They had it coming...

In descending order, a list of what it would take to reduce me to violence:

1. Harm to my children.

2. Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag

3. A carn horn blaring for twenty seconds, four times an hour, ALL NIGHT.

4. Approximately twenty minutes of FOX News. (I'm not judging you for watching it. I just can't do it myself.)

5. Trying to assemble any kind of do-it-yourself project. I promise if left to my own devices for more than half an hour, I will hurl a large wrench-like object with enough velocity to damage the drywall wherever I am.

6. Discovering new Sharpie art on any non-disposable, non-laminate surface.

7. Cigarette smoke. Anywhere.

8. Failing to use your turn signal.

9. A Dora the Explorer marathon.

10. Crowding me in my kickboxing class.

Clearly, I have my priorities straight.

What the what?!

I'm tryingg to blog. I really, really am. But there's a re run of 30 Rock on and its calling to me.

I meen, come on. It's the "Suck it, monkeys! I'm going corporate," episode.

I'm supposed to blog through that? Ecspecially win it was supposed to be about how I can't produce a blog post without at least one egrejous ty-po? That's not a good trade for 30 Rock.

You know what? Maybe today you should just clik over to my surrogit Friday Favorites at the Entertainment Weekly website and join the debate on the greatest television quips of all time.

Blerg!

"It's after 6 o'clock, Lemon. What am I, a farmer?"

"Well, my days of taking you seriously are certainly coming to a middle."

Ahhhh hahahahahahaha!

Reading the comment trail kind of makes me wish I watched "The Office."

A tip

If your toddler eats your deodorant, it will make his breath pleasant. Just so you know.

Pushing

Please imagine giant cathedral bells tolling a gloomy death knell before proceeding. Thank you.

It has begun.

Now that word is out I'm knocked up, and the ever so slight protrusion of belly is speaking more to baby than to excess Coldstone consumption, the questions have begun. There are the questions about when I'm due (March) and what I want (either a boy or a girl) and if I have any names picked out (no). These are all fine questions. But then I get the question that sends me into a trance-like state where I mumble a mantra that sounds something like, "Don't hit, don't hit, don't hit, don't hit, don't hit, don't hit, don't hit."

That question is: "Are you doing natural childbirth or an epidural?"

I don't need the mantra every time. Just when the pro-natural ladies ask it, and I can always tell IMMEDIATELY from their tone which side they're on.

Here's the thing. It's not a sensitive topic for me. I don't mind telling you that I'll have off-the-charts intense contractions for a while, like in the neighborhood of four billion hours, before breaking down and getting the epidural because the midwife won't let me off of my left side and my left hip is doing this weird Transformers thing where it's morphing into some kind of razor sharp internal bone saw trying to excavate through my skin and escape my body in protest. (Deep breath.) I think I usually say, "I'll probably get an epidural." Then I let it drop.

If you are asking me that question, I suggest two responses. "I love epidurals" or "Cool." I can highly recommend that you not go with ANY version of the following. "Oh, I had natural childbirth and I LOVED it!"

The thing is, no matter how you think you're coming across, I guarantee you that you sound smug. And judgey.

I'm not judging YOU. (I admit it's taken me several years to work through my own knee jerk reaction of "What is WRONG with you?" to your choice, but I honestly can say I respect it now. You know, instead of thinking you're certifiable.)

Anyway, I was saying, I'm not judging YOU and I don't want you judging ME. But natural childbirthers have a hard, hard time resisting that urge. I understand that it comes from your total happiness with your experience. I commend you for that. But you don't get a bigger halo when we die.

To be fair, we took Lamaze classes during my last pregnancy and I kept an open mind. I prolonged the epidural for hours (twelve) and it turns out I have a high pain threshold. I use a midwife instead of an OB because I prefer her more traditional approach to childbirth (and they're extremely low rate of C-section deliveries). I do think about these things and I'm not opposed to considering natural childbirth.

