone. What? Varicose veins, I knew about. Leg cramps, I will learn to handle. Stretch marks, I will combat with a cream. But extra glands and darkening lines? I thought I signed up for 3am feedings, incessant crying, and diarrhea up the back. (All those being the work of the baby.) Those things I will take in stride but I am still perturbed about these extra glands and darkening lines. Can’t I just don a scarlet letter A and call it good?

Needless to say, we are really excited and I guess I will open it up for gender guesssing and name suggestions. But we probably won't take your suggestions.