Welcome to the world, Alexander.

Born 5:18 pm 3/30/07
7lbs 10 oz
20 inches long

Dad and Baby are wonderful.

Mom is still an asshole.

Full Moon Tonight: Check (unproven scientifically, but as nurse and former waitress must agree with it, as have experienced it)

Cervix Softening: Check

Baby Full Term: Check

Number of (documented by hospital records) Times Baby Has Tried To Kill Me: Twice

Dreams of Gigantic 18 lb Babies Being Ejected by Crotch: One (which beats the 60 lb baby dreams I had with Ben. Wait, that was a fantasy)

Hospital Bags Packed: One (last time, simply threw pile of cheeseburgers haphazardly into plastic sack and hoped for the best)

Baby Settling into Pelvis (thereby making me have to pee 1 tbsp every 4 seconds): Check

Increased Need for Semen in Vagina Because Someone, Somewhere Promised that Semen Brings on Labor: Check (poor husband is home from work for exact purpose. Was considering donor sperm if husband not available until it was made clear that you HAVE TO PAY FOR DONOR SPERM. Totally unaware that people could CHARGE for SPOOGE)

Mucus Plug/Bloody Show: Likely intact, although may be coming out of nose

Emotions Range from Stark Raving Mad to Weeping Uncontrollably: Check

Number of Times Husband Has Threatened Divorce: Miraculously, none, although am sure will be summarily paid back when shoulder surgery occurs.

Laundry Piled Up, Needing To Be Put Away: Currently two baskets. Hoping that if labor occurs, husband will have to do it himself for the first time in three years. Scratch that, as I will end up with 5 year old son’s clothes in my closet. Mental note: must put away laundry today.

Desire For Whole Bottle of Beer: Growing by the minute. Know it is bad as Icehouse is sounding tastee.

Jealousy of People Who Have Scheduled C-Sections Before Actual Due Date: Growing by the second.

Disgust with Pants with Elastic Waistbands: Almost epic proportions. Cannot wait to leave them behind. Cannot believe that once thought that they were ‘œcomfortable’ and ‘œkinda cute.’ Annoyed with previous naivety.

Plans For Evicting Baby, Beginning Today:

Sex, or alternately, turkey baster insemination.

Getting involved in huge, massive, messy project, knowing that this is likely the time water could break (would normally have lit cigarette, but have quit smoking)

Locating trampoline and jumping (likely injuring self)

And my favorite:

The Branch Davidians Method: Planning to loudly play Alice Cooper, Corrosion of Conformity, Peter Fucking Frampton, Rush, Any Smoove Jazz I Can Find, Phil Collins, etc to belly. Hoping he will take the hint and decide to come out and turn that motherfucking shit DOWN, motherfucker.

Anything else?

Dear The Old Lady Who Works At The Starbucks In My Target,

When I am greeted by my harried looking husband upon leaving the bathroom with my 5 year old (who loudly chronicled every step of the descent of his poop from his colon to the toilet) with my large green tea latte, and the curt instructions to ‘Taste this. NOW’ it is a very.bad.sign.

How you ruined something that is made entirely from a mix, I am not sure, but how you ruined it 3 times baffles me. Finally, I just asked “make me a large steamed skim with almond syrup,” which is surely a sign that you are not in the right line of work. Because I *still* walked away with a small skim with whole milk.

By this time, I had surmised that you were probably not worth  my time and if I tried a fourth time, I’d probably end up with a cheeseburger. Although it is still painful for me to admit, I walked away from the entire situation without getting a refund for my $1.80.

Still Wantin’ My Latte,

The Largely Pregnant Woman Flanked By Eye-Rolling Men

P.S. My husband is still not sure what you did to his drink.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Outlet Mall Lotion Kiosk Guy,

Do I look like I am desperately in need of your product? Is my skin falling off my body in large discernible chunks, littering the mall floor with its’ fleshy badness? If the answer is no (and last I checked, it was), then when I say ‘No‘ to your inquiry if I have a minute to hear about your product while I walk briskly away from your stand, let.it.the.fuck.go.

Don’t follow me well past your stand, eagerly proffering your lotion bottle as it were a hard penis in dire need of a hand-i-job while repeating yourself over and over, pleading with me to try your product. I promise, even *I* know that your six dollar product is not worth it.