But I really, REALLY can't handle natural birthers telling me what to do when I'm pregnant. We each feel very differently about ejecting melon sized objects from our hoohahs and I don't want or need to defend my position to anyone. I have a family member (NOT YOU, Aunt Linda) who is especially pushy about this. Luckily, we are separated by enough distance that I can't easily drive over and beat her about her sanctimonious head and neck.

You know what I thought when I pushed my babies out after 24 hours of labor EACH? I thought, "You are beautiful and healthy and this is a magical moment." Is that really so different from anyone else's experience? (Um, I thought that after the initial startlement that the babies come out blue-ish and that it seems odd for medical professionals to be flinging them around with such abandon like they do, anyway.)

Listen to what I'm saying: I think it's great if you want to go the natural childbirth route. I understand the urge to deliver at home, or in a birthing suite, without drugs. I DO. I have considered it and will continue to consider it. BUT (and it's a huge pregnant butt) if I didn't ask for your opinion or advice, don't give it to me.

It is an intensely personal choice. We all know that. I have total faith in my ability to choose the right thing for my body and my baby. Anyone whose tone so much as hints at a certain disappointment in my choices is probably a family member who should feel very, very lucky that she's out of driving range.

P.S. I know some super cool chicks who have done the natural or home birth thing who are five miles past awesome and NOT judgey. If you are like that, then I'm not talking to YOU.

Rolling in the dough

I figured out how to get a bestseller. See if you can find the secret:

Nope, it's not the secret life of bees. The secret is to put that little design thing around the title and it'll fly off the shelves. I noticed this past spring that there were about three hundred books on the Borders tables with some version of this design.

So I'm going to use it and put a book out. And I'm going to make the title something obscure like, "Why Cats Smile." I don't like cats but lots of people do so I'm going to leverage that. And then I'm going to put strange stuff on the inside like a random picture on every page with a vague caption. Like this:

Please pass the soap.

60 Watt Bulbs Are Better.

Amish Children Are Playing.

I'm going to be so RICH! I'll never flinch at the price of organic milk again. (Yeah. That rich.)

Dear Self: Snap out of it.

I don't know what kind of day I'm having. I'm sifting the clues, searching for evidence.

Here's what I have so far:

1. I put on my workout clothes but there is absolutely no chance I'm going to the gym. I don't have the faintest whiff of an inkling of a desire to be there.

2. I had good granola for breakfast but feel icky.

3. I turned the TV on for Baby G first thing this morning and feel guilty about that but not guilty enough to turn it off.

4. I have the blahs. I don't want to think too hard about why because I'm not in the mood to soul search. Then again, I almost never am. Not good.

5. My bedroom is a disaster and has been for a week and I still can't make myself clean it even though I know I would feel better.

6. I don't like what I posted yesterday. I think my internal editor took that chapter out in the first place not because it interrupted the narrative (which it did) but because it's measurably weaker than the rest of the novel. Reading it makes me feel discouraged.

7. Writing this list of clues makes me want to take myself outside and beat myself up.

8. Maybe I will do something nice for myself and clean my bedroom after all.

9. That Baby G has been loving on me lots. That's a little bit of sunshine.

10. I guess I know what kind of day I'm going to have: the kind I choose to have.

I'm going to flip on some What Not to Wear and rediscover the carpeting in my bedroom. I bet it's under all that stuff. In fact, all that stuff has probably kept the carpet nice and clean so when I do rediscover it, I won't even have to vacuum it.

Peace out, homies. I'm taking this show on the road.

Well, upstairs anyway.

Who needs Heloise?

I'm not saying my house is immaculate or anything (because I would get struck down by lightning for publishing such a big fat lie), but I am saying that I can totally fake it. Just because I love you, I'm throwing these helpful tips out for you today:


1. If you have a toddler, don't worry about food on the floor. They'll eventually eat it.

2. Get a counter top that doesn't show dirt, like one with a crazy speckle granite pattern. Then you only have to sweep light color crumbs off for it to look clean.

3. If you leave the dishes in the sink long enough, like maybe going on a week, your husband will at some point break down and clean them for you.

