In case you need a good laugh...

A friend of mine sent me the following article, which is FABULOUS since she currently lives in Syracuse.  Having spent four winters up there, I can fully appreciate the difference between WINTER (a la upstate New York) and "winter" (a la Dallas).  After all, my junior year in college it snowed a whopping 191.9 inches.  We missed breaking the all time snow record for Syracuse by a mere 0.2 inches.  You know how weird it is to find yourself hoping for more snow after tromping through nearly 200 inches of it over the course of a single winter?  BECAUSE I'M STILL BITTER ABOUT IT.

In other words, I tip my hat to Glenn Coin.  Had I written the following article, it would have included significantly more sarcasm. 

In related news, I'm totally sending this to my friend in Chicago who was just complaining to me about the last two winters she's had to endure.  Clearly, winter in Chicago - with their polar vortexes and feet and feet of snow - doesn't hold a candle to "winter" in Dallas.  Otherwise, Chicago would have made the list, and...well, ha, ha, they didn't.  Clearly, they had nothing close to the ten or so days of on and off uncomfortable winter-like temps like we did.  I mean, I had to break out my fleece and everything.  Plus, this last weekend, while they were experiencing yet another snowstorm in Illinois, I was eating Tex-Mex on a patio in a t-shirt and flip flops (although I totally had to borrow a sweater from my mother once the sun went down). 

HARD LIFE, I know.

There is a reason I moved back to Texas.  Although, that said, I really wouldn't mind living somewhere with a legit spring or fall.  Because it is already in the 80s this week in Big D.  Summer is right around the corner.

Weather Channel: Syracuse had one of 5 worst winters in America

By Glenn Coin
on March 23, 2015 at 8:33 AM, updated March 23, 2015 at 9:02 AM

Syracuse, N.Y. -- The Weather Channel says Syracuse had one of the five worst winters in America.

Tell us something else we didn't know. Syracuse had a colder-than-normal January and the coldest month on record in February with an average temperature of 9 degrees, which was 16.9 degrees below normal.

Syracuse came in fifth on the worst winters list, just behind Dallas. Yes, that Dallas, the one in Texas that had an average temperature in February of a bone-chilling 45.7 degrees. That was a whopping 4.2 degrees below normal.

The biggest snowstorm in Dallas this winter was 3.5 inches. Syracuse had 5 feet of snow in February.

Third on the list was the Sierra Nevada region, but because it was warm and dry, not cold and snowy. According to The Weather Channel, Tahoe City, on the north shore of Lake Tahoe, had just 19 inches of snow as of last week. The average is 151.9 inches.

That's bad news for the lingering drought in California, where many cities get their water from melted snowpack.

The combination of low snowfall in the West and cold temperatures in the east meant that the tiny village of Copenhagen, downwind of Lake Ontario, was the snowiest place in America through early March.

At the top of The Weather Channel's list was, not surprisingly, Boston. The city had more than 100.2 inches in less than two months. Two of the city's 10 heaviest snowstorms of record happened within 10 days, The Weather Channel said.

Here's the complete list:
1. Boston
2. Nashville
3. Sierra Nevada region
4. Dallas
5. Syracuse

The Weather Channel also named the top five best winters. All of them were in the West.

Because I woke Trevor up to see it JUST to make sure I wasn't dreaming...

THIS might be my favorite local news story in years. 

Watch the video.  You won't be disappointed.

An update on Oy! Oy! The Envoy!

My car was supposed to be ready on Saturday.  Then Monday.  Then Tuesday...maybe.  Then Thursday. 

And now?  It won't be ready until August 8th or 9th.

Why?

Because getting a new computer to control my brakes is easier said than done.  Because said computers are backordered.  Which, according to my service tech, really means that GMC isn't making them anymore and have no plans to start up again anytime soon.

(For the record, I'm pretty sure those things aren't the same, but who am I to argue at this point?)

So, the new plan is to send my existing (failed) brake computer in to be refurbished.  And, well, this might take awhile.

Trevor's concerned because he is not sure he trusts anything that has FAILED previously to be miraculously trustworthy after it has been "refurbished".  Kind of like the proverbial "Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me" school of thought.  But we aren't talking President Bush on Saddam Hussein here.  We are talking about a flipping computer chip.  I'm sure once it has had it's little mind erased and reloaded, it will be perfectly fine and reliable.

I mean, where would any of us be in life if second chances didn't exist? 

Right?  Right.

The good news is that - theoretically - a refurbished brake computer is much cheaper than a new one.  Especially since I already own the one that will be refurbished.  At least that is what they keep telling me. 

I'm just not sure I trust car people anymore.

The day Trevor might have been right. Maybe.

My car, y'all.  My hot mess of a lemon car.

