An Unhappy Customer

So, I'm happy to report I have good news...no my baby hasn't come.  And yes, she's overdue by two days now.  And no, there's no sign of her nor do I have a date for inducing her. 

The good news is Ralph, my friend the Craigslist guy who, may try to kill me one day, emailed me the other day to check in.  Apparently, he wasn't completely satisfied with his purchase of my table.

The following was in the title of the email: 

DELETE YOUR TABLE ON CRAIGS LIST! I"m tryin 2 sell it, I hate it.

 

I hate it?  Ralph, buddy, what's the problem?  Are you now going to officially break into my apartment and steal my TV?  Buddy, let's talk it out...

Come On, Craigslist

I have to admit I definitely have a love/hate relationship with Craigslist.  One, I love the fact that I can sell and buy all sorts of crap.  Looking for a rundown, probably infested with bed bugs, mattress?  Craigslist has got it.  Looking to sell your college, IKEA purchased lamp, that has been lugged from four different apartments?  Some idiot wants it.  It's amazing. 

However, as much as I love the wide scope of Craigslist I also hate the constant low-balling of offers.  People, when I offer my college lamp for five dollars - I mean five dollars.  Don't come back with 3 dollars.  If you are that cheap go find some sticks at the park and light them on fire for some extra reading light.  Also, I hate the stupid questions associated with your posts.  Yesterday, I had a lady call me and ask if the light I was trying to sell actually worked.  Worked?  Crap, I thought people would simply want a decorative floor lamp. Thank you Asian lady for pointing out what could have been a very awkward purchase for someone.

And lastly, I find Craigslist to be simply bizarre because of the people you encounter.  Take for example, the people who bought our refrigerator.  They had just moved from Rhode Island, totally friendly and, yet, just dumb enough to buy one of our chairs and lamps without really seeing the chair was about to fall apart.  Great people.  And then, yesterday Ralph and David showed up at my place to buy my coffee table.  As usual, Ralph started with a low ball offer - to which, I said no...(a year ago I would have offered to pay for the table myself.  The Husband has been working on my "bartering" give stuff away for free skills.)  Then he turned the table over about thirty times, asked some other dumb questions and then proceeded to pace around the room.  Now, I wouldn't have minded the long deliberation, but after awhile, I was pretty convinced Ralph and his friend David were actually taking an inventory of my place so they could return and rob us.  Was I being paranoid?  Probably not when Ralph said, "That sure is a nice TV.  By the size of it it looks like you easily walked it into your apartment."  Great observation tattooed Ralph.  Are you thinking of how easy it would be to walk it out?

Good news is - Ralph bought the table. 
Bad news is - Ralph knows where I live.

Thanks Craigslist.

Preparing For the Worst

The other day someone asked me if I was reading any child development books in preparation for the birth of my child.  I, without really thinking, said, "Well, I've been reading this great book on Catherine the Great, and because I'm slightly ADD when it comes to reading, I've also started a fascinating biography on Hitler."

In retrospect I should have said no. 

What?  I'm preparing for the worst case scenarios.  Who wants a child that pulls the entire world into a war and murders millions?  I would say I'm being a great mom.

It Continues To Haunt Me

Now this might come as a shock to some of you and it might not come as a shock at all, but from fifth grade until eighth grade I played the trumpet.  Now, I should be honest, "played" the trumpet is a slight exaggeration.  The truth would be I lugged a large suitcase onto the bus, sat on it, which only heightened the bumps, dumped it in the band room, blared through it, while my counterparts actually played the songs and prayed a day would come when the band room would be blown up.  Fortunately, for my school district the band room was not blown up, but my release came when the band teacher asked me to come down to the band room.  As I entered the room he asked, while pointing to my trumpet case, "Do you know what this is?"  I, slightly confused by his question said, "Um, my trumpet?"  He then said, "Yes.  And you know what, I've never seen it leave.  So, that means you never practice, which means you don't care, which means you should probably give this up."  Ahh, the sweet words of release.

So, that was it.  My days with hearing a bad trumpet were over...and then, I moved into this new apartment.  As we were moving in we started talking to the neighbor below us and she said, "So, Maddie is our youngest. She is great - we just hope you won't be too annoyed by her."  Annoyed by her?  What does Maddie do - bang on the walls?  Scream racist profanities for no apparent reason?  Nope, Maddie plays the trumpet.