4. I've heard people joke about attaching a Swiffer to a crawling baby to get the floor clean, but um. . . it actually works.

5. If you lose the drain cover for your kids' bathtub, the hair clog from your shower will provide a free and easy solution.

You're welcome.

I got nothin'.

My sister hijacked my laptop for seventy hours last night so she could "research mp3 players" which apparently means "play on Facebook." And by "play on Facebook," I mean she hacked my account and posted that I shaved my head. True story.

Anyway, since laptop custody didn't revert to me until nearly one million o'clock at night, I decided I was just too tired to blog. That's what happens after a long day of. . . sitting around, I guess? I think that's what I did yesterday. I have a vague memory of trying to explain to my grandmother who I was about a half dozen times, scooping some potato salad off of her blouse, and then chatting with a cousin I don't see often enough while I wondered if she noticed how many Ruffles potato chips I was eating. Because it was a lot.

But I figured I'd blog when I got up this morning. And that was a good idea until I realized I didn't have anything to blog about. I'm tired of blogging about being pregnant. Apparently two blog posts per trimester is going to be my limit. As of right now. (Warning DaNae: if I become obsessed with every muscle twinge in my second trimester, I WILL inform Bloglandia and remain completely unchanged in my achy pregancy reports course even as I watch my ranks of followers dwindle ever downward, because I am a CRANKY pregnant woman.)

Anyway, for the first time in months, I opened my Word file marked "Blog ideas." Some of the ideas were boring. Some more were boring. Then a couple of more after that were boring. Then there was the handful that made say, "What the freak?" Like this:

Sometimes I feel like saying “no.” Connect with we’re related = No. Just no.

That is lifted word for word from my list. Clearly I added the second part so I would have some details to jog my memory. Only now it's just making me more confused. What does this mean? I've been sitting here for an hour trying to figure out what I might have been thinking. Retracing my train of thought from a distance of a few months is a little like trying to make sense of a Lil Mama critique on America's Best Dance Crew.

So far, I wonder if little nuggest from my list has to do with some kind of Facebook application that's bothering me. Or maybe it was a response to something a cousin/sibling/child did in public that I've since repressed. I have no idea.

But my point is, I don't have a blog post today.

Ha.

Note to self

Dear Self,

The following are NOT good reasons to cry, even when pregnant:

1. Luke and Lorelai getting together on Gilmore Girls. You've seen that episode FOUR times.
2. The Chipotle girl putting the guacamole ON my burrito bowl instead of on the side. It's not that big a deal. Really.
3. The lawn guys starting outside at 7:30. In the morning. You know, when it's early. In the morning. Early.
4. Really, really cute puppies.
5. Getting five different friends' voicemail. In a row.
6. Chipping my new pedicure.
7. That cute little boy on SYTYCD.
8. Celebrity gossip of any kind.
9. Warm Crystal Light.
10. Cub Scouts.

Wait, no. It's okay if the Cub Scouts make you cry, Self.

What to expect when I'm expecting.

Am I punching Fate in the nose and blowing it raspberries if I start by saying that everything with this pregnancy is going okay right now? I never like to believe that I'm superstitious, but even as I say, "Everything's good," I am knocking on wood, throwing salt over my shoulder, and rubbing my lucky Elmo foot.

At the very least, if Fate doesn't come after me, all you ladies with rough pregnancies probably will in my comment box, but let's not. Let's have love and happiness for me that I lucked out in the pregnancy sweepstakes, okay? I think it's compensation for the terrible burden of disproportionately wide hips.

Now, having said that, yesterday, I was mildly queasy, but I'm pretty sure that's due to too much Chipotle for lunch. And a couple of times I thought I was carsick with #2 and it might have been morning sickness. But I never threw up or lost my appetite.

Don't get me wrong, I don't have perfect pregnancies. I had terrible insomnia in the first and third trimesters last time (I once slept ten hours in 5 days, naps included) and I've had a couple of nights like that already. However, I'm skipping naps altogether this time (which is horrible, horrible agony because I'm TIRED) and it helps with sleeping.