Ever since I bought my Envoy in 2004, it has been a problem.  Well, not the car itself, but the computer system has been a nightmare.  It is my normal to be at an intersection and have my car suddenly go berserk and die.  I'm used to it, though, and don't even give the situation a second thought.  Because, generally speaking, all that needs to be done is to calmly put the car in park, turn it off and then turn it back on.  This resets the computer and WALLAH!  Problem fixed.  Most of the time, I don't even need to put the hazard lights on because I've fixed the problem before the light turns green or the cars behind me have registered a delay in the flow of traffic.

Of course, it wasn't always this way.  There was a time, early on, where my car dying would cause me to panic.  I'd turn it off, get it going again and make a beeline for the dealership.  They'd hook it up to the diagnostic computer and find...well, nothing.  Because I had reset the computer when I had turned off the engine, and whatever problem that had occurred to make it die in the first place had been erased from memory.

It only took a handful of experiences rushing to the dealership, spending money on diagnostic exams that yielded nothing because "the problem could not be duplicated" and being treated like some sort of car hypochondriac by the service techs before I became absolutely desynthesized to any kind of dash board warning light or sudden engine death.  I've simply gotten into the habit of NOT getting my car checked out (outside of regular maintenance, of course) because I assume that there is nothing wrong with it.  Which is rather alarming when I remember situations like the time in 2007 when my gas tank cracked due to some sort of structural problem common to vehicles of my make and model.  Or in 2009 when my instrument panel had to be completely replaced because my odometer decided to stop working.  Or that horrible time I was driving home from a work-related conference in another state and my car died multiple times on a major highway going 70+ mph.  

Okay, so maybe my car has a history of being a potential death trap.  But it hasn't succeeded, so I'm willing to forgive and forget.

(Thanks for going along with me on that.  For the sake of argument and this story.  Because I've already written a lot of words and I don't want to start the telling of this story over.)

(With that in mind...)

Suuuuuuuure, there have been problems.  But only like three or four biggies in over nine years of vehicular ownership.  It hasn't been the norm.  Every car has it's moments.

Because, again, MOST of the time, warning lights in my car mean absolutely nothing, so - when a new problem arose in my car last month - why wouldn't I poo-poo a few alarms, lights and warnings regarding my car's brake system?  Especially, when I could make said alarms, lights and warnings go away simply by turning my car off and back on again?  Because those are the very signs that suggest "nothing is wrong as usual" and I've conditioned myself over the last nine years to simply ignore them and pretend nothing is actually happening.

Except it did keep happening, and then I mentioned it to Trevor in passing and he got all "you've got our child in the backseat" kind of hysterical about it.  Because "those are the brakes" and "stopping is important" and blah, blah, blah.  So, about three weeks ago, we took it in and...well, NOTHING.  

Just as I expected.

Again, they could find nothing wrong with my brakes.  $50 and an oil change later, I was back on the road.  Granted, the test DID show that I should probably start thinking about getting new brakes sometime in the next 8,000 to 10,000 miles, but nothing immediate.  The dealership wasn't able to duplicate all the brake-related alarms, lights and warnings that I had been experiencing, but this was nothing new to me or my car.  Just another weird mystery computer glitch.  Nothing new about that concept in my world.  And so I kept driving.  The glitch kept happening, but it was sporadic and responded to the good ole "turn the car on and off" method.  So I wasn't worried.

Until, that is, last weekend.  I went to the gym on Saturday.  No problem.  After my five mile run, I drove across the street to get gas.  Again, no problem.  Turned on the car after filling up.  PROBLEM!  All the brake alarms, lights and warning starting going off.  So, I turned off the engine, waited a few seconds and started the car again.  More alarms, lights and warnings.  I tried again.  Warning! Warning! Warning!  Fourth time a charm?  Nope.

Annoyed now, I moved my car into a parking space in front of the 7-11 and away from the pump, and called Trevor.  His recommendation was to turn it off and wait a few minutes before trying again.  And, guess what?  It worked like a charm.  No more alarms, lights or warnings!

Except the alarms, lights and warnings were back again the next day, and the day after that.  What's more, it started happing EVERY time I drove anywhere, and I was getting very tired of all the beeping, flashing and SERVICE BRAKES IMMEDIATELY-type messages.  And, what's worse, Trevor started to get all paranoid again and kept making comments about Banner's safety in my car.  Which is annoying when you JUST HAD the brakes tested and were told that they were fine.

So, since I had to work on Monday this week, I took today off to deal with the car situation.  Figuring Banner would prefer to do just about anything other than hang out at the car dealership, I dropped him off at school before heading across town.  I was almost to Sewell before I realized that this was the first trip I had taken anywhere in days where the blasted alarms, lights and warnings HADN'T gone off.  Knowing full well that the dealership wouldn't be able to find the problem without them, I proceeded to drive around aimlessly for over an hour waiting for them to appear.  Because, you know, why not.