And if you choose to do these things to me, as your type inevitably does (am I a product of racial SES profiling?) DO NOT do these things around my usually-even-tempered-husband. Because he scream loudly at you while threatening you with bodily harm. Which he will then be forced to listen to his wife imitate for weeks (ahem, YEARS) to come, while wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

Incorrectly Profiled,

Back The Fuck Off, Motherfucker’s Wife

P.S. Your product sucks and you work in a mall kiosk. An OUTLET mall kiosk. I personally, am just glad that I am not you.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

Dear Rapidly Growing Belly,

About 4 months ago, we had a great agreement. You wouldn’t impede my movements too much, and I would feed you McDonald’s Carmel Sundaes when you asked. Life (aside from the hyperemesis, of course) was good. I looked cute, felt cute, and got to rub my cute little belly.

All bets are off now, motherfucker.

I’m lucky if my biggest shirts fit over you now. Shopping for more shirts has proven time and again to be a losing battle, not to mention depressing as f.c.u.k. Yesterday, I burned you on the freezing car. Today I burned you on the hot stove. My mind cannot compute your ample dimensions any longer. While attempting to hug my first son, I steamrolled him to the ground AND IT TOOK ME A MINUTE TO REALIZE WHY HE HAD FALLEN.

On the bright side, I am glad that it wasn’t a seizure like I had initially thought.

Sleeping has turned into a horrible battle of me vs. my burgeoning belly. I grunt when I roll over or move from sitting to standing or pretty much whenever.

Sex has gone from a pleasurable (and how!!!) pastime to an act of mercy on the part of my husband. Mounting and dismounting leave me feeling about as sexual as a goat in tap shoes and the walk of shame to the bathroom has turned into a slow waddle.

Since I no longer feel as though you have upheld your end of the bargain here, I am forced to renig on my own. No more Carmel Sundaes for you until you can show me what I’m getting out of this.

Hungrily yours,

The Only One Of Us Who Has Access To Both A Car And A Wallet

P.S. If you see Cletus the Fetus, please inform him that my bladder is NOT a toy!

A staple around our house since I’ve been pregnant (which seems like an eternity, yo) happens to be donuts. Most frequently it’s Krispy Kreme, but making the occasional debut are the Enteman’s Chocolate (ahem, PLASTIC) Covered and the sometimes seen Dunkin’ Donuts. We go through about a dozen or so a week nowadays, which seems like a lot, especially considering they’re only passing down one gullet. And, surprise, surprise it’s not mine!

Have I mentioned that The Daver is pregnant, too?

Well, he is. Come on, you know you saw that one coming, especially if you’d heard of Couvade Syndrome before. And shit, he’d probably be carrying this baby to term if he could. He’s just that kind of good guy.

Although some women might be slightly irritated by this phenomenon, I find it somewhat sweet. I mean, if he’s ingesting 12 donuts a week, he can’t exactly raise TOO much of a stink about the McDonald’s caramel sundaes that seem to call my name at odd hours of the day.

He now also shares my irrationally premature nesting instincts.

Over Christmas, he took an unheard of 5 days of vacation time. For Dave (and any of you workaholics out there) this is a huge, huge thing. I had grown extremely accustomed (if not a little bitter) to not seeing my husband during the week, and only seeing him on certain weekends when the moon is full and blue and round. Maybe not precisely how I envisioned my marriage, but then again, I had always envisioned having a wall covered entirely in Velcro, making Velcro suits, and throwing myself against said wall occasionally. What can I say? Fantasy does not always = reality.

And over those 5 days, I got a real glimpse of what having him around all the time would be like. In a word: exhausting. He undertook more house projects in a short amount of time than I have ever seen anyone do, ever, which is a welcome change for us, albeit a bit exhausting.

When we moved here last February, having just been bent over and ass-fucked by the condo fiasco, we didn’t have a whole ton of extra money to throw around to improve this house. We made do with what we had, and in doing so, we completely turned 3 areas in the house into the ‘we just throw crap here’ rooms and shut the door to them.

The Baby’s Room. Painted a sickly shade of pink, we contemplated for 3.5 seconds about making it into a guest room. Which made so little sense as to be absurd: we wanted a baby not house guests. The room then became the ‘cat room.’