I'm also due for some obnoxious, chronic back pain starting in a couple of months and continuing through delivery, but I'm going to see a chiropractor this time. Genius, right? And during the middle of my pregnancies, I lose my appetite all together. The first time, I survived on calcium fortified orange juice and beef jerky. Last time, I ate a lot of chips and guacamole and chocolotate covered Hostess donuts. I'll compare the boys' fifth grade report cards in nine more years and let you know which diet has a better long-term impact.

On the plus side (please don't hate me), I tend to skip the last month of pregnancy and deliver healthy babies. I was two weeks early with #1 and five weeks early with #2, and came home on time with both of them. I definitely recommend this course of action if your body and babies will cooperate. My friend's mom The Doula says I just have a shorter cooking time. I give it a big thumbs up.

Except...well, you sort of pay a penalty in labor and delivery. See, my water breaks, but I don't go into labor. Cue the pitocin and over 24 hours of labor. And the babies are usually in some mild distress while I'm laboring so I get to stay on one side, lying down, no walking around (even to the potty) and that position is VERY uncomfortable after a couple of hours. For that reason more than any other, I end up with an epidural. The pain in my hips otherwise is mind-blowing. I am not mean during this time, exactly. I just choose not to speak to anyone except for my sister, who is forced to read Trivial Pursuit cards out loud to me and NO ONE else is allowed to answer except for me. Those are the rules if you want to come and visit.

Still, all in all, I can't complain. I mean, I do. Loudly. Often. Pitifully. But I probably shouldn't.

Here's something else for us all to look forward to: my babies draw their nutrition exclusively from my IQ so look for disjointed, rambling comments coming to your boxes soon. And I lose all memory function. Oh, and self-discipline. If I see it, I eat it. Hence the weight discussion I'm sure my doctor will have with me at my next appointment.

By far, the most alarming symptom I begin to exhibit (beside irrational bouts of crying, which is another post) is my deluded fashion sense. Take this picture for instance:
This is me at 35 weeks last time (my water broke about two hours after this picture was taken, right in the middle of an Argentine tango show). That is clearly NOT a maternity dress but I was convinced I could MAKE IT WORK. I hereby solemnly promise that I will go through my maternity clothes and throw out everything that I bought to wear while pregnant that's not actually made for pregnant women and donate it to charity so as not to inflict this kind of thing on anyone again. Then I will blow this picture up and stick it on my closet in case I'm tempted to shangai regular clothes into maternity service. The fashion police can rest easy now.

Nonetheless, I'm happy and trying very hard not to worry that feeling good means something is wrong with this baby, or about all the things that could go wrong, or any of the other million instrusive and scary thoughts that cross my mind. I'm just trying to enjoy this and not admit too often to the no morning sickness thing so people don't get mad at me.

Anyhow, thank you for all the well-wishes over the weekend. I'm happy and hopeful that all will be well, and calming all of my worries with chocolate. I'm SURE I read it has a soothing effect and that I should eat some as regularly as I take my prenatal vitamins and maybe even more often. Also, eating chocolate will make your baby smarter. I know I read that, too. I guess hosting a foreign body in my womb has its perks.

I'm off to have some See's for breakfast.

An actual conversation with my husband.

I called my husband Friday afternoon after lunch.

"Hello?"

"Hi, honey. I can't go in the bathroom because I'm afraid of ghosts."

This announcement is met by silence followed by a cautious, "Oh."

"It's just that I got the baby up from his nap and put him on our bed to play while I changed clothes. And the TV was on this show called Haunted and it was super scary. It's about REAL ghosts."

"But ghosts aren't real."

"No! These ghosts ARE real. They had experts!"

"Those are actors, honey."

"No, this one guy used to work for NASA."

"Hm. Well, in that case, they were probably real ghosts."

"I know! And I have to pee."

This is met by silence. Then, "I don't follow," he says.

"I can't go in the bathroom. That's where the ghosts are."