They finally did go off, though, and I made an immediate beeline for the dealership.  There was an awkward moment, after I exited my car to let them record my mileage, when I lunged at and very nearly tackled the service guy who made a move to suggest he was nano seconds away from turning off my engine.  Because I was pretty sure that I'd have another fruitless visit if the computer got reset, I completely overreacted.  Thankfully, the service tech seemed to understand and even humored me by putting a purple post-it note with the words "DO NOT TURN OFF ENGINE" in all caps on the dash.

Bless him and his patience.

It took a couple of hours for them to run all the diagnostic tests, and the results were...well, not good.

Apparently, my brakes are controlled by a computer.  When I hit the brake, a message is sent to said computer and the computer tells the car to slow down or stop.  The brake pedal is nothing more than a glorified computer button.  I don't know why this surprised me so much.  I guess I assumed that my car was too old to have anything except good ole mechanical brakes.  Which I suppose is silly considering that this is 2013, not 1953.  I don't question things I don't pretend to understand.

But I digress.

The computer that controls my brakes has failed.  It needs to replaced immediately.  Because, without a working computer, it doesn't matter how perfectly fine my physical brakes are or how many more miles they can go until needing to be replaced.  If the computer doesn't tell the brakes to stop, the car might just keep going until it encounters something to...um, make it stop.  Like a brick wall.  Or another car.  Which?  Not good.  Especially with my precious baby in the backseat.  

Additionally, some hose that controls my power steering has a hole in it and one of my brake lights is out.  Because, you know, why the f*ck not?

Also, the dealership is out of loaners, rentals are at a premium for whatever reason this weekend and no one has an extra car laying around that I can borrow.    

(Apparently.)

Oh, and when I was told about all of this, my phone was about to die, my sister wasn't answering her phone (she was supposed to be my ride and we were going to grab lunch) and I found out the estimate to fix everything would be around $2,000.

I'm not sure if it was the combination of all of this or if it was the mere thought of calling Trevor and admitting that he had been right about my car all along, but I broke down in tears right there in the parking lot of Sewell.  It wasn't pretty.  It was the kind of cry where the harder you try to stop, the uglier the cry becomes.  I'm pretty sure I scared the other customers.

Luckily, my brother and dad were able to come and pick me up.  We went to lunch and then William drove me home.  Trevor was able to pick up Banner this afternoon, and now I'm just sitting on the couch trying to count my blessings and assure myself that everything is going to be okay.  Because, really:  Banner is safe and asleep in his crib.  My car has never actually failed to stop.  I don't need a car this weekend.  My mom can help get me to the dealership on Monday afternoon.  I have credit cards and a fund set aside for an (eventual) new car.  I can afford the repairs.  Everyone who saw me at Sewell today was a stranger and (even if I did ugly cry) it is unlikely I will ever see any of them again.  It is going to be okay.  Really. 

So what if me and the Envoy have possibly irreparable trust issues?  I can get over it until the time is right to ditch it's "I cry the car version of 'wolf' so much that no one believes me when there is a legit problem" mechanical a$$ and move on?  Right?

Right.

I'm so having popcorn for dinner tonight.  I've earned it.

Update (or, you know, "some bonus thoughts"):  

1. Just reread this and realized that I've basically been in an abusive nine year relationship with an a$$hat of a car.   
2. The ugly public cry may have been the result of very little sleep coupled with a lot of bad (and expensive) vehicular news.  Last night, I was roped into seeing THE CONJURING.  And I use the term "seeing" liberally because I was wearing a hoodie and only saw about 15% of the movie.  Despite not actually watching most of the flick (and drinking a "large" wine at the theater to cope), I still managed to have several nightmares last night which left little room for anything resembling restful slumber.    
3. Dolls are unnecessarily creepy.  This is neither here nor there, but the sun just went down and now all I can think of is Annabelle.  Who, according to my sister, was a Raggedy Ann doll in real life.  OMG, I DON'T NEED SUPPLEMENTAL INFORMATION.
4. I should stop watching scary movies.  Please take note, TREVOR.  You owe me a nice PG rated cartoon now. 

Update II (11:07 PM):

Trevor just read this post and said, "So, basically, the whole point was that I am right and I agree".  To which I respond, "No, Trevor.  Absolutely not.  I only alluded to the fact that you might have been right in a very non specific way.  You should reread the title and take note of the words 'might' and 'maybe'."

Also, stop sending me texts that read, "clap, clap, clap".  

It has been one of those days...

Within moments of arriving at work today, I managed to spill yogurt down the front of my shirt.  I'm not sure I could duplicate what happened if I wanted to.  And, for the record, Chobani with honey has no business being in my bra.  Just sayin'.

(Not to mention he fact that hours later I am still sticky and now smell mildly of spoiled milk.)