Before you start assuming that we have indeed turned into ‘those crazy cat people,’ let me remind you that we foster cats for a local adoption organization. They are not our cats. They will NOT be our cats (no matter WHAT Ben thinks). But for them, it beats the fcuk out of living in a cage.

Once we discovered that I was, indeed, sperminated, the room was painted and the cats were (mostly) evacuated to another part of the house. Then the room became mecca for all of the baby crap that we began to accumulate. Boxes of Ben’s old clothes, a Moses basket, some hand-me-downs from Vacation Wife, and the new baby furniture was all unceremoniously tossed into the room and the door closed.

Although I may be premature in some cases, I do happen to know that sometimes pregnancies have a way of not working out, and wasn”t really willing to start to create a real nursery until the age of viability was reached (i.e. 24 weeks).

Operation Sort-Through-Crap is now partially completed. Goodwill should be having a field day with all of the stuff I’m giving up. Now things just need to be put together so it can actually be an operational room.

The Basement. Going from being squashed into a small condo on the third floor with minimal (I’m being generous here) storage into having a house with three floors can make a person a bit lazy. The laundry room in our basement was quickly turned into crap depository #2. Anything that didn’t go directly into another area was dumped here, never to be seen again.

Over the break, Dave bought, assembled and organized shelves and effectively moved about 90% of the crap off of the floor and into some semblance of organization. Now I just have to go through and throw shit away. I’d have a garage sale if I wasn’t so fucking afraid of them.

Ben’s Playroom, i.e. The Room Off The Kitchen. An initially great idea (‘Hey, let’s put all of Ben’s stuff into this one area, so he can play there!’) turned into ‘Wow! No one ever goes into that room. What a waste of space!’

Dave and Ben dutifully lugged toy after toy into Ben’s room until we were left with a vacant-except-for-the-white-aluminum-Christmas-tree room. I had been contemplating making this an all-seasons tree (change the lights for each holiday!!) or some shit just to leave the room with SOMETHING in it, when the idea of making this a den was raised.

On Monday, off to Addison we trekked to get another insanely large television because The Daver MUST have large televisions and back to Naperville we trudged to pick out another set of couches. Today the couches were delivered, and the room.looks.so.weird.all.furnished.and.shit. All that’s left to do in there is some painting and to mount the TV on the wall. Yes, the TV is a flat panel one. No, I don’t know why.

(I cannot believe I’m going to say this here, now)

I should be pregnant more often, dammit! Eventually the whole house would be decorated, organized and furnished.

I don’t know if I told you guys this, but in about 2 months, I am having a second baby.

Holy pajamas, batman.

I mean, if anyone was planned, it was this baby, let’s be honest here, but for some reason it has only recently begun to sink in that I will shortly be pushing crotch parasite #2 out of my cooter. And I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.

Aside from one niggling detail. At age 26, I will have 2 children. ChildREN. Like the transition from preschooler to kindergartner, for some reason this change feels huger than huge. Massive. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye I go from looking chic and trendy (let me dream, people) to wearing mom jeans with white keds. And have a muffin top. I DON’T WANT TO WEAR SENSIBLE SHOES AND SHOP AT KOHLS!!

So, immediately I decide that I must change something. But what?

The first thing that pops into my addled (but very typical female) mind is to dye my hair, which is my natural color for the first time in I don’t know how long. I envisioned a kind of punk rock hairdo in a funky style. Scratch that, dude. When I am NOT pregnant and/or nursing a boobfruit, I suck at dying my hair. I don’t imagine I’ll be ‘doing’ my hair daily for the next several months. When I do, I will reward myself with a rockin’ dye job, done by someone other than my husband. Oh yes, ladies, he does hair too.

The second thing that pops into my head is to get another tattoo. Now, before I got pregnant with this one, my late birthday present for myself was going to be a new tattoo. As it turned out, turning 26 made for a sweet-assed union between the sperm and egg. If I can’t eat hot dogs, I certainly cannot get ink. Especially since I have a horrible reaction to the red dye and would be unable to medicate myself properly.

So I resolved to get the tattoo. But of what? And where? This is where my inability to be creative is highlighted: I have two tattoos. One on either foot. Both mean something extremely personal, and the last one came from an exact QUOTE from a conversation that I had with a friend. It’s not rocket science, my brain.

