Thursday is what Grey and I like to call, “Trashmas Eve.” Actually, we stole the term from our friends Ingrid and Jud, who gave this catchy little nickname to the night before garbage day. And since tonight is this week’s Trashmas Eve, I thought it fitting for me to give a nod to the men that haul away my refuse every week, rain or shine.

Last week, I think our garbage men were trying to send us a message. Just like every Trashmas Eve since we moved here, Grey stuck out our ratty old garbage cans filled to the brim with junk. However, the following day, as he went to retrieve the cans, he realized they were nowhere to be found. There was a lid in our driveway, but nothing else. Did they blow into a neighbor’s yard? Nope. Did the waste management folks put them away for us? Nope. In fact, what we came to realize is, they threw them away. Yep. Instead of emptying the contents of the can and putting the receptacle back on the curb, the garbage men just chucked the entire thing (two cans in fact!) into the dump truck and peaced out with the whole kit and caboodle.

I’ll admit, our cans were looking a little worse for the wear. We didn’t actually buy them new, but I believe we instead just stole a few extra from Grey’s parents’ house. We’re ghetto like that and, even though we’re 33 and 32, still feel the need to mooch off our parents for random items like trash cans.

But however much I appreciate our diligent garbage men, I kind of wonder if these small town trash collectors are just a tad judgmental. I mean, isn’t it my decision to decide when we buy a new waste bin? Apparently not. However, I can’t complain because I am genuinely grateful for their hard work. Having a toddler gives us some seriously nasty trash. The food waste alone is utterly disgusting. So, whether our trash men stole my cans or not, I salute them.

Ah, summer is over! Not officially, I know it’s not September 23rd yet, but for all intents and purposes. The kids are back at school, the tourists are gone, the weather is cooling off (well, sort of), and Funland is closing up shop! So SAD.

To enjoy the last hurrah of Summer’s Bounty, this past weekend while Kris and Craig were visiting, we took Ollie and their daughter, Emmeline, to Funland in Rehoboth Beach. The babies had a blast riding all the kiddie rides and getting jacked up on boardwalk delicacies like funnel cake and cotton candy while the four of us adults had enough people-watching to make a trip to Wal-Mart or the Circus seem boring. My only beef with the amusement park was that they didn’t let me go on the kiddie motorcycle ride with Ollie because, as an adult, I was “too big.” Nevermind they had a two ton ten-year-old denting the bikes with his giant ass right before I requested to ride (no joke this porker must have weighed in at 250), but I guess rules are rules.

So alas, now that it’s September, we’ll have to wait until next season to head back to Funland. And by that time, Ollie’s obsession with the Super “F*cks” will most likely have waned, or at the very least, he’ll be pronouncing the TR-sound in their name by then, which for some reason makes me sad to think about.

Though I love fall, it’s always hard to see summer go….

My favorite activity at Funland is the Super "F*cks" because it's the one ride adults can go on with their children. It brings out the inner trucker in me, which is surprisingly enjoyable. BYE BYE, SUMMER!

Yesterday, Grey, Ollie and I headed to the Baltimore Ravens Stadium for the Navy/Maryland football game. I must say, pregnant tailgating is a much different beast than the non-prego kind. Being with-child at a tailgate, I found myself facing a serious dilemma. To drink lots of liquid or not to drink lots of liquid??? I mean, I’m constantly thirsty (probably since I’m always so darn hot), but also have to pee every two seconds as little fetus feet are kicking me in the bladder. So, I’m left to decide whether to dehydrate myself on purpose to save my swollen sausage feet the long walk to the disgusting port-o-potty, or just drink up and deal with the trek.

However, with Cruzin Cooler, my problems are solved! If you haven’t seen them before, the Cruzin Coolers are iceboxes with wheels. It’s like a motorscooter that you can store a few cases of beer in. So yesterday at the game, perched atop Cruzin Cooler, I could not only keep beverages handy right under my ever-growing maternity booty, but also easily haul myself to the bathroom without having to walk. It’s the best invention since the lightbulb!