The cleanup resulted in the front of my shirt being oh-so obviously damp for most of the morning, which is highly distracting.  Especially, when coworkers, volunteers or interns stop by for impromptu meetings or interoffice chit chats.  And no matter how much I have attempted to get the yogurt off the front of my gray, V-neck, there are still random crusty, white splotches here and there that make me feel like strangers might think something else (a la Monica Lewinsky) is going on up in here.  Which, OMG, no, no, NO! 

Also, ew.

Although once I get an inappropriate thought like that in my head, it is difficult to get it out.  This sort of explains why I haven't left my office except to grab coffee, heat up my leftover soup and use the facilities.  We wouldn't want The Yogurt to give The Public the wrong impression.

Speaking of coffee and lunch, I also managed to spill BOTH on my shirt as well as about half a glass of water.  I guess I'm glad I didn't have time to run home and change.  Apparently, today is just a day 'o' spills.  Liquids are loving the gray, V-neck.  Which I guess is okay since this particular top is easily laundered. 

I just hope whatever is going on (cosmically?) clears up by tomorrow, because I have to wear a dress and heals.  And the klutzy I am on a regular basis is usually nothing compared to the walking disaster I become when I've actually made some sort of effort. 

I'm most likely doomed.

Because it is one thing to be a contender for the Darwin Award. It is something else entirely to take your children down with you.

Ya'll.  I am so angry.

I had to go over to my sister's early this morning.  Her alarm has been malfunctioning and went off several times in the middle of the night.  She's out of town, and I'm number two on the security company's call list.  I asked the alarm company to put her system on "test" until 10 AM, so I could get some sleep and head over there after Banner was awake and fed.

So, around 9 AM, I got into the car while Banner and Trevor were busy watching The Animal Sounds Song on You Tube.  Amy lives only about a mile away, so nothing about my journey took very long.

I exited off the main road onto her street, and slowed down for the narrow, 90 degree turn that her street makes about a tenth of a mile into her residential neighborhood.  There are always cars parked along this curve, and I drive a SUV.  It is impossible to take this turn going faster than 15 miles per hour (at least in my car), and I'm not just saying that because of the following story.  It is just one of those sharp turns.  I know it is there and it is difficult to see any other cars coming in the other direction.  It is simply necessary to slow down when approaching it.

And it is a good thing I did, because walking down the middle of the street on the far side of the curve was a gaggle of mothers and their children.

Again.  They were WALKING.  Down the MIDDLE of the EFFING street.  With their children.

I counted seven mothers.  Each pushing a stroller with at least one kid in it.  Several even had an infants in Bjorns strapped to their chests.

At first I didn't think very much of it.  I pulled up behind one of the parked cars along the wide end of the curve and slowed to a stop to let them all pass.  And that is when one of the mothers, wearing a long, black, strapless maxi dress, walked over to my car, banged on my driver's side window and shouted, "You need to slow down when driving through OUR neighborhood.  There are children here!"

Like I couldn't see them all standing there in the middle of the road.

But I said nothing.  Just stared back at her and blinked.

Never in my life have I wanted to yell at someone so much.  And I probably would have if there hadn't been at least ten children under the age of three with her and her other mom friends.  Because regardless of the fact that I was driving about 5 miles per hour under the max speed of most school zones in the City of Dallas, these moms were intentionally walking their children down the middle of the street right before what is essentially a blind curve.  What if I hadn't been familiar with the turn?  What if I was driving a sportier, turn-loving car?  What if Amy didn't live only a few houses down from this particular bend in the road?  What if I had been speeding?  Or not paying attention?  They all could have been plowed over like bowling pins!

Not to mention the fact that these moms were teaching their kids that it is acceptable to walk down the middle of the street in an area with perfectly good sidewalks on both sides of the block.  And I'm typing this knowing full well that there are parts of my neighborhood where I have no choice but to push the stroller in the street.  But it is always by necessity, not choice.  And owing to the fact that I don't want to get hit by a car, I always hug the curb.  It would never occur to me to march my baby down the middle of the road meant for vehicular traffic like that, nor would I ever feel comfortable doing so in the first place - especially so close to a curve where I can't see oncoming traffic or they me.

Instead of saying any of this to the b*tch in the black maxi dress, though, I just stared at her and waited for them to pass before coasting to Amy's house to deal with the alarm situation.  I'm pretty sure I had visible steam coming out of my ears.

This is one situation where I wish I was better with confrontation, because - the more I think about it - those mothers needed to hear that what they are doing is needlessly reckless and stupid.  They are taking unnecessary risks with their children just so they can walk in a horizontal line down the middle of a road.  I'm sure it is easier to talk and socialize that way, but is it really worth it?

And then for her to have the gall to bang on my car window and call me out?  For what?  Driving?  In the road meant for cars, not playgroups?

