My husband has a slight obsession with meteorology. He loves, and I mean, LOVES tracking storms and weather systems. In fact, he doesn’t just enjoy stalking the hurricanes coming up the coast, but any rain or snow that heads our way. But since it’s now officially hurricane season, I can tell you he’ll be especially glued to his iPhone Weather Underground app and gleefully calculating the exact location of Earl, Fiona, and whoever comes. I’ll hear shouts of “Batten down the hatches!” and know Grey has found his happy place on the Weather Channel.
However, something tells me he may be going a little overboard with storm preparations though. He didn’t want to board up the windows of our house, but he did make me go out and buy jugs of water and canned goods, “just in case.” Maybe it’s the former Navy man in him, but he takes his foul weather preparations very seriously.
Being married to someone like Grey makes it hard to ever worry. Why bother thinking about bothersome things like nasty weather, finances, or car maintenance when he’s worried enough about all that for 10 people? Truly, since our wedding day, I must say, I never have a care in the world. There’s no need to stress because I know if things are ever really looking dark — my ever vigilant husband will worry enough for both of us.
We drove out on the beach tonight so Grey could scope out the 10 foot rollers (although they didn't look that big to me). One thing the impending storm brought us was a beautiful sunset!
Something very strange is going on with this pregnancy. Just when I had given myself over to the fact that I would top out around 200 pounds in all my gestational glory, I’m still only hovering at 160. I know for you skinny minnies out there that have never had a hungry fetus growing in your belly, 160 is the equivalent of 500 pounds, but for a pregnant chick like me, who during my last pregnancy tipped the scales at 187 (a mere 13 pounds away from being a double deucer), 160 is practically a featherweight.
I just don’t get it. I had a doctor’s appointment today and since my last weigh in over a month ago, I had only packed on ONE POUND. Last pregnancy, I was practically gaining one pound every two days. Literally. And the thing is, I feel like I’m eating more this time. For christ-sake, I bought SALAMI the other day at Giant. Salami! The last time I ate a salami sandwich I was nine, but it looked good at the deli counter so I thought, what the hell?
It’s not like I look small either. Which makes me wonder, if I look big this time, how enormous did I appear last time when I was up in the 170s by this point in my pregnancy? That’s a scary thought.
Oh well. It’s not like I’m complaining about my slower paced weight gain this time. It just baffles me. However, I have to realize, I still have just over two months to go, so 187 (even 200) could still be a reality. Until then, bring on the salami!
Oh, Detecto, how I love thee. Let me count the ways!
I’m a fisherman! I fish! Or at least I pretend that I do, now that Grey and I got a license to allow us to drive our car on Cape Henlopen here in Delaware. Basically, if you’re a surf fisherman (like me) then the State Park Authority gives you the green light to tool all over almost-completely deserted beaches across the state of Delaware. The only catch is you actually have to have a fishing pole and fishing equipment in tow when you take your car on the shores, you can’t just lie on the sand in your bikini drinking a margarita with no gear whatsoever.
So, tonight, Grey, Ollie, and I had our first “fishing” expedition out on the Cape. It was great! We packed up a gigantic fishing pole, a tackle box, beach towels, and snacks for our little jaunt on the dunes. We literally had the beach all to ourselves, but on our drive out, we saw a whole bunch of other “fishermen” with coolers and brews and grills working hard catching a buzz, if not any scaly animals.
The only other places I’ve ever driven on the beach in a car have been Nantucket and Fraser Island in Australia. In Nantucket, Grey and I actually got our rental Jeep stuck in the sand and almost had to pay $20,000 in damages to Avis…whew, close one). In Fraser Island, I drove a gigantic truck (complete with a bull-bar) packed with six other study abroad kids down the shores looking at ship wrecks and dingos. Both experiences were ones I’ll never forget, but definitely both on-vacation-type memories. What’s so nice now, is that on some random weeknight or ho-hum day, I can join my husband and son for a drive out onto the beach. Just another thing I love about our new hometown!
Isn't this a sweet set-up? See our fishing pole on the front of the Jeep? It's there...so we weren't breaking any rules, unless you count that Ollie made it a nude beach....
Ducks may be cute feathered creatures, but they’re really evil little beings. In addition to their gross poop that they leave behind on docks and decks, did you know duck rape is a real phenomenon? I’m not lying. It isn’t just human society that seems to be getting more violent, but oddly enough the same thing is happening in the world of poultry. According to scientists, ducks are behaving more and more sexually aggressive each year. Really — Google it. You’ll be shocked. And fascinated. And then come to the conclusion you know waaaaaaay more about duck sex than you ever wanted.
I noticed this strange duck behavior when I taught middle school. Why you ask? Why would I notice aggressive quackers when I was a teacher? Well, my friends, because the strange set-up of my former school placed my classroom on the border of a strange little courtyard inhabited by 10,000 of these webbed-footed demons. And I SAW their violence first-hand — and so did all my students due to the fact that the huge bay windows looked directly onto them.