As I'm writing this I'm listening to a monkey being shoved into...no, wait, I'm listening to someone attempting to do scales on a TRUMPET!  Play something already!  Geez, even in my six hours of practicing over three years I could at least play a decent "Up On the Rooftop!" 

The Interview

As I've mentioned before I'm slightly nervous about entering the world of crazy moms.  I got to be honest, I'm just not looking forward to the looks of disapproval because I'm not using sign language to communicate with my child, or the fact that they aren't potty trained by six months.  Honestly, whatever happened to the days when moms let kids run around the pool with no suntan lotion on and fries were a totally acceptable lunch??  Oh, the 80s...

So, the other day I found myself in a room with two other expecting mothers waiting to interview a potential pediatrician.  As we sipped on cool water, and secretly assessed each others' weight gain, one mother turned to me and asked, "So, how many pediatricians have you interviewed so far?"  Immediately I thought, how many pediatricians?  Was I supposed to interview more than one?  Is there a final written test I'm supposed to give them and the one with the highest score gets to take care of my kid's runny nose?  Why doesn't anyone tell me these things?


So, after looking at her with a blank stare, I said, "Nope, this is the only one."  And that, my friends, was not the correct answer.  The expecting mother then told me how she had interviewed five pediatricians already and all had completely different methods.  Different methods?  What are they doing - making wine?


Unfortunately, our conversation was cut short when the pediatrician entered the room.  After a few introductions, the doctor asked us if we had any questions.  And this is when crazy happened.  Both mothers, to my left and right, proceeded to pull out sheets (yes, that was plural) of questions.  I just sat there completely dumbfounded as they asked everything from vaccine schedules, to waiting room procedures, to after hour calls, to billing and to his thoughts on curing autism.  Finally, the doctor turned to me and asked, "Kate, do you have any questions?"  For a moment I looked down at my keys and cell phone, and then said, "Nope, I think I'm good."  Silence in the room.  He then, along with the women, asked again, "Really? You have no questions?"  Then in a moment of panic and slight guilt I said, "You said you went to medical school?  Right?  (Doctor nods) Great.  And you aren't going to touch my child inappropriately? (Doctor nods)  Great.  No, I think I'm good." 


Oh if you were wondering...he hasn't thought of a cure for autism.  I guess those ladies will be finding another pediatrician. 

NEWWMAANNN

Oh the irony of life...so, as I mentioned in my last entry, I'm a tad nervous about my impending labor and worry that my baby will decide to come while I'm driving my car or when I'm at the grocery store.  So, what happens later that day?  A customer from the restaurant calls me and asks if I would like to be an extra on the show The Exes, starring Newman from Seinfeld, Kristen Johnston from 3rd Rock From The Sun and Donald Faison from Scrubs.  Apparently, they need pregnant people to be in the background for a scene at a Lamaze class.  Now, here's what's so freaking ironic about this whole thing:

1. I'm scared to leave my house and now I'm considering driving to the valley and spending the day at the CBS lot.

AND
 
2. I NEVER TOOK A FREAKING CLASS and now I would be taking a fake Lamaze class from 11-5...with a bunch of actors.  (I wonder if I would actually learn anything.)

I might do it.  It would be cool if a fake doctor delivered my baby and Newman and Kristen Johnston became the kid's new uncle and aunt. 

Game Time

So, I'm officially two weeks away from having this kid, and I'm not going to lie, I'm getting slightly nervous.  I mean, it was one thing to get fat and feel her kick, and then it was cool to have showers and get free stuff, but now it's game time.  It's time for me to experience the jaws of hell and push out a watermelon.  This is serious.

So lately, I've been having small panic attacks. For example, yesterday I was at Target (because I'm already training on being a mom and spending my days running errands) when I thought, "What if I have this baby right now?  What if my water breaks right here in front of this delightful display of baby swimsuits and the only people that can help me is the Spanish speaking family to my left and the creepy man standing in the baby clothes section to my right?  And if I have the baby here in Target, does that mean I get a lifetime discount?  Will my child only wear red shirts and khaki pants?  Is this floor clean for a delivery?"  I'm telling you I'm freaking out and terrified of leaving my home.