Maybe it is just me, but this is one of those situations where I wish I could go back in time and give her a piece of my mind.  If for no other reason than it might resonate with one of the other mothers and convince her to use the bleeping sidewalk.  Because, really?  That is what they are there for.

I know a wild goose hunt when I see one...

At quite possibly at the exact same moment I hit the "publish" button on THIS POST yesterday, I received an email from Nordstrom informing me that the "Men's Special-Knit Waffle Kimono in Navy" that I ordered on December 29th, 2012 has been canceled.

According to the email:

"We monitor our inventory levels very closely, but at any given time, thousands of customers are shopping simultaneously in our stores and online, and items do sometimes sell out before additional orders can be fulfilled."

Which basically means there either was a mad dash for Trevor's "perfect" robe, or that only medium-sized men wear waffle-knit kimonos.  Either way, and now we are back to the proverbial robe drawing board.

Trevor wants to continue the hunt this Saturday.

I think I need another massage.

High chairs need to come with baby hand restraints...

We finally bit the bullet and bought Banner a high chair yesterday.  You would think this would make feeding him easier (and by "easier" I really mean "less messy").  Except I had perfected the art of holding his arms down while spooning food into his pie hole to prevent him from hijacking the spoon like before and causing general mayhem.  The intervention of the high chair was like taking several giant steps backwards.  Trevor thought I was allowing Banner to make a mess on purpose, which is silly considering I had to clean him up afterwards.  Even though I've been doing it for six months now, baths are incredibly stressful for me because they involve a super-slippery wiggle worm - even more so now that we've graduated from the kitchen sink to the baby tub in the bathroom and have discovered the art of splashing. 

But I digress.  Here is the progression of Banner eating oatmeal in the high chair:

Sigh...

The good news is that the B-Man was already getting a bath tonight because he blew his diaper off in the parking lot of Whole Foods. I had to change him in the front seat of Trevor's car, and was later chastised by my husband for not using the changing pad to protect his leather seats. I tried to explain to him the urgency of the situation (Seriously.  It was an all out poo emergency), and how heart stoppingly terrifying it was to reach into the diaper bag and pull out a size 1-2 diaper for a baby securely in size 3 (because O.M.G). I obviously had other things on my mind. 

But the best was when I was trying to figure out what to do with the "clothing causalities" after the emergency diaper change, and Trevor said, "Well, don't put them in MY car". Like, you know, I had a wide array of vehicular options at my disposal at that point. Took all my will power not to toss Banner's onesie and pants haphazardly into his backseat poo side out.

Don't worry, though. I was good and Trevor and his car made it home unscathed. I also managed to locate an appropriate sized diaper at the bottom of the bag, because nothing is scarier than the idea of a naked baby armed with a fire hose and an apparent fire in his tush riding around in nothing but a car seat for any length of time.  I guess if it had really come down to it, I would have MADE that 1-2 diaper fit.  Thank goodness for that hidden size three, though!  It was a true diaper bag miracle!

It is a marvel...

Tonight I went to my first movie in a theater since Banner was born with Trevor, Amy and Adam, while the kiddo hung out at home with a sitter.  The movie?  The Avengers.  Because, you know, it has Thor in it.

I had been looking forward to seeing the movie for weeks, so it would make complete sense that I would fall asleep within thirty minutes of the movie starting.  Apparently, I am became too old to see a 7:50 movie on a "school night" since becoming a parent.  Figures.

I, however, was able to stay awake long enough to discover something interesting.

Let me explain.

Trevor has always, since childhood, been a fan of the Hulk. If you were to look back at pictures of little boy Trevor, you would see years of Hulk action figures, costumes and birthday cakes.

See?  He LOVED the Hulk!

The Hulk, like Thor, is a member of the Avengers.  But what I never realized (not being a huge Hulk fan and all) was that the Hulk, like Superman, had an alter ego.  For Superman it was Clark Kent.  And the Hulk?

That's right:  Dr. Bruce BANNER.

So, basically, I accidentally named my son after a comic book superhero.  No wonder Trevor was so quick to jump on the "Let's name our kid 'Banner'" bandwagon.  Since he couldn't sell me on "Thor", Banner was a pretty awesome runner up .  And it had the added benefit of being a family name on his wife's side, so she'd be none the wiser until...

...until, well, it was too late.

Did you seriously name me after the Hulk, daddy?
Yes, son but don't tell your mother.

You should have seen Trevor's smile in the movie theater when I realized what had happened.  I don't think he has ever been more proud of himself.  His grin was ear to ear.

[Shakes head]

Breast milk. The wonder drug. Well, almost...

Banner started last week with something wonky going on with his left eye. Turned out, he had a clogged tear duct, which is very common in babies less than nine months of age. Or so I am told.

To try and clear it up without medication, the pediatrician told me to squirt breast milk in his eye. Apparently, it has antibiotic properties or something.