"Ghosts live in our bathroom? Why are they in the bathroom?"

"Because the doors are always shut and it's always dark in there." Duh. "And I really need to go."

"Just go to the downstairs bathroom."

"I am downstairs. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get down here? When I was watching the show, the wind kept blowing the blinds and I couldn't get off the bed to shut them."

"In case that's where the ghosts are getting in at 2 in the afternoon?"

"ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?"

"No!" I can totally hear him laughing.

"How am I supposed to go to the bathroom? The creepy pilot ghost might be in there. They said his shadow feels like PURE DREAD."

He sighs. "I don't know, honey. I've never tried to get rid of a ghost before. You're just going to have to hold it until you explode."

"I'm pregnant! I don't have those muscles anymore. I'm totally going to pee in the container garden on the patio."

"Um, the neighbors will see you."

I pause. "Good point." I think for a minute. "What about garlic? Does garlic work on ghosts?"

"Yes, yes!" He sounds relieved that he can offer this solution. "Garlic works on ghosts. Why don't you get the jar of garlic out of the fridge?"

"What should I do with it? Wave it around the bathroom?"

"Yes," he says, distracted. I sense that for some reason this isn't commanding his undivided attention.

"What if I shove some garlic under the door first and then let it sit for a while?"

"I think that will work. The ghost will definitely go away."

"Okay. I'll call you later."

"Or you could just shove the baby in there," he adds. "If he's okay after five minutes, there's probably not a ghost."

"I think I'm going to stick with the garlic."

I call back ten minutes later .

"Hello?" he says.

"I peed!"

"Congratulations."

"I love you."

"Love you, too. Bye."

Being pregnant doesn't make me crazy at all.

Just FYI, I wrote this before I saw Jillybean's actual conversation with her kids at Walmart. Just so you know.

A random Saturday post

That Girl broke some big news on her blog yesterday and as I looked at the little swell of her six-week pregnant tummy I thought, "Lucky girl. You look six weeks pregnant."

I seem to look three months pregnant all the time, no matter what. I have a thin-ish frame but carry a lot of weight in my belly so people, WOMEN, who should know better often ask me when I'm due. It happens at least a couple of times a month, no exaggeration. Neighbors, girls at church, sales ladies. It's ridiculous. I'm almost more embarrassed for them when I have to say, "I'm not pregnant. Just fat." It's never, EVER not awkward.

If you've met me and haven't noticed that little tummy pooch, it's because I know how to dress to disguise it. I just don't have the energy to do it ALL THE TIME, hence the comments I get.

My choice of summer attire doesn't help, either. I kind of live in a rotation of four LOFT summer knit dresses that I dubbed "the new muu-muu." They're comfy and a half step up from a house coat, so I'm good with them. Still, they're not, uh...slimming.

Witness Exhibit A. Maybe you saw this picture on LisAway's blog, or even mine.

We got to hang out for an afternoon when she was in town for her brother's wedding. It was great fun. But my point is that one of us is three months pregnant in this picture and IT'S NOT ME. There's no baby in THAT stomach. So I kind of don't mind when people assume I'm three months pregnant when I wear one of those dresses because that's more or less my fault.

I do mind if I'm wearing cute jeans and cute shirt. It's not fun being mistaken for three months pregnant, especially since I'm only two months pregnant.

Gimme five.

Man, it's been forever since I did some Friday Favorites. Just to be alliterative, I'm going to throw out Five Friday Favorites today.

1. Favorite thing that my husband and I do together (that I care to discuss): Lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, and just talk.

2. Favorite childhood picture:
That's me and my dad. I miss him.

3. Favorite thing about my bishop: he never, EVER falls asleep on the stand. It's amazing. Plus, he reads any book I recommend to him.

4. Favorite thing to do with Baby G: write on my laptop while he cuddles next to me in a blanket cocoon with his head tucked under my arm. It's slow typing but happier writing.

5. Favorite current treat: garlic and chive cream cheese on Ritz crackers. I'm a total cretin. Just go with it, yo.

This is a three star post. Maybe two.

