My friends are weirder than your friends...

Two weeks ago, I came home from the gym and walked back to the bedroom to put my stuff down.  I could hear Trevor bathing Banner in the other room.  And then the clapping started.

It was coming from my closet.

It was dark.

I almost peed myself.

Apparently, given the circumstances, Trevor assumed I would open the closet door and confront the clapper.  He obviously doesn't know me, because all I did was talk at the closet as I mentally prepared to run away as fast as my little legs would carry me.

In my defense, I assumed the clapper was my brother.  Because he was in town, and this is the sort of stuff I expect from him.  Especially after he and his girlfriend purchased a balding Raggedy Ann doll on super sale at the grocery store just to scare the sh*t out of my sister earlier this month.

(Side note:  It worked.  She was terrified.)

Except it wasn't my brother.  Because when the clapper EXPLODED out of my closet, the first thing I noticed was, "OMG!  THE CLAPPER IS TOO SHORT TO BE WILLIAM!"  Panic set in and I was nanoseconds away from shrieking down the hall in hysterics when the "I'm too short to be William" closet clapper announced that they had to pee.

And, well...when your vertically challenged attacker admits they have to pee in the middle of attacking you, it really takes the edge off the situation somehow.  Especially when you hear their voice and realize that it is just your high school roommate, Anni.  She used to crush hard on Chris O'Donnell and is currently a furmom to an obese pug named "Bean" (ironic since she hates beans).  Before the closet incident, the only thing I've ever found remotely terrifying about her is her fondness of Mickey Mouse bedding and smelt rolls.  The latter of which I find less scary and more disgusting.

[Gag.]

But back to the whole closet ordeal...

Anni goes to pee, and Trevor arrives in the bedroom swearing.  Because I married an a$$hat and he filmed the whole thing with his iPhone on top of the armoire.  Except I came across more annoyed than scared on camera, so he is no closer to You Tube viral video fame than he was before.  Apparently, I was SUPPOSED to say something along the lines of, "Trevor, get out of the closet".  To which he'd respond from the other room, "What?  I can't hear you.  I'm giving Banner a bath".  This was my cue to freak out.  Except, instead, I just kept repeating (somewhat calmly), "Oh, ha ha, William.  Come on out now.  I know it is you". 

And then I (apparently) added insult to injury by not even giving them the satisfaction of a good ole terrified scream when Anni charged out of the closet with her face covered shouting something about the current state of her bladder.

(In my head, however, I assure you I was shrieking loudly.  Because, OMG.)

Apparently, Anni and Trevor had been planning this for nearly a week, too.  Anni even parked on another block so I wouldn't see her car, and Trevor made her hide her beer bottle so I wouldn't wonder why there was more than one when I walked into the kitchen from the garage.  Which is all incredibly humorous to me, because it isn't like I'm observant.  I'm possibly the farthest thing "observant".  I once stood next to Don Henley and didn't even know it.  I somehow missed a bunch of brightly dressed Buddhist monks in an otherwise empty sushi restaurant.  Unless Anni's car was in my driveway, it never would have occurred to me - in the dark - that I just drove past her relatively nondescript forest green Jeep.

What I did notice later, however, was Anni's profound LACK of grasp on the phrase "just down the block".  Because she parked so far away, that she needed an escort.  At one point, about a block from my house, I asked why she parked next to a bulk trash heap.  She responded, "I didn't.  That's not my car."  And so we continued to walk for another ten minutes.  I nearly froze to death.

Seriously.  Not even Sherlock freaking Holmes would have found her car a third of a mile away.  She wasn't even parked on my STREET much less block.  Had I known that she had essentially parked one neighborhood over, I would have driven her back to the car.

But what cracked me up was that I, unwittingly, bought her dinner at Taco Joint before ever discovering her clapping in my closet.  Trevor called in the order, and I picked it up on my way home from the gym.  I briefly wondered about the extra tacos and bowl of soup as I was paying the tab, but just shrugged and assumed Trevor was more hungry than normal.  So, yeah, hide the beer bottles and park in another county, but don't worry…she'll NEVER notice or question the fact that she's buying a whole lot of extra food.

Which I didn't, but still.  That's not the point.  There was fault in their logic.  I may not be observant, but my hindsight is 20/20.

A post where the admittedly clueless, pregnant lady gives advice...

If I only knew then what I know now.

I mentioned this before, but finding a reputable day care in Dallas is a nightmare. Correction: finding a reputable day care in Dallas that doesn't have a ridiculous waiting list is a nightmare.

What they don't tell you when you go in for your first prenatal visit is that you really need to start getting on the day care thing STAT. Like, you probably should have already called a few centers around town the second you got that positive on your first at home pregnancy test.

I was a blissfully ignorant first time mom-to-be whose biggest concern last spring had nothing to do with day care. I was more concerned with getting through the first trimester, and was terrified that I would miscarry. As a result, the subject of day care didn't even cross my mind until I started the second trimester and the blood test results came back with the news that The Fetus was healthy and developing normally. And even then I was of the let's-research-everything-and-weigh-my-options mentality. By the time I actually started calling and emailing various centers, it was mid to late July and (no joke) PEOPLE LAUGHED AT ME.

By August, I was concerned and - now that we've hit September - I am pretty much a walking basket case. I am on five or six waiting lists, and the earliest any of them can take THOR is sometime next summer. Well, except for this new day care that just opened. They have room in March and April, but when I called them I was discouraged when the man answering the phone slipped up and said something about how short staffed they were. This immediately conjured up the mental image of my son crying unnoticed for hours on end all hungry, cold and suffering in a dirty diaper. But since I don't feel like I can afford to rule the short staffed day care out completely, I still have them on my radar.