But what really cracked me up (after getting over the whole a degreed medical professional in 2012 wants me to put what where?!) was when the RN told me to, "Just squirt milk into his eye a few times a day before nursing". As if I had mastered the art of aiming and hitting very specific tiny targets with my boob. Because, no. I haven't. Most days I have issues walking without tripping over my own feet. Coordination really isn't my strong suit.

(Although, what an awesome idea for a really bad super hero: It's Lactating Lucy to the rescue!)

Wonder Woman as Lactating Lucy
(My apologies to Wonder Woman)

I did, however, TRY. This, not so surprisingly, ended in disaster. Banner does not take too kindly to his lunch being wasted and dribbled all over his face. Especially while hungry.

(When a boob hits your eye like a big pizza pie...)

I ended up pumping and then pouring the expressed milk directly in Banner's eyes. And, shockingly, the little guy really didn't seem to mind. I worried it might burn or something, but apparently not.

The witch doctor's breast milk eye drop remedy, however, wasn't quite the miracle cure that the pediatrician’s office made it out to be. Granted, it DID seem to help. It definitely soothed the irritated eye and kept it from getting any worse. But the issue didn't completely clear up until antibiotic eye drops were administered.

As a sidenote: boob milk DOES clear up baby acne and heal scratches miraculously overnight. It is some pretty amazing stuff. If you can get over the fact that it is rather sticky and smells a little sour after it dries.

What is worse than being ten months pregnant?

Being ten months pregnant and coming home to discover that two of your dogs have had explosive diarrhea. In the house. On multiple rugs. And you don't have any Resolve.

(Neither literally nor figuratively.)

There may have been tears.

(Okay. A lot of tears.)

And I might have been showered and in bed by 7:30.

Wouldn't you after spending nearly two hours cleaning up dog sh*t on your hands and knees?

I mean, seriously? WTF Universe?

Uncle! Mercy! Whatever! Just throw me a freaking bone, here!!!

It must be because it is armageddon week on the History Channel...

It has been a while since my boobs were the main topic of one of my blog posts.

(I can almost hear Trevor bracing himself and rolling his eyes. Can't you?)

Today, I did what every woman who is 10 months pregnant wants to do. I went shopping with my sister for bridesmaids dresses. Because nothing makes a lady feel extra special and sexy than trying to fit into something with a waist at a time when you are wider than you've ever been before.

Luckily, Amy knew exactly what she wanted and the trip was short and to the point. I only had to try one dress on, and - luckily - they had it available in maternity. Which was funny in itself because when I asked for it in maternity, the sales lady stopped, looked at me and asked if I was planning on being pregnant in April.

I quickly responded with, "No. I am hoping not to be pregnant this time tomorrow. But I'm shopping for this dress today."

My sister then gently explained to the poor woman that I'm due any time, and perhaps a little bitter at this point.

The dress on bobble head barbie.

Anyway, the dress ended up being exactly what Amy wanted and soon a color was nailed down (thank goodness!). So, all that was left was for me to be measured, the dress ordered and for me to pay.

Except I am very pregnant, and being measured for dresses while pregnant is a tad bit depressing. Remember THIS STORY?

The dress on me in the wrong color. Oh, how I miss my waist.
And not looking so incredibly puffy, thick and...well, pregnant.

Well, as it turns out, my boobs have stayed consistently the LARGEST part of my body during the last forty or so weeks. They still - surprisingly - stick out further than my belly, which apparently is odd when you are this kind of pregnant. But there you go. I've actually decided to blame my boobs for making me look less pregnant and more fat. Hey, I need a scapegoat for why I haven't been able to feel comfortable parking in the expectant mothers' spaces at Whole Foods and Tom Thumb during Thor's entire gestation period.

In fact, my chest is SO large (coupled with the fact that I am planning on breast feeding for at least six months) that the sales lady declared that she didn't even need to measure any part of my body EXCEPT my boobs. Which is how I ended up ordering an effing size 18 W this afternoon. Again, to accommodate my breasts and my breasts alone. Not even my VERY pregnant belly needs that much fabric.

My first instinct was to burst into tears and sob uncontrollably.

My mother, however, congratulated me. You know what they say: The boobs are always greener on the other side. Okay, that is totally stupid and not at all how the cliche goes, but I'm here to tell you that I've always wanted small boobs and don't understand why women pay good money for this kind of misery.

Speaking of which: How do women like Dolly Parton and Pamela Anderson buy clothes that fit? No, I don't pretend have a body like either of them (obviously), but I am still curious how someone deals with being this kind of top heavy on a regular basis. You must have to have all your tops and dresses specially made for you or something. Which is just a lot of effort if you ask me.