Every spring was apparently mating season for my little courtyard pets and we’d hear them squawking and quacking constantly while they mated. The kids would stare in fascination and get an in-your-face-lesson on the birds and the bees gone wrong. In fact, while I administered the 7th grade Virginia Standards of Learning test to the students, I even had to report a standardized testing irregularity of “kids couldn’t concentrate due to duck rape.” Literally — the ducks’ perverted behavior became so much of a distraction that some students couldn’t even finish their exams. But seriously, who’d want to do analogies while there’s animal gang rape going on outside your window?!
I like Duck Hunt because it's as non-violent as video games come AND teaches that ducks are sick sick creatures that should be eaten with a side of plum sauce.
**oops, I just noticed I used the wrong form of "sight" (but too lazy to change my card to Brach's!)
Despite the fact that it’s not even September, suddenly it seems like Halloween candy and spooky decorations are lining the aisles of every store I visit. Usually season hopping annoys me, but this year, since I’m so excited for a break from the heat (pregnant swamp ass continues), I gladly welcome the early signs of fall. However, I must admit, I feel totally behind the eight ball this year. I know it’s only the end of August, but usually, I start thinking about my Halloween costume on the previous year’s All Saint’s Day (that’s November 1 for all you non-Catholic heathens). In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I LOVE Halloween. It’s my favorite holiday. I love everything about the costumes and candy and fall leaves and pumpkin seeds and scary stories told by firelight; it’s all perfect.
But this year, I’m still at a loss for what to be. If my little baby turkey was debuting BEFORE October 31st, then it would be a no brainer — the entire family would dress as the Village People. But since Baby #2 won’t be popping out until November, I’m afraid Grey, Ollie, and I just wouldn’t be enough of a crowd to do the YMCA-singing 70s disco band justice. So what to be?
This year I’m feeling even more pressure because I’m pregnant. I’ve never been pregnant for Halloween before, and I feel like dressing for two has got me stressed! I could be the typical pregnant nun, but that seems trite and overdone, so I find myself surfing the Internet on the countless costume sites during bouts of insomnia for knocked-up costume ideas. Plus, I also feel like I want Ollie’s costume to be really good. He’s two, so I figure this may be the last year I can dress him in a costume of my choosing. By three, I figure he’ll be well on his way to demanding I let him be some cheesy character from the latest Disney movie. Barf.
Have any ideas? Send ‘em my way!
Painting my belly is NOT an option. I find this Halloween trend creepy as HELL!!!
I know there are many downfalls to Facebook (it’s a time sponge, it hurts kids ability to actually speak to each other, people sometimes use it for creepy reasons, etc), but I honestly think the good outweighs the bad. I love it for two main reasons: the stalking and the birthdays.
First of all, it’s so much fun to peer into other people’s lives through their wall posts and pictures. It’s great that you can go years without having contact with a person and then friend them on FB and instantly know how many kids they have, where they work, and how their hairline or waistline is fairing. Amazing.
The second reason, is that it makes you feel so darn great on your birthday. The fact that the FB powers-that-be post your date of birth allows everyone and their brother to come out of the woodwork to send you birthday greetings on your big day (those of them that aren’t trying to steal your social security number and identity, anyway). I think that’s pretty neat. Yesterday, on my birthday, I heard from tons of Penn Staters, Washingtonians, Erieites — and even a few former students. It was fantastic! I felt so loved!! And popular! It was like an instant self esteem boost, which, when you’re turning a year older and look like you’ve swallowed a basketball, is much needed. Thanks, FB, but also all the friends that sent me the lovely birthday greetings. You made my day!
Thanks also to my two favorite crazy boys for making it a perfect birthday! (I love this totally insane cake cutting shot. Can we ever have a normal family pic?) Also, please ignore the "It's a Boy!" on the cake...pure speculation at this point!!
I’m not that huge on my own birthday. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy barking orders at Grey all day long and saying things like, “Celebrate me, damnit!” when my birthday rolls around, but, especially ever since I had Ollie, 8-28 isn’t that big of a deal. Not that it ever was a huge extravaganza; I’ve always gotten way more excited about days like Halloween and Thanksgiving than my own date of birth. (What’s better than costumes or eating massive amounts of stuffing? Cake? I think not).
I think my lack of birthday enthusiasm has something to do with the fact that I never truly like being the center of attention. Yes, I like people paying attention to me, but up to a point. Even on my wedding day, the thought of having everyone’s eyes directly on me made me want to barf on myself (hence all the valium and champagne and then my inevitable inability to recall anything past 11AM). So having people just sit around and party because it is the day I came into existence? That just makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.
That’s part of why I’ve always been fascinated by who else shares my birthday. One of my best friends from Erie, Sarah, was born on August 28th too and we always had fun co-celebrating. Plus, as a pre-teen, the fact that Jason Priestly of the mega-hit Beverly Hills 90210 was popped out of his mother’s womb on the same day as me, well, that was pretty much incomprehensibly cool. I took it to mean that Brandon Walsh and I were soul mates. So even though my parents didn’t let me watch 90210 because they thought there was too much teen sex, I’d secretly catch every episode telling them I was watching Growing Pain reruns.
So happy birthday, to Mr. Jason Priestley. No clue what you’re doing now, but here’s to our day!
