Yeah, they’re still happening two years later.

So I’m sitting there at my desk, happily tapping away at expenses & BAM! there’s a flutter in my uterus area.  It’s enough to make me take pause & freak the eff out that OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO BE ON “I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT.” 

But then I remember that I’m already doing that female thing (send nachos & wine!) & we are staunch supporters of the Trojan man & there is simply NO WAY there is a bambino kicking away in my uterus.

But still.

Totally trippy.

This is where I draw the line. I am proud of my belly stretchies. I can deal with the ones on my knees & calves. BUT I DRAW THE LINE AT FEET.

fwiw, my foot looks AWESOME in this picture after hoisting it above my heart for 3 hours while we watched Goonies. It’s amazing how my perspective of what constitutes “awesome” has changed in the past few weeks.

No, not the birds & the bees. I think it’s obvious that I know the basics of penis meets vagina, given the current “no vacancy” sign on my uterus.

No, I got the weight talk. From the doctor. Unfortunately, not the kind where he tells me to shove my face with grilled cheese & peanut butter cups to my hearts delight, but the kind where he tells me TO STOP BEING SUCH AN EFFING WHALE. & the worst part is, I BROUGHT IT UPON MYSELF.

I am officially up 22 lbs from my pre-pregnancy weight. (Sadly, my pre-pregnancy weight was a wee bit fat for me, but PEOPLE, I drank my feelings for 6 weeks back in December. Gin takes no prisoners when it comes to your waistline. Remember?) But 22 pounds. Not bad for almost 30 weeks, especially considering the 5 lbs of fluid permanently lodged in Ol’ Rosie, aka my left cankle. So WHY, dear God WHY, did I bring up my weight gain as my doctor was walking out of the exam room? What in God’s named spurred me to say, “So, my weight looks okay? Because for awhile there, I’ve been gaining 3 lbs per week.” SWEET JESUS BLAIR, will you never learn to keep your mouth shut?! Regrettably, my doctor informed me that I should cut out all snacks & desserts in order to keep my weight gain under 30 lbs.

Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot. I passed the gestational diabetes test! I have no dietary restrictions! Until today….& NO SNACKIES??? I stuttered, informing him that I swear, promise, cross-my-heart that despite the occasional cuppycake, I snack on Kashi bars, fruit, & cheese. He greeted me with a blank stare that said “I THINK YOU’RE LYING” & I know this picture was flying through his head:

I promise, Doctor. THAT WAS JUST ONE TIME. & the baby NEEDED Moe’s.

Near tears, I promised I would bump up evening walks to 2 miles if THE MAN WILL JUST LET ME KEEP MY KASHI BARS. He said, “Yes, walking is lovely, but remember — you only have 8 lbs to go until 30. You’ll probably be hungry, but the baby won’t care. I promise.” ::sobs::

RIP, snackies. RIP, cuppycakes that speak to my soul.

oh, & go figure this happened on a day when my office is filled with the buttery smell of warm Otis Spunkmeyer Cookies. Eff my life.

Regardless, Nate & I are off to Charleston for four days to celebrate a) three years of wedded bliss b) the kid I’m currently incubating and c) my swollen left ankle.

Because that shiz is IMPRESSIVE. That’s 9:30am, folks. I seriously might cry because you could GO SWIMMING IN MY ANKLE there is so much fluid. Compression hosiery, here I come…because nothing says “sexy” like dressing like your Grandma Doris.

& I need a good nickname for my ankle. Start brainstorming, although “THE BEAST” is the front-runner in my mind.

Random side note: Really, the Gestational Diabetes test with the 100% KoolAid proof syrup really isn’t that terrible. I chugged far worse things in college, including the contents of a cooler that had fruit at the bottom. Thankfully, I don’t remember much of the experience except sitting in a chair singing “Magic Carpet Ride” while the Lambda Chi’s hoisted me over their heads in a circle.

Right. ::side-eye::

Sadly, the after-shock of the GD test wasn’t quite as memorable, minus general queasiness & the shakes that come with a lethal injection of sugar into your blood stream. So far, no news is good news & I assume I passed the test.