And this is where I turn to you, dear Internet. You see, I need your help. What else can I possibly do to stave off the inevitable mom-ness that will come with this baby?

P.S. I was completely unable to find a diaper bag with a skull and crossbones on it. I settled for having to make my own. It’s sassy as fcuk.

1. What did you do in 2006 that you’d never done before?

Juggled two mortgages. Eventually sold House #1.

And no, we are not moving in 2007. Not if I can help it. Unlike my husband, I am not a nomad.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I have never really made a resolution for New Years. Not because I don’t believe in resolutions themselves, but because I can never think of something that I will be sure that I will do in the new year. And I don’t want to feel guilty for not completing them later on. I have enough guilt.

I didn’t resolve to, but I quit smoking this year. Next year, I’m sure I’ll resolve to lose the baby weight. But I won’t resolve to do it on January 1.

3. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?

A second son. And a million dollars. Because, really, how else can I paper a room with dollar bills or get a Grill?

4. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Maintaining my sanity (stop laughing).

5. What was the best thing you bought?

My bumble-bee house. I freaking love my house.

6. Whose behavior merited celebration?

Daver’s. He has not killed me yet. He is also 99% of the reason that I have maintained my sanity.

and

Benner’s. He has made my life eversomuch better every single second of every single day. Mushy? Maybe. True? Absolutely.

7. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Britney Spears.

8. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

My ultrasound. Finding out that I am having a healthy baby boy.

Moving the fcuk back outta my parents house (we moved there in January for a month while we waited to close on our house). Sweet Jesus. That was awful.

Getting over (mostly) hyperemesis gravidarum.

9. What song will always remind you of 2006?

Slow Down Baby.

10. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? Happier

ii. thinner or fatter? Fatter: But I do have a parasite now.

iii. richer or poorer? Richer.

11. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Stopping to smell the flowers.

12. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Worrying about things I cannot control.

13. What was your favorite TV program?

Law and Order: Criminal Intent. My husband, Vincent D’Onofrio is super-sexxy, even if y’all are haters.

14. What was the best book you read?

The Curious Incident of the Dog and the Nighttime.

15. What was your greatest musical discovery?

By far the best album I bought this year was “Back to Basics.”

16. What was your favorite film of this year?

I’m really not much of a movie person. I rarely see movies in the theater. Of the three I saw this year, the best was:

United 93.

17. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I had a nice BBQ with some good girlfriends that I haven’t seen much since. I miss them.

I got wasted on Cosmos and champagne.

Then I got pregnant. So, I got a Hot Beef Injection for my birthday. BOO-YEAH.

18. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Eschewing the horrible habit that I picked up from my husband: worrying about things over which you have no control. I have since stopped. It’s neither fulfilling nor does it help.

19. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?

Pregnant and itchy?

20. What kept you sane?

Dave.

and

Ben.

21. What political issue stirred you the most?

To wear underwear or to freeball it?

22. Who was the best new person you met?

I didn’t meet anyone interesting this year. At least, not that I can remember.

23. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006:

“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.”

24. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“Everybody’s talkin’ all this stuff about me, why don’t they just let me live? I don’t need permission, make my own decisions, that’s my prerogative”

When I turned 16 and decided that I needed a job to fund my shoe habit, I chose to be a hostess at the Mill Race Inn, where my brother had once worked as the head chef. The restaurant industry is almost unlike any other, and few will understand the seemingly inconsequential stories that former waitstaff relate (This one time? I had this table that WANTED SEPARATE CHECKS! AND SODA REFILLS!) but I’m pulling one outta the vaults that I *think* people will get.

Sunday Mornings at MRI were always a zoo, full of old women who had been coming to the Mill Race longer than I’d been alive, and plenty of yuppies, forgoing their Morning Starbucks Ritual once a week for brunch. Reservations would be booked weeks in advance, and the 10:30-1 PM time slot was always a premium time for people to grab brunch. We’d turn away our fair share of Walk-Ins citing overbooked reservations about every 5 minutes or so.

THIS Sunday, the one in question, I had been called in early, as the other two hostesses had called in sick, leaving just me. My manager and I ran the front, frantically answering phone calls, seating people, and overseeing the dining room in general. By 11:30 I was in the weeds, and the people kept pouring in.