I just wish God would send down a small note that says, "In five minutes you are going to feel like you want to die.  Best of luck."  A little heads up would be fantastic.

My New Best Friend

As I've mentioned before there are many weird things that happen when you are pregnant.  For example, my protruding belly has been "violated" many times, I've been given advice that ranges from "helpful" to a notch above pure insanity and everyone from a worker at Subway to a random person at the library has demanded I tell them what I'm going to name my little one.  However, as strange as these moments were, I think I experienced the strangest the other day.

So, there I was walking home from Subway (Yes, that would be two references to the sandwich shop.  What?  We just moved and until I can find my toothbrush I'm eating out.)  Anyway, I was walking down the street, in a slight hunger daze, when this random woman stopped me and asked, "When are you due?"  I answered, "About three weeks," and then she announced she was due in December.  Okay, great, now let's move on so I can go eat my slightly mediocre sandwich.  However, as I went to say, "Congrats..." and then "Good-bye," this lady proceeded to whip out her phone and said, "You must give me your number."  I must?  Why because we both have a fetus inside us?  And yet, as she hammered on about the trials of being four months pregnant, while looking down at her cell phone, I caved and gave her my number.  And then, as she started to dive into nannies, I said, "Um, do you want to know my name?"  I mean, I thought it was the proper thing to do since, me and this nameless baby freak, were going to be besties and raise our children together come December.  I know, I'm the crazy one.  She then, without really taking a breath, said, "Oh yeah, my name is Kat...I just called your phone so that's me..."  Again, I have not up to this point given her my name.  Finally, as she was walking away, and telling me how walks with women and babies can be really good for your postpartum depression, I said, "It's Kate...my name is Kate."

I think I'm going to love the world of mothers...it doesn't seem crazy at all.

Childhood Memories of Judo

Oh the Olympics.  I love them.  I honestly do.  I love the bizarre sports, the competition, the drama, the back stories - Which, by the way, how come every Olympic hopeful has had some freaking tragedy in their life?  Is there some correlation here?  So, if I take up cocaine and beat my child, is there a better chance she'll win an Olympic medal in fencing?  It's something to consider.

Anyway, this morning, while eating my pancakes (that's my current diet because I need to put on some L.B.s and we don't have a refrigerator anymore) I stumbled upon the Women's Judo Final.  Now, as you all know, because I'm sure the demographic that follows this blog ALSO follows Judo, Amercia's Kayla Harrison was able to win its first gold medal in this event.  This feat, apparently, was quite amazing, but I got to be honest, I'm not really clear on the whole "sport aspect" of Judo.  Basically, from what I could gather, this sport consists of attempting to grab your opponent's shoulder and then, once you grab hold, you fight to bring them to the floor.  Once they are on the floor you jump on top of them and hold them there.  Now I'm not entirely sure what the sitting on them accomplishes because there's no pinning involved like wrestling, but they kept doing it and finally after ten seconds they would be waved off. 

So, there you have it: Judo 101.  But, folks let's be honest.  Is this really a sport?  I mean, isn't this basically what every older brother does to their younger sister?  Honestly, while I was watching the match I kept having flashbacks of my brother entering my room, with a look of fury, grabbing my shoulders and then throwing my to the ground.  And then, just when I thought the torture was over, he would proceed to jump on top of me and then, either dangle a drip of spit over my quivering face or threaten to fart.  (I now sort of wonder if the same thing happened during the Olympic match I watched.  I wonder if Kayla went with the classic coughing noise that let's her opponent know she's conjuring up some good phlegm, or if she whispered, "I had lots of beans last night...you better watch out.) 

At any rate, the jury is still out for me in regards to Judo - is it a sport or just a good ol' brawl between siblings? 

I'm Going To Be A Great Mom

I would like to think that throughout my pregnancy I have tried to be more responsible with my body.  I've been trying to watch what I eat, I've been exercising, resting more and on Friday I can officially announce I've been six weeks sober...wait...I kid.