In other news, the bridesmaids dress I bought for my friend's wedding next month came in and it fits perfectly in the chest and is too big in the belly. Because I know you were worried and waiting on pins and needles for an update. But, in all seriousness, it IS nice to know that I don't have to worry about immediately losing a ton of weight in the middle in the next three weeks, because who knows if/when that will happen. Especially if Thor ends up being an elephant/human X-File hybrid and I am still pregnant come mid January.

You might laugh, but every day that goes by without a baby makes me think such ridiculous things are actually possible.

In fact, I only really need to be concerned with how much larger (say it isn't so!) my boobs might become once I start breastfeeding. Lord. The mere idea that they could become any bigger is just plain depressing. And sort of amazing in an awful and sadistic kind of way.

But I digress...

After the successful bridesmaid shopping excursion, I went and got a pedicure with the January bride, Anni. Not because I need especially pretty nails at this point in my pregnancy, but because I read that there is a pressure point somewhere in the foot or ankle that can induce labor. Apparently you are supposed to alert pedicurists to the fact that you are pregnant so they avoid the area. But I warned NO ONE because I am at that point where I am HOPING to hit some random hypothetical pressure point to stimulate Thor's arrival.

Call me crazy!

Six hours later and no baby, but my toes look awesome. And the foot message, although a total spurge, was absolutely fabulous. So, yeah, at least there is that.

Doctor's appointment tomorrow. Pray for progress!!!

50+ years of history...

Just canceled my home phone service. It is silly that something so trivial has caused me so much stress and anxiety. I have - literally - been agonizing over this decision for months now. Which is stupid since it will be saving me a good chunk of change every month on something I hardly ever use anymore.

Except, the number has been in the family for decades. My grandparents got the second line number back when phone numbers were only four digits long. The reason? So their four teenaged kiddos could call their friends and have some privacy without monopolizing the family phone line for hours on end.

The number was tied to my grandparents' house until my grandmother passed away in 2005. My sister took the line one number (6276) and I took line two (2313). We both kept the numbers until this year. Amy lost hers when she bought her house and moved over the summer. I've moved mine twice without issue, but having the landline was costing close to $40 a month. Which is ridiculous considering I hardly ever used it, solicitors and politicians were the only people who ever called me on it and I dreaded having to empty out the voicemail every so often.

And, yet, I've held on it for nearly seven years. Leave it to me to make something stupid like a phone number into something sentimental. And, yet, there you go. It is just part of my charm.

But this afternoon something just snapped. I was trying to watch the news and the d@mn landline kept ringing and ringing with incoming calls from MOD, UNAVAILABLE and POLITICAL CAMPAIGN. Seriously. Five spam phone calls in less than twenty minutes. And I just couldn't take it anymore.

You just don't get between a pregnant lady and her compulsive need to watch the weather.

Afterwards, I might have had some residual regret and called my mother in a panic. And, well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry a little. Yes, over a phone number. I mourn stupid things.

It should come as no surprise that this IKEA commercial had me in tears when it used to run on TV years ago:

Consider the 2313 landline number the red lamp in the rain,
and my iPhone the replacement.

The funny thing about the whole situation was that the AT&T sales rep randomly asked me if I would like a year of channels like Showtime, The Movie Channel, FLIX, STARZ and Encore added to my cable bill. I initially said no until the sales guy informed me that if I accepted my cable bill would be $14 a month cheaper than it was if I didn't add these channels. Which I don't pretend to understand. It might be a scam even though the guy kept insisting that it was some sort of promotion and all I had to do was call next December and cancel the extra channels if I didn't want them anymore.

Still? Get more? Pay less? That can't be right, can it?

I guess I will know for sure when I get my next bill. Which, thanks to the lack of landline and promotional cable package, should be $50+ less than what I have been paying every month. That definitely helps take the sting out of losing a sentimental phone number.

And being able to watch shows like Dexter and Californication doesn't hurt either.

An example of my failing memory...

This morning, my Outlook calendar alarm went off to remind me that I had a lunch meeting scheduled for today from 11:30 AM to 1 PM.

Problem is: I have no idea who I was supposed to meet or where.

So, yeah. That was fun.

I obviously didn't know what a real craving was before Saturday...

It finally happened.

I had my first real, honest-to-goodness, must-have-it-NOW pregnancy craving.

The situation: After going to the gym and doing some yard work, I decided to get a pedicure yesterday afternoon at 3 PM.

Normally, I DREAM about pedicures, and love it when the process takes a couple of hours to complete. It is one of the few things that I find to be utterly relaxing in life.

They are also a bit of a splurge for me, so I don’t get them but every other month or so. In fact, my last pedicure was back in July – before we even went to Colorado. I was overdue for some pampering, and looking forward to having pretty toes again for all the State Fair opening events this coming week.

Anyway, the first half of the pedicure was everything I had hope for and dreamed of. But the second half? Yeah, TORTURE.