An old friend from high school just sent me an invite to connect on Goodreads. That happens a lot. It's probably because everyone knows I read a lot and that I have strong opinions about books. I guess they figure I'll have no problem sharing them, and I don't.

Or, well, I didn't used to. Things are a little different now.

Here's the thing: I give honest ratings. I don't hold on to a five star rating like it's my last kernel of winter corn, but let's be truthful. . . how many five star books are there REALLY in the world? Especially when you consider the subjective nature of reading, right?

One of my favorite books of last year was The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. It's well-written, though maybe not the best written book ever. But I I loved it so much that I HAD to give it five stars. I thought my book group would too, but most of them came in at four stars. That's reading. It's subjective.

For the most part, my stars follow the Goodreads rating system:

***** It was amazing
**** Really liked it
*** Liked it
** It was okay
* Didn't like it

Those stars work for me. But I've run into a little glitch. Now that I spend more time with LDS writers both virtually and in real life, giving out stars to LDS fiction has become stickier. If it's truly a four star or higher book, I have no problem saying so. But if it's three stars or below, I have a BIG problem saying so.

There's nothing wrong with a three star book. I've recommended plenty of three star books to friends. They're solid entertainment and worth reading. But I'm afraid to offend someone I know by giving them three stars, even if the book deserves it. Like Josi Kilpack says, it's a small sandbox and I want to play nice.

Now having said that, there's plenty of LDS fiction I've read and just forgotten to rate. That happens when I'm on a reading jag. I don't remember to enter it all into Goodreads. I must have forgotten to put in five books just from my last vacation. It's not that they were bad; I just don't enter books religiously. AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME. Sometimes I'm totally on top of it, other times I forget for weeks at a time and I may or may not remember to add a book later.

But the thing is, I want my opinion to be trustworthy when it comes to books and so I can't fudge a rating to spare someone's feelings. However, since I'd rather spare their feelings than hurt them, I just skip a rating altogether.

One woman in my feed gives EVERYTHING five stars, even stuff that I'm thinking would barely rate two stars. Barely. I know why she does it (she's nice), but I still don't find her ratings at all credible.

Why does it matter to me? I don't know. I don't have enough real life problems to worry about so I manufactured one, obviously. Besides that, I guess it's because often the books I enter into my feed start showing up in my friends' feeds over the next week's time. And vice versa. If someone says a book is good, I put it on my list. If I read a couple of crappy recommendations from them, I probably wouldn't take their suggestions any more.

I love Goodreads. I get great suggestions for what to pick up next there and I'm never short of things to check out. But I know whose opinions I trust and who I ignore all together. I want to be trusted. But I also want to be nice. But only to authors I know. Which doesn't always work well with honesty.

And I have no idea what that says about me. Except that I'm probably too neurotic to participate in any kind of social networking.

Stepping Up

If I share one of my fondest dreams with you, promise not to laugh, okay?

Cuz dreams can totally come true. Like for example, I wanted to marry the man of my dreams. And I did.

I wanted to become a published author. And I did.

See? It works.

So now it's time to take on my next dream.

*Takes deep breath.*

Kenny and I want to be on a dance crew.

Shut up. It could happen.

Look, we've done the research. We've seen all three seasons of America's Best Dance Crew. We've done all the requisite viewing: Stomp the Yard, Step Up 2: The Streets, How She Move.

We know what our costumes will be. We figure baggy jeans, camouflage hoodies, newsboy caps and some kind of bright streaks in our hair. We all have our signature moves: Lil J can do some fierce breakdancing down on the floor (as long as it's to U2 Vertigo), Baby G can do some serious stomping, Kenny's got a killer centipede, and I can VOGUE like I invented it.

But...

That's only half a crew. We need between 1-3 more people, at least one of whom needs to know how to choreograph a variety of routines around those four moves. And also, we're not really good in unison, so really it should just be a series of connected solos. Oh, and Kenny also knows some ballroom so maybe we could put some of that in there, too.

Who's in?