Now, I'll also admit I've been slightly stupid when it comes to my pregnancy.  (Hence the drug use.)  For example, a few weeks ago the husband and I went up to San Francisco for a long weekend getaway for his birthday.  While we were there we decided to rent bikes and ride from Union Square (downtown San Francisco) across the Golden Gate Bridge, to Saulsalito and then back through Golden Gate Gardens.  Now, I know what you are already thinking...this sounds amazing.  Oh wait, were you thinking a pregnant woman should probably not take on such a ride?  Then you would be right.  About fifteen minutes into our ride we found ourselves cruising along with traffic along Fisherman's Wharf.  As we were about to exit the traffic area, the husband yelled back at me, "Careful of the edges leftover from the old trolley systems!"  Now, for those of you non-bike riders, edges can be really dangerous because your wheel can catch them and then slide.  But, I've been riding for almost ten years, ridden thousands of miles and I've caught some edges so I knew what I was doing.  However, after about two minutes of the husband's warning, I found myself catching an edge, screaming a small profanity and falling off my bike.  Go ahead gasp.

Now, the worst part of the fall wasn't the fact that my hand got cut up, or the fact that my baby - in order to torture me, decided not to move until that night - but what happened when I rolled over and everyone saw me.  Initially, everyone was like, "Oh, poor idiot, who fell off her bike," and then they were like, "She's PREGNANT!  Call Children Protective Services!!"  I have never felt worse in my life.  My child isn't even born yet, and people are calling me an unfit mother.  (I guess it's good training for when I leave my children at stores or forget to match their clothes...I'm kidding, I'll always match their clothes.)

Anyway, the baby is great.  I promise.  I was able to take the fall on my side, I've been to the doctor twice now and she's doing great.  As for me, I haven't been on a bike since, and my social worker says I can be alone with my baby after a year of close observation.  So, not all bad.

A Little Extra Girth

You know you things have changed with pregnancy when:

1. It's more comfortable to walk around the house with your shirt pulled up and your stomach completely exposed.  

AND

     2. When you burn your exposed stomach while dishing up a pancake to your husband.

FOUR MORE WEEKS!
 

One Arm and Rockin'

A few weeks ago, the husband and I, and some choice friends, attended a Def Leppard and Poison concert.  Now, before the mocking begins let me just state that these two bands hold a great deal of memories for me.  For example, in 6th grade I, along with my soul mate of the time, decided that we would take a very important step in our relationship and chose "Something To Believe In" by Poison to be our...wait for it...official song.  I can't express what this declaration meant for us as a couple.  Not only did Bret Michaels give us hope about the future of our relationship, but it allowed us, through the means of dance, to express our budding love/like for each other.  Trust me when I say, there's nothing more powerful than swaying in a tight circle for 5 minutes and 28 seconds to express the strength of your relationship.

As for Def Leppard, not only did this band teach me that you don't need two fully functioning arms to be successful, but "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (which according to Yahoo.com, is a subtle reference to sex) was indeed, the only fitting song for my lacrosse team to warm up to all four years of college.  So, for you haters out there, don't mock because these bands brought it.

Now, outside of reliving my past, the best part of the concert was when I decided, between sets, to use the bathroom.  After climbing down a series of stairs and weaving my way through some truly fantastic white trash outfits, I approached the line to the bathroom.  To my dismay the line was at least forty deep, and I knew if I sneezed or laughed suddenly, there was a very good chance I was going to relieve myself in line.  So, I did what any normal pregnant woman would do - I walked to the middle of the line, tapped on the shoulder of the girl and prepared my most desperate pregnant face.  However, as I started to rub my protruding belly and explain my need to use the bathroom, the girl, who I tapped, turned around and was equally as pregnant as I was.  And just as I was about to try another girl, the girl in front of the pregnant woman turned around and she was pregnant as well. So much for using the pregnant card! 

So, people don't you see...Poison and Def Leppard is not just about big hair and hits in the 80's and 90's, but brings us all together.  Two arms, one arm, pregnant or not...it unifies us all. 

My Drunken Regrets

This picture is not directly related to the post, but I thought it was funny.

So, I'm currently on bed rest...apparently my baby needs to gain some weight...so hopefully this means a little more blogging.  What?  What was that?  A collective sigh of relief and a...what?...a small tremor of excitement?  Yes, I'm officially an unemployed, soon to be mom, so it's on.  Bring on the pictures of my new apartment, my baby, some more of my baby, my baby sleeping, my baby opening its eyes...oh it's on blogging world. 

So, I'm going a little nuts.  Can you tell?  I'm five days into my bed rest and it's going really awesome. 