And, no. It had nothing to do with the pedicure itself, the fabulous technician or even the salon. I just happened to be flipping through a magazine and saw an advertisement for Jamba Juice.

Suddenly, and without warning, I wanted a smoothie. Nay, I NEEDED A SMOOTHIE. As in, “RIGHT THIS MINUTE, b*tch get out of my way”.

Unfortunately, the technician was still finishing up painting my toes, so I had to wait a bit.

I started out patient enough, but soon the minutes started to feel like hours. And, you know what? I literally started to panic. Which is silly because when has anyone ever died because they didn’t drink a smoothie? But it felt like a dire situation. And, by the time I finally left the salon, I was near tears. The need was THAT great.

I am pretty sure I sped through the Park Cities in an effort to get to the nearest Jamba Juice on Greenville. It is nothing short of amazing that I didn’t get pulled over. Because, really: Pregnant or not, what kind of excuse is a sudden onset smoothie craving to a Park Cities cop on an otherwise uneventful Saturday afternoon?

Exactly.

The craving immediately went away once I arrived, ordered and took a sip. The smoothie was cold and delicious, but drinking it didn’t give me the near orgasmic experience I had anticipated (considering the smoothie induced panic that led me to hightail it over there in the first place). In fact, consuming said smoothie was more relief than anything else. Almost as if I had narrowly escaped death or some sort of impending doom or disaster.

And, again. All I was doing was drinking a bleeping smoothie.

How many more weeks until December?! I'm not sure how many more cravings I can handle!

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.

We turned two!

It must have been a stroke of brilliance that led Trevor and I to get married over Labor Day weekend. Seriously. At the time, it was all about the date and numerology according to Deals. But the unintended side effect of a Labor Day weekend wedding is having a built in three day weekend every year for our anniversary. Accidental genius I tell you! What a good call!

It is also helpful to have your anniversary close to (if not on) a U.S. holiday, because it helps you remember that your anniversary is, in fact, coming up. Not that Trevor nor I were paying very much attention. Well, maybe Trevor was. I, for one, kept almost forgetting all week. I'm totally blaming Thor for stealing the blood supply that was so obviously intended for keeping my memory up and running. The little thief.

My favorite "oops, I forgot" moment was when I asked Trevor why he wasn't working on Monday (he works a lot of holidays), and he looked at me like I was a complete idiot. AND I STILL DIDN'T GET IT. It is never a good thing when your husband has to explain that he isn't working because it is your anniversary and he took the time off to be with you.

Pregnancy has turned me into a brainless a$$hat.

Anyway, the second anniversary is technically cotton. So, it makes complete sense that Trevor bought me a diaper bag from Coach and I bought him an electric razor. Hey, at least I BOUGHT him something this year. Last year I followed the whole first-anniversary-paper thing and presented my husband with a sappy, first anniversary card. And Trevor did THIS. Not that an electric razor is an over night stay at the Adolphus and dinner at the French Room, but I'd like to think that it was a step in the right direction.

(Yes, I do realize how that last sentence sounds. But in my defense it is a REALLY nice, top of the line electric razor. AND I let Trevor pick it out before ordering it on Amazon. Who says romance is dead?! And, hey, we traded socks to cover the whole cotton thing. Or we meant to, which is essentially the same thing considering I can't tell his athletic socks apart from mine half the time.)

The strangest part about this anniversary is knowing that this time next year we will have a *almost* nine month old. It never ceases to amaze to me how much life can change in a twelve month period.

I just hope I can find a reputable day care between now and next Labor Day weekend. Because being on multiple waiting lists for months is doing nothing for my sanity! They should tell all couples thinking about trying to conceive to call your daycare of choice NOW. Waiting until you are securely in your second trimester is basically making a public announcement that your really don't care about jumpstarting the education of your baby AT ALL.

They say the mind is always the first thing to go…

I forgot to put deodorant on this morning.

On Game Two of the NBA finals...

Apparently, for the Mavs to win, I need to give up and go to bed about halfway through the fourth quarter.

The same thing happened when they played OKC. They won that game, too.

I am sensing a trend.

Of course, the most amazing part of this whole thing is that I am watching the game at all. Maybe Trevor has rubbed off on me? [Shakes head]

On things you really don't want to hear...

Imagine you went rock climbing last night with a group of friends. One of them happens to be your sister, and – for this particular climb – she is belaying you. You get about forty feet up in the air, and your wrists, fingers and forearms are crying out in agony. You make a final push to reach the top and touch the metal bar that runs around the ceiling. Now, at least, you can claim to have conquered this particular wall. But in doing so you have reached your physical limit and – muscles screaming - you turn and yell down, “Falling”.

To which you get the following response:

“Wait. Hold on. I’ve forgotten how to do this.”

Thanks, Amy.