Y’all have a WONDERFUL weekend…I shall return with lovely pictures of my left ankle touring the Battery & Fort Sumpter (woot, history buffs unite!) on Sunday. smoochies.

Oh, and that wee bit about them not being painful? LIES. Not shocking, considering you had a penis and NEVER FELT ONE IN YOUR LIFE. It does, however, give me gleeful satisfaction that women have probably given you & your little “observation” the finger consistantly since the 1800′s.

So yes. I am awake at 6:30am thanks to a lovely tightening in the belly, while Nate snores blissfully unaware beside me. Oh, to be male sometimes. Get laid, have an orgasm, & spend the next 9 months blinking your eyes innocently & saying, “Oh geez, honey. That sounds rough.” without ever fully COMMITTING TO MY AGONY. Don’t worry, Nate. You can make this moment up in a few hours with biscuits & gravy in bed.

No, that’s not a new kinky sex position. I mean actual biscuits. Smothered in sausage gravy. The breakfast of Southern champions on the day we endeavor to clean out the garage.

Speaking of cleaning, thanks to my wonderful readers, I’m looking into a housekeeper for at least the first few months of my return to work after maternity leave…I think I can handle the housework while I’m at home, but having a housekeeper the first bit back would probably really help the transition. My only hesitation is cost, simply because we’re already unloading another human being onto our tight budget. But I think we can squeeze it temporarily, especially if it assures a piece of my sanity.

Also, I’ve been thinking hard-core about my cleaning routine — in the past, we simply attack the house on Saturday mornings & get it all done in a few hours. But I simply do not have the energy to do that anymore. I’d love to hammer out something that took a little bit every night. But does that really work in the long run? If you have a cleaning/laundry schedule that works well for you, will you please leave it as a comment or shoot me an email? It would be much, much appreciated!

oh, & as another random side-comment, Jennifer hit the nail on the head about keeping Anonymous & his/her douchebag comments — I could disallow anonymous comments, but they’re just funny. (and I do have a few awesome anonymous readers) Why would I rob myself or readers of the guilty pleasure to watch Anonymous struggle mightely to tap out something that is a half-attempt to be witty with a side of epic failure? It’s like chocolate cake with rich hot chocolate sauce & ice cream, hold the calories & guilt. Yummmmmmm….

I am traumatized & officially switching to “grannie panties.”

I shall return next week, potentially with a belly that is precariously close to “popping”

The other week, prior to The Plague that emptied my colon for good, I had not pooped in 4 days. This made me & my poor body feel about 10 kinds of uncomfortable, not to mention what it did to my rapidly spreading waist-line. One morning, while sitting innocently at my desk & clipping out an email to a coworker, I felt “the urge.” You know, the kick in the gut where your colon screams “SOMETHING IS HAPPENING DOWN HERE” and you realize you have about 10 minutes to do something, or you might just stay constipated forever. So quick as a mouse, I tapped down the hallway in 3-inch heels, try to look dignified in my entrance to the most secluded ladies room. Thankfully, it was empty as I like to poop in private. I spread out the seat protector (with “Provided by Management” printed all over it. thank you, bossman, for shelling out $0.20 to protect my ass) & sat down.

& with a wee bit of work, the blessed event occurred, followed by a sigh of complete satisfaction.

I stood up, flushed…and OH MY GOD, I clogged the industrial toilet at work. Sweet cheese & rice, how did that happen?? You could flush a small dog down one of our toilets & it would yip all the way to the sewer system. So by God, what did I eat to make my body undertake such an event?? It wasn’t overflowing, but it certainly wasn’t normal toilet behavior.

I had three options:
1) Run to the front desk & report it immediately.
2) Go to my office & report it anonymously on our Maintenance Director’s voicemail. Voice disguise, of course.
3) Flee the scene & figure they’d find it later.

So…obviously, I picked #3. Because I am a COWARD & because there are 500 other people in the building that could have been responsible. A few days later, I returned to said restroom to find the porcelein inside that specific toilet scraped severely. They had to snake an industrial toilet because of my bum.

I am still privately humiliated.