Anywayyyyy....so, lately I've been having some very interesting run ins with drunks and not the kind that make me miss college.  My first, was on my plane trip home from Cabo.  Picture this, the husband and I enjoying our last few minutes of vacation and dreading the inevitable return to reality, when this gentlemen points to the window seat and says, "I think that's mine."  At first I wasn't troubled by our airplane buddy, but when he sat down, I immediately caught an unbelievable smell of his drunken weekend and most likely his drunken morning, afternoon and current state.  Now, I'm fine with a quiet and passed out drunk, but this guy was just getting started.  As soon as he got settled he started to talk to me...and as we all know, drunken conversations are just the best.  You know lots of loud outbursts, a slight difficulty with focusing, inappropriate comments like, "Can I touch your baby?" and general sharing of too much information, like his girlfriend didn't come to Cabo with him because she's most likely cheating on him.  Finally, we ascended into the air, and after a few moments of reprieve, the forsaken complimentary drinks came around.  Yep, things got worse.  He started with some gin and then moved to vodka and soda.  Once those kicked in, he put his earphones on and proceeded to pound on his pull out tray and dance around.  Mind you this was not a small man and after awhile his moves began to encroach on my space.  Finally, the husband hit him and asked, "Are you on something?"  Again, a rational question to a dancing, drunk man on an airplane probably wasn't the best idea, and only encouraged him to increase his movements.  Finally, we landed and after an awkward good-bye, that really should have consisted of me kicking him the shins, we parted ways. 

Looking back on the situation I'll admit I have some regrets.  One, I wish I had said, "Wait does your girlfriend live in Santa Monica?  Yes, I saw her - she's definitely cheating on you.  100%."  The guy was drunk - why didn't I prey on his inebriation?  Two, I wish I had told the stewardess that the man next to me kept talking about a bomb.  Sure, we would have been forced to land somewhere between Cabo and LA, but come on, I would have loved to see some police officers grab him and start yelling "terrorist!"  (Because in my mind that's what police officers do with potential bomb threats.)  And third, I wish, after he offered to buy me a drink, I had gone off about my ten years in rehab for alcoholism and abuse.  And just when he goes to apologize for offering a recovering addict a drink, I continue with the time I killed someone with my car while I was drunk.  Again, there's nothing more fun than messing with a drunk person. 

Oh the regrets.  When will I ever get this life right?

Not Such A Loving Mother To Be

Does this make me a bad mom to be?

So, for the past couple of mornings, around 5:30, a bird or a crow or Satan himself, I'm not completely sure, flies over to our window and proceeds to make the most annoying squawking sounds over and over again.  These squawks bring blood to my ears because not only do they sound like a small child being stabbed, but they come at an annoying rhythm of every 8 seconds.  (I counted.)  So, this morning, as I lay there in a fit of rage, I began to think of ways to kill this bird.  I thought about a bb gun, but decided my aim was a little too unreliable.  (Though the taste of a direct hit seemed very sweet in my mouth.)  I thought about rocks, but unfortunately, we live in a city where rocks would be hard to come by.  (I've tried to stay pragmatic in my murderous plotting.)  Finally, and this is the thought that slightly worried me, I wondered if this bird had any children.  And if it had children, could I find them?  And if I could find them, could I hold them hostage while this bird gave itself up?  And if it didn't give itself up, would I be willing to make good on my threat and take down his children?

And this is where I'm wondering if my maternal instinct and softness hasn't kicked in yet?  Thoughts?  Or does anyone know of a way to kill a bird?

Destination Weddings Discussed

About three weeks ago I said I was going to revisit our trip to Cabo and make some further comments...well, you are in luck, one, I am a woman of my word and two, I can't think of anything else to blog about because no one did anything stupid today...oh wait...I guess I won't count the woman who told me her burger tasted like a fart.  Yes, a grown woman said this.  What did I say?  "Hmmm...well that doesn't sound good.  Would you like something else less on the fart side?"

So, Cabo.  While we were there we had the opportunity to watch three different couples get married on the "beach."  I say, "beach" because in actuality they got married facing the beach in a cheezy gazebo, that was about ten feet from twenty white trash drunks in the pool.  (The husband and I are not included in the white trash count because, one, we weren't wearing a camouflage hat and, two, we did not exhibit a ridiculous amount of barb wired and dragon tattoos.)