In fact, the highlight of my day at the tailgate was driving Grey’s friend Bubba’s cooler around the parking lot. A pregnant girl on a ridable ice chest is just so wrong it’s actually right. Although it did make me a bit uncomfortable having strangers taking my picture and videotaping me (I’m sure if you search “pregnant lady” and “cooler-bike” on YouTube you’ll now see some crazy strangers’ amateur video of me), I loved scooting around the parking lot waving to people as if I was a human float. Does it get better than that?

I considering using a cornhole game as a ramp to launch the Cruzin Cooler off Dukes of Hazzard-style, but then thought better of it.

Don’t you hate how hard it is to find a good movie these days? I feel like everything out in the theaters is either just dumb, or some overplayed concept, or unnecessarily deep, or plain old boring. That’s why last night, when we rented Hot Tub Time Machine, I had pretty low expectations. However, I loved it.

In case you haven’t seen it yet, please rent this movie. It’s hilarious. And has a neat little ending that they tie right up in a bow for you. I love films like that. It hearkens back to the good old days of movies like Overboard and Mannequin — those which have ridiculously far fetched premise (like a nasty hot tub that actually defies the space/time continuum) and entertains you for 90 mindless minutes. It was perfect.

In my opinion, movies these days just try way too hard. So many films try to be all deep and Quentin Tarrantino-ish. What ever happened to the movies of the 80s where you feel good after watching it, not confused or depressed? Movies where everything is spelled out for you and the ending is satisfying, not ambiguous or purposely sad.

So yay for Hot Tub Time Machine!

Let this post be an open invitation for anyone who wants to come visit us at the beach. We’d love to host you — whoever you may be! (Unless of course we really don’t know you, then that would just be weird.)

Anywho, Grey and I had a pretty non-eventful holiday weekend planned until my friend Kris called me yesterday morning and said that her and her husband Craig had decided to come visit last minute. All of a sudden our weekend went from yardwork and errands and maybe some beach time — to an instant party when the two of them and their little girl, Emmeline, showed up. Or, as much of a “party” as two pregnant chicks (Kris is 9 months along), their husbands, and two toddlers can have. We stayed up past 11:45pm — that has to count for something anyway. And who knows — we always have Sunday night to get nutty. You never know what sort of insanity an intense game of Catch Phrase or Pictionary may take you!

So please — come on visitors! We miss our DC friends and we promise we won’t put you to work on our home improvement projects — even though we somehow roped our last two sets of houseguests into doing stuff like laying sod and planting shrubs, but hey, you’ll earn your keep and get a tan!

Kris and Craig and Grey and I -- in our pre-baby days when white wine and Yuengling fueled every get-together we had.

I have never been an organized person. In high school, I my friends said I was always just a “shit-storm of papers and crap” and called me Pig Pen. I remember turning in my math homework one time on an Arby’s napkin because I lost all my looseleaf paper. Other times, I’d just be late to class because I misplaced the gum wrapper I wrote my locker combination so I’d be stranded without all my books.

Now, as a 32-year-old, sadly, I haven’t gotten much better. It always seems like the papers I need (important stuff like social security cards, birth certificates, and car registrations) are never around when I need them, but will turn up when I’m doing things like cleaning out the canned good cabinet or hauling out my winter sweaters. Seriously, for months I couldn’t find my driver’s license and then I finally found it: stuffed in a BIBLE. What? I can’t even begin to understand my rationale for that one. Whereas when I was a kid, my school backpack was catch-all for all my junk, now my purse is a grab-bag of eclectism. Too bad Let’s Make a Deal isn’t on because I would have KILLED at “What’s in your Purse?”

So the one thing that keeps me relatively sane are my To-Do lists. They are the one piece of order I can muster in my chaotic, unorganized existence. In fact, I love putting things on the list just so I can check them off. I feel empowered and responsible when I cross off such items like “buy toilet paper” and “nap.” Truly, they are the only thing that keep my life even somewhat settled. For this I am very grateful!

This would be me...without my trusty list!

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.