All this distress in regards to day care also has me looking into options for Thor when he is a toddler and of pre school age. I might have already applied if the applications for the Episcopalian schools in the area hadn't asked me questions regarding my son's personality. Because all I really know at this point is that my child is active and dislikes flashlights. Additionally, they all want the kid's name and, well, we haven't decided on one of those yet. If you know Trevor's last name than you are aware of the problem. It is like Monica on Friends. Nothing goes well with "Bing".

But I digress. The real issue here is day care. So, if you just discovered you are pregnant, do yourself a favor and start calling around town tomorrow. You will save yourself a lot of time, stress and panic in your late second trimester. Which will leave you plenty of time to focus on the other important things, like, I dunno, baby socks and lamaze.

So, maybe I'm not very good in a crisis...

See the beetle on Sarah C's shoulder?

Because THAT beetle caused me to scream, point and run away flailing immediately after snapping that there picture.

Meanwhile Sarah, having no idea why I was pointing at her and screaming, completely panicked, leaped from the car and starting stripping off her sweater.

Once it was determined that Sarah's shoulder wasn't on fire and that it was a only beetle (not some sort of freaky spider), I was chastised and chased around the driveway accordingly.

All in all, a somehow perfect (and suiting) end to a great visit with friends.

A tale of two knockers...

With a friend on Martha's Vineyard about 2.5 weeks ago.
I am the wide one on the left.

I don’t know why I am telling the internet this story. Obviously, I’ve lost my mind.

(Or, maybe, I just want somebody to lie to me and tell me that is all going to be okay. I am not above asking for public sympathy from strangers.)

I am in a friend’s wedding in late January. For those keeping track, that is approximately a month after I am scheduled to give birth. The good news is that I am not at risk of going into labor at the altar. The bad news is that there is little to no hope for my body being back in any semblance of shape before then.

Since I’ve never spawned another human before, I have no idea how long it will take me to lose the baby weight. I’ve read that some people never lose it. All these unknowns make buying a bridesmaid dress very difficult. The consensus, however, is that I should buy the dress two sizes larger than the size I am now and hope for the best.

(I already get to order extra length because I am a jolly, green giant.)

Or, at least, that was my plan.

On Saturday morning, I went in to get measured. But in order for this story to make sense, you need to know the following:

TMI disclosure No. 1: I am a pant size twelve and have been for years. In dresses (depending on the cut, of course) I am usually a size ten.

TMI disclosure No. 2: I started this pregnancy journey with boobs that fluctuated between a 36D and a 36DD. No one else in my family is well endowed, so it makes perfect sense that they’d be wasted on the tomboy who has resented them since puberty.

TMI disclosure No. 3: I’ve gained three pounds since becoming knocked up. I am pretty sure it is all in my chest.

TMI disclosure No. 4: I was measured for another bridesmaid dress about a month ago (the January bride has changed her mind a couple of times), and I was what the lady referred to at the time as “a true size twelve”.

But back to Saturday:

I go in to get measured, tell them I am pregnant and that I expect to give birth about one month before the wedding. They happen to have a sample of the dress I will be wearing in a size twelve, and they ask me to try it on. It fit perfectly in the hips, was too big in the waist and was uncomfortably snug in the chest. So, I strip back down to my skivvies, and the lady comes in with the dreaded measuring tape.

I will spare you my actual measurements in inches, but this is how my body broke down by dress size:

Hips: Size Twelve

Waist: Size Eight

Bust: Size SIXTEEN

But that isn’t even the best part. Because my boobs are already so freaking huge coupled with the fact that I plan on breastfeeding, I had to order a size eighteen dress. That’s right: A FREAKING SIZE EIGHTEEN! TO ACCOMMODATE MY BOOBS!

They weren’t even concerned with my stomach. Most places apparently recommend going up two dress sizes if you are pregnant or due close to an event. Thanks to my chest, I’m already going up three.

And this would be the point in the story where I started to cry.

The ladies in the boutique tried to make me feeling better by saying things like:

“Oh, honey! It isn’t that bad! You are still a size twelve! And your waist is tiny! I’d kill for a size eight waist!”

…and…

“Women pay big bucks to have boobs your size! Just think how lucky you are!"

As if I am supposed to find comfort in being a naturally occurring Dolly Parton.

Of course, I got no sympathy from Trevor who just smiled, puffed up his chest and started to strut. He might as well have screamed, “My wife has giant knockers! Woo-Hoo!” from the nearest rooftop.

(That boy, I swear. He could have at least pretended better.)

And then I got to the gym only to discover that the scale had gone up another half a pound since Wednesday. This really sent me to the top of Mount Crazy in a hurry, and Trevor ended up on the elliptical next to me in an effort to talk me down slowly. Yes, I know I am supposed to be gaining weight. Yes, I know that weighing myself every two or three days is a bad idea because my weight is all over the place. Yes, I know I am retaining water like a sponge. Yes, I know the doctor told me that I would most likely gain 25-30 pounds during this pregnancy, and that I have to gain it sometime in the next five months. I know! I know! I know! But it doesn’t make it any easier when you have already been described as “wide” and have breasts that put Pamela Anderson to shame.

And, as a side note for anyone who thinks having giant knockers is all fun and rainbows, I’ve had to start seeing a chiropractor regularly because my upper back and neck aren’t taking the extra weight up top in stride. Oh, and one of my old lady bras had an over the shoulder strap that SNAPPED under pressure on Friday afternoon. Apparently, the weight of my dress size sixteen boobs was just too much for it to handle. Christmas cannot come soon enough!

On floating heads and big, white vans...

I see this van in the parking lot of my gym occasionally, and the mannequin head never fails to completely freak me out. I mean, look at it! It kind of looks like the floating head of some poor, decapitated Barbie.

I don't care how much you value the HOV lane. It is not cool. Not cool at all.