Now, aside from the fact that the wedding ceremony was not only witnessed by their family, but also a bunch of drunk strangers, I found the whole "destination wedding" to be very interesting.  The following are my pros and cons to destination weddings.

Pros:

• You are married in a beautiful location.

• Your pictures are probably really cool looking.

• Because of the location, only your closest family members and friends attend.  

• Depending on where you get married, the law and filing system might be a little shady, and therefore, if you change your mind, the marriage might not be binding. 

And um...wait there's got to be something else.

Alright, I'm sorry I watched three destination weddings of two white trash couples and one Asian crew.  There's just too many cons here:

Cons:

• After the wedding, after the night of the wedding and everyday you decide to stay at your destination, your family is right there.  Forget the honeymoon - you are ON A FREAKING FAMILY VACATION.  Case and point: poor James Wu.  I'm not even sure this guy was able to consummate his marriage before his mother-in-law was dragging him on a family day trip to see the sea otters in Cabo. 

• Your friends are in Cabo at an all-exclusive resort.  You wanna know why they keep giggling during the ceremony?  Because they are drunk.  For one of the weddings we saw, the bride and groom had purchased mugs for everyone in the wedding party.  Now, let me clarify these weren't "mugs for hot chocolate" but gallon containers for whole bottles of Jack Daniels.  

• Getting married in a foreign country is cool.  Don't get me wrong, but the man officiating the wedding was not exactly proficient in English.  Call me crazy, but when I got married I liked saying, "I do," and not "What?

Not Such Good Advice

For the past seven months I have had to endure countless hours of unsolicited advice from new and old parents.  I've been told when to introduce a bottle, how to put them to sleep, what are the best strollers and how to recover the fastest.  Again, I want to stress that I have never, ever, not once, asked, "So, I see you have a two year old - by any chance do you have advice you would be willing to part with?" 

So, today I was waiting on a nice couple, who after serving their food to, asked when I was due.  I used to love this question because it constituted about a 3% increase in my tip, but now I dread it because inevitably it turns into, "When are you going to stop answering my question so I can give you stupid advice?"  So, after quickly getting out "seven months" the proud parents, of a four month old, began giving me their sage advice.  After hearing the merits of a wet nurse during the first three months (yeah, a wet nurse...because I'm secretly the Queen of England) I asked, "So, are you both just sneaking out for a breakfast while the babysitter has your baby?"  And they replied, "NO, OUR BABY IS IN THE CAR."  Yes, you read that right...the car. I immediately thought they were kidding and said, "Well, I hope you at least cracked the window."  To which they responded, "No, she's fine.  She's just sleeping in the car.  That's all they do is sleep." 

Wet nurse huh?  What are you thoughts on baby cruelty and neglect?

Are You Married?

Yesterday at the restaurant I was asked if I was married.  (For those of you, who don't frequent this highly infrequently written blog, I'm pregnant...let's continue.)  For a second I debated on answering something like, "Well, I wish this little bun in the oven meant I was married, but actually it represents a long string of one night stands that really amounts to more questions than answers."  Or "Married?  I wish.  But the judge says it wouldn't be a good idea since there's a good chance he won't make parole."

Unfortunately for me, and very fortunate for this idiot, I was really busy so I just responded with, "Yep," and while rubbing my stomach, "and sort of spoken for."  And then it got weirder.  As I was walking away, the guy looked down at my stomach and said, with these ridiculous flirtatious eyes, "I could take care of that."  Take care of that!?  That's the line you are going with?  That's the line that is going to make me leave my husband and raise this baby with you?  How about just a simple, "Congratulations" and you leave with your fanny pack still tied around your waste and not shoved down your throat?

Oh, and just if you were wondering how much he was going to "take care of that" - he left me a two dollar tip on a 45 dollar meal.  Buddy, you can't go around making false promises.

My First Baby

I'll return to tales of Mexico...until then please indulge me in a little sad moment.