Only in the 90s could a pale, pasty dude in his dorky underwear and periwinkle shirt be so hot!
I now realize celebrating my birthday was probably a whole lot more fun for my parents than me. Ollie's birthday is my favorite day of the year -- how can my own date of birth hold a candle?
I have a really weird relationship with my bellybutton. Truth be told, it terrifies me. Something about the fact that it used to be a hole that I was fed through while living in my mom’s stomach, but now it’s sealed and closed and serves no purpose– well, that’s some kind of crazy. Just thinking about it gives me the shivers.
Currently, I can see the outside of my bellybutton for the second time in my life. At 28 weeks pregnant, I think it’s safe to say my navel’s “popped” and I am the proud owner of an outie, not an innie. Which is nice in a way, because I can tell you it’s really really clean (no lint here!), but it’s also kind of scary. My button’s like a finger, only fat and round and a half centimeter long. So I guess not like a finger at all, but like a little nose poking out of my stomach. But a nose without nostrils or a sense of smell…so not really a nose either. I know, it’s like a turkey thermometer, only in my case, my little Thanksgiving bird isn’t done yet…I still have 11 or so more weeks to go. Oh well, whatever it’s “like” — it’s just weird.
AND, ticklish. The other day during my sonogram I laughed like a hyena every time the sono tech ran the Doppler over my little outie. It was frankly embarrassing. I think she thought I actually LIKED her touching my bellybutton, which I certainly did NOT. Truth is, I felt as though I was being electrocuted through my navel. Not a pleasant feeling.
So that’s why I’m thankful to the Japanese author and illustrator, Jun Nanao and Tomoko Hasegawa, respectively. You probably know them for their better known books like, Everyone Poops and The Gas We Pass, but lately, my favorite of their children’s works has been Contemplating Your Bellybutton. It’s probably because I identify with it; for Pete sake, I am devoting an entire blog post contemplating my navel!!!
I'm not kidding, my bellybutton looks JUST like this kid's!!!
Annoyingly enough, I got a speeding ticket in the mail yesterday. It’s from the District, where it seems they have automated photo enforcement cameras on every street corner and highway underpass. Of course, I was pissed when I opened the mail and got the fine (135 bucks –EW, RUDE, DC!), HOWEVER, as this is my first ticket ever in our Nation’s capital (except parking tickets), so I do admit it was about time.
I think, part of the reason why I never got a photo-enforcement ticket in the five years I lived as a Washingtonian (or NoVa resident) was due to the fact that I had PhotoBlocker — a clear glaze that blurs the numbers of your license plate when the flash hits it — sprayed on my plates. My little brother got me this genius product for my birthday when we moved back to the East Coast. For those of you that don’t know him, this is a very typical Ian-gift. Whereas other people may gift items like a new shirt or maybe a gift certificate, Ian gives the people he loves items like realistic-looking voodoo dolls, signs that read: DINGO CROSSING, and books titled, Thank God I Had a Gun: True Accounts of Self Defense.
So, like I was saying, I think PhotoBlocker is the reason that in five years of driving around DC, I never once got caught by a speed camera. Or, more accurately, I got caught by speed cameras (how can you miss that flashing!), but I never once got a ticket in the mail from them until now. I’m sure, after all this time, the glaze simply wore off and that’s why I was busted. Ironic, to get the ticket only now that I’ve moved out of the area, but isn’t that how things usually work? Oh well, I guess it’s just time to order another can!
Genius!!!
Other than PhotoBlocker, this book may be another one of my all time favorite Ian-gifts. The little boy crouching in fear on the bed is a nice touch to the cover art, no? Since tomorrow is my birthday, I'm guessing Ian will get me yet another amazing present!
The thing I miss most about living in Virginia is my friends. Since my Delta Delta Delta days at Penn State, I hadn’t had such a tight knit group of girls with whom I could talk about absolutely anything. In fact, it always seemed like our book club was the place where we had the most hilarious conversations, so it makes me sad I’m missing out on that tonight while all my NoVa friends yuck it up.
When we started the club five years ago, no one had kids. The funny part about this was that when it was a pre-baby book club, all we talked about was labor and delivery. I’d say 99% of our book club conversations revolved around what we heard about women pooping on the table during labor. Ironic, because none of us even had babies — so what did we know?
The truth is, once you’ve actually given birth (or at least in my case), you could care less if you poop on the table or not. In fact, during my last labor, I could have taken a shit on Grey’s head and I wouldn’t have cared. Indeed, I could have dumped on an entire room of people and not batted an eye, but I digress…
The point is, I always knew we could talk about anything during book club and I’m very grateful to have been a member for so long! And who knows, next month I’m going to a new club here at the beach, so maybe it’ll be the same way. I have a theory that if you give women from any state in the country a few glasses of wine and some appetizers they’ll all wind up talking about third nipples, poop during labor, and celebrity gossip. It’s in our blood!
Here's a pic we snapped at BC a few years ago. No clue why we all rubbing our nipples. I think we were making some sort of reference to Pride and Prejudice or Grapes of Wrath? This is a very intellectual crowd, as you can tell.
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