A couple came in with their two youngish kids without a reservation, and my manager took them in graciously, instructing me to take them to one of our best River View tables. This was unbelievable for my usually-conservative manager. I took them in, my manager ran in back, and I noted both

1) the phone ringing on two different lines

2) several sets of people had walked in and were waiting impatiently at the hostess stand and were looking at the reservation sheet for their names (a personal pet peeve)

as I was walking these people to their table. Knowing that I was the ONLY ONE who was going to make it back up front to take care of those people and get the phone, I brusquely set their menus down, told them to ‘enjoy their brunch’ and was turning to run back up front when the dude pulled me back.

‘Excuse me, can we get a highchair?’ I reluctantly turned around and said politely, ‘I’m a little busy right now, but Jonathan [busboy] here [grabbing his arm] can get you one.’

Jon agreed and was physically in the act of getting the highchair as I walked back up front.

The rest of the day was just as hectic, with everyone wanting SOMETHING extra from us, a better table, a discount, someone to complain to, and we were getting ready to close up brunch when the same couple that I had sat were walking out. I smiled at them and bid my farewells, but the man headed up to my manager and began to berate her.

Curious, I listened in.

What had we done?

I could only catch bits and pieces of it without getting closer to them, but I could hear several comments, “Racist! Rude! Blah, blah, blah! Obviously racist.”

Who the HELL were they talking about? The staff was professional enough to really care less about someone’s skin color. I’d never heard ANYONE make a comment whatsoever about The Race Card because frankly, no one gave a fuck.

I was DYING to hear who they were talking about, and a couple minutes later, my manager comes marching up to me.

‘Rebecca, these people think that you are a RACIST because you didn’t get them a high chair and because you were rude to them.’ She launched into a tirade about what these people had said about me, but my ears were pounding and my head felt tingly, so I heard nothing more.

I sputtered loudly, turning from red to white to red again as the blood couldn’t decide where to go. I was FAR too busy to note anyone’s skin color, and I could care less about a biracial couple.

On the radar of things I’d noted about these people were such things as ‘he has nice shoes’ and ‘those kids are super cute.’ I had never been so genuinely shocked by something someone had accused me of before or since.

In essence, I had treated these people EXACTLY the same as I had treated every other table that day. Except, I cooed over how cute the kids were. Because they were. really. damn. cute.

The only thing I had noted–only AFTER he left–was the Big Ass Chip On His Shoulder. You can skew anyone’s behavior to make it suit the preconceived discrimination, and maybe they had dealt with plenty of people who DID care about their racial status, but I was totally not one of them. And really, if you want to know the kind of tables I hated to wait on, they had NOTHING to do with skin color.

I cared MUCH more about his shoes.

The rumors are indeed true. We are moving back to civilization.

Fed up with the blatant snobbery of Oak Park coupled with living in the ‘hood, Daver and I have decided it will be in our best interests to move right back where I started from, oh do-dah-day. Call us ‘sell-outs’ or ‘suburbanites’ til you turn electric blue in your face, it will be lost on us.

Sure, the city is a whirlwind place, teeming with new people and exhilarating experiences but how can you enjoy it with a small child? And why, pray tell, would one want to pay MORE for goods and services, common variety of course, as we all know that I’d pay through the nose for a wax replica of the vagina of Katherine the Great, but hey, this is Chicago, not France. I guess that I can still find Chicago a neato place from the suburbs, which may be impossible for most of you to understand.

I like wide open spaces, devoid entirely of homeless men showing me their penises and scabs. I appreciate not being panhandled on every street corner, each sob story more impressive than the last, all, apparently involving missing train fare. I like being able to park in places that I would like to shop (or rob, but who’s counting?) and not have to beat off all of the eco-friendly vehicles with my behemoth of a truck.

I love that traveling from one point to another for such goods and services as ‘groceries’ and ‘gasoline’ isn’t such an arduous journey taking upwards of 30 minutes in the car.

Each way. I like that said grocery stores DO NOT HIRE SECURITY GUARDS. ESPECIALLY AT THE GROCERY STORE. THAT IS SO FUCKING CREEPY.

What I adore most of all is that there is only one valuable color for currency in St. Charles. It is not, miraculously, hemp, nor is it a muted earth tone procured ONLY at Whole Foods, it is green and it is great.

So we’re off to the land of gas-guzzling monster Hum-Vee’s; off to the land of wide open spaces, off to wherever the hell is far, far away from Oak Park.