Within a day I posted an ad selling my road bike, had one guy come over and within in ten minutes I was giving my baby away.  I got to admit, I was sort of emotional letting my bike go.  In 2003, I entered a bike store in Salt Lake, announced I wanted to buy a bike, test rode my newly departed bike, crashed it (Yeah, you read that right.  I actually crashed my bike while I was test riding it and came back into the bike store covered in dirt and blood.  As I was cleaning up in the back, and attempting to muster enough courage to face the bike store workers, I decided to face my beast and buy the bike.)  Through 8 years of riding I've seen almost every canyon in Salt Lake, I've ridden through a torrential downpour in Idaho, I've had water balloons thrown at me in LA and I've worked out more problems and come to more moments of clarity than I can count while pumping along on that saddle.  I don't know if it's because I'm approaching motherhood, but if this is what it's like to see your child go off to school for the first time I don't think I'll be able to handle it. 

So long little black beauty, it's been a hell of a ride.

Pregnancy According to Cabo

Last week the husband and I traveled to Cabo San Lucas.  The following entries will be some of my thoughts on the trip.  (By the way, Cabo: very cool.)

While we were in Cabo I found the Mexican peoples' reactions to my pregnancy rather strange.  For example, the other day we were walking on the beach and a peddler of fine, and obviously very authentic, Mexican jewelry approached us and said, "You want to buy jewelry?"  To which we politely responded, "No, gracias."  (Thank you Unionville and your high level Spanish training.)  He then said, "You want to buy some clothes," to which we again said, "No, gracias mi amigo."  (I know it will be hard to believe, but I did not, let me repeat, did not serve a mission in a Spanish speaking country.)  Then without warning, and I would like to add he did look down and see my bulging stomach, "You want weed?"  I got to say, I absolutely loved the jump from simple trinkets to entreating us with mary jane.  It truly was an ingenious retail move: Know your client...know their wants...get them the goods.

As great as the marijuana proposal was, I equally admired the Mexicans' desire for me to drink while pregnant.  Outside of being asked what cocktail I would like at every meal and every time I found myself at the pool, I was also informed by a professional Cabo San Lucasian (I made that up) skipper that his wife used to drink all the time during her pregnancy and found tequila to be the best relaxer for all those stressful pregnancies moments.  Huh?  Tequila during pregnancy?  Genius again.

So there you have it all you stuffy and uptight mothers to be.  If you want a truly successful pregnancy, according to the good people of Cabo, grab some tequila, roll a little doobie and call it a day.

Momma Jeans

Yes, I'm trying not to write solely about being pregnant, but there's just so many random topics floating in my head right now.

Current random thought: Maternity Pants are the coolest things in the entire world.

If you don't think so, one, I will fight you physically to convince you, and two, I ask that you spend one day in them because I know it will only take one day to convince you.  Why are they so amazing?  I feel like it's pointless to list their merits, but because my cyber-self asked the question I will tell you.

1. Have you ever seen pull-ups for kids?  You know the diapers kids can just pull down and pull up after they are done with their business?  Well, take that concept to maternity pants.  Picture going to the bathroom, or if that image makes you feel strange, picture trying on clothes.  Remember all the annoying zipping and buttoning?  Well, now with maternity pants you just pull them down and then back up.  You are literally getting extra time of life with these bad boys.

2. I don't know about you, but I've always wanted to live in a world where it was okay to unzip my pants after eating.  However, being a "lady" never really allowed for such actions, but now, I don't need to do any unzipping.  These maternity pants have the elastic just below my breasts (yeah, I said breasts) and I love it.  Not the word "breasts", but the looseness around my stomach area.  I have never enjoyed meals as much. Honestly, I'm not sure if I'm ever going to be able to go back to normal pants...definitely not for Thanksgiving.

3. Maternity pants just give you the ultimate confidence to bend over and pick something up.  I'm no longer worried that people behind me are going to catch a sweet view of my crack or minimal lower back hair.  Nope, not anymore.  Now, I'm like, "Did you drop this?" or "Please, let me bend down and see those shoes for myself" because all people are seeing is one continuous jean up my back.

4. If you ever are in a hip hop mood then Maternity Pants are AGAIN amazing.  Why?  Alright, take that extra long top, pull it down to your actual waste and you know what you got?  About a foot of extra pant just hanging down.  This style makes even MC Hammer a little jealous.  Sometimes I'll do this around the house, pretend I'm rapping and grabbing my crotch, which is actually about a foot away from my actual crotch.  It makes me feel so gansta.

Yes, four reasons is all you get...because friends, men and women, these pants are life changing.  Allow them into your lives and you will be forever grateful.