Fuck you Oak Park, I don’t want you back.

Hi Internet, how are you?

It’s been awhile since we’ve last spoken, I know, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call. See, the thing is, I’ve been a real raging bitch for the past 6 months or so, and have been terrified to let you see my wrath. I seem to piss people off without meaning to, and if I’m meaning to, I guess that I’m afraid that I’ll ruin any chance of Ben and Baby G-Unit having a normal life. You know, because the Internet can tell him how horrid I really am.

Either way, Internet, I have something to tell you: I’m pregnant! And it’s not yours, it’s The Daver’s. It also appears to have a comically large weenis and enjoys tap dancing on my bladder. Just like his daddy.

This pregnancy has not been without peril, Internet. I had a tear in my placenta causing some frightening first trimester bleeding then I was stricken by a mild case of hyperemesis graviorum. It was fun. It still IS fun.

But last night, something NEW happened.

See, Internet, I feel I need to be honest here. One 1.5 pound baby tap dancing on your bladder often = a little bit of pee in your undies. It’s not hot, no, but it is normal.

Now last night, there was a significantly greater amount of pee in my knickers and I began to get worried. The baby had been mercifully (probably due largely to the fact that I promised him a ‘beat down like no other’ if he didn’t give my bladder a bit of rest) kicking my colon and/or trying to escape through my belly button and avoiding my bladder.

Of course, Internet, this had to happen on a Saturday night when my doctors were out of the office.

So, off we trundled to the ER to make sure I did not have a small tear in my amniotic sac. After having my cervix and/or vagina examined for about 2 hours I was released to get my McDonald’s Carmel sundae and Diet Coke.

Diagnosis: Female Urinary Stress Incontinence (thankgod) r/t pregnancy.

That’s right, Internet, I peed my pants and then made the hospital tell me so.

Guess the giant box of ‘Oops I Crapped My Pants’ I bought for The Daver is going to be used by me.

5 Things:

1. I played concert cello for 10+ years. I toured all over Europe and the States. I was actually quite good, but I quit in college when I decided that smoking reefer took much less effort. Actually, that’s a total lie. I quit because I was tired of it. And honestly? While other people have lamented it loudly, I haven’t looked back once.

2. I spent my entire childhood sickly. I had an ear infection at 2 weeks when I was a newborn and was sick ever since. When I was 14, I had my tonsils out. It was only then when I was introduced to my sweet, sweet friend Vicodin. When the surgeon made the initial cut, the black necrotic tissue trapped within poured out into my mouth.

Heh. Wanna make out?

3. When I was an ickle kid, probably about 3 years old, I got lost in the grocery store. Some clerk found me wandering around and brought me back to the service desk. When the bat-faced old lady asked my name, I told her it was ‘Smurfette.’ She didn’t believe me. I insisted.

Finally, she got so pissed off with me that she got on the PA and announced that they had a small girl at the service desk with ‘pink shoes, pink socks, pink pants, pink shirt, and curly hair.’

I totally dressed myself that day. Because OBVIOUSLY.

4. Although I have successfully given up coffee, alcohol and smoking, I have been immersed in the most irritating and painful addiction to nose spray. I cannot function without it. Dr. Google and I had discussed this at great length and have decided to let things be. I’m all ‘rebound congestion’ and he’s all ‘you’re an addict’ and I’m all like ‘yeah, but what else do I have left to be addicted to?’and he was all ‘ADDICT.’

He’s an asshole.

5. Babies ‘R’ Us and I have always had a horrible relationship. I have always hated it, what with it’s hugely tall shelves and inability to hire anyone with more than 4 or 5 functioning brain cells. Having had what only can be described as ‘premature nesting obsession,’ Dave and I trekked out to EVERY OTHER CONCEIVABLE STORE THAT MIGHT HAVE BABY FURNITURE LIKE A DRESSER OR AN ARMOIRE. We even went to Baby Depot (which is s.c.a.r.y.) and Wicks.

In the end, we were defeated, especially after learning that the internet charges $70+ for shipping furniture, so onward to Babies ‘R’ Us we trudged. And we were in and out within 20 minutes with a changing table, chiffenrobe (whatEVER that is) and a glider. It was un_fucking_real.

And as for me, these days I’m neither here nor there.