The Rundown

Dear Internet, please forgive my slacker ways and my unwillingness to blog. But remember, that I am pregnant and hormonal and sometimes prone to long staring spells. So, in a nutshell:

Yesterday I pretty much passed out on the way to work. Everything is fine, and the baby is great. But it seems that I need to eat more. I was prescribed to eat more, people. This is pretty much the best diagnosis I ever received. Bring on the feast.

This will probably label me as weird, but come on, I have been wearing that sash and crown for about 35 years now haven’t I? Last Thursday night, I was chatting with John and the subject of me being in a coma came up, wherein I said “You know, if it is like two years, you should probably divorce me and get a new wife.” So the next morning, John says “So, I had this dream.” So basically he says that he and I are in this hospital room, and I am dying. And we are crying and I say to him, “John, you should totally find someone else when I die.” Whereupon he says, “Sweetie, I’d like you to meet someone.” Hah! Now, I might be a tad off. But is that not the best thing ever? He made me laugh on my deathbed. How can I love this man more?

Also, not sure if I ever told this story, but I am the same girl who during her final push of Owen out of her vagina - instead of holding in my breath, breathe it out. So basically it sounded like a big raspberry, and you know what I did at that moment - the moment wherein there was a baby head lodged in my private eden? I full out started to laugh. Needless to say when my doctor and the nurse started to scream - PUSH!!! PUSH!! PUSH!! I shut down the comedy hour and continued the delivery. But really, I laughed during the labor nitty gritty. Me thinks this speaks volumes.

So anyway, yeah, I have a license to get freaking huge, and I love my husband even more for a joke on my deathbed. So to my parents, thank you for dropping me on my head repeatedly as an infant. It can be the only explanation.
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What a Sweet Beer Gut.

Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen

My review

rating: 1 of 5 stars
This is what happens when you wander into a subpar bookstore looking for anything to read because you just finished a book and the prospect of being on MUNI bookless is something that you would rather not attempt, because people smell and are sweaty and you need something to take your attention from that. So I got this book, Black and Blue, which was an Oprah Book Club nominee in 1999. Oprah, obviously your tastes are grown, because five pages in I was like - Holy Cow, I am reading a Lifetime movie. This is the story of a nurse wife who flees with her child from her abusive cop husband. Again, LIFETIME!!! I don’t know why I even bothered to finish it, but I blame the fact that sometimes you are pulled into chickdom with a current so strong that any attempt to fight it would result in drowning. So with the flow I went, and jeez, this book is such bad fluff. I don’t recommend it to anyone, and I advise all to enter a bookstore with a plan, or you will find yourself reading 1999 Oprah nominee Lifetime Movie Channel crap.


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Bah Humbug

Oh December, you have come once again bringing with you Owen’s second birthday (what!) and Christmas (I am Catholic). However you also bring with you the most painful of all experience, and that is present shopping. Not to sound like a Scrooge or anything, because I really am not, but I hate holiday shopping. Buying gifts for people is to me pure torture. Also, opening gifts is kind of torture too, unless it is called Patron, Grey Goose or Maker’s Mark. But I am pregnant, so no White Russians will be able to rescue me this year, as I once again forage through the catacombs of the internet for gifts. Every time I got into Peet’s Coffee, I want to get gift cards, but not to actually put money in them, just to take them and perhaps give them to people who would use them, and then be all flustered when they were empty, and I would laugh to myself, because don’t you think that is funny? I do. I am not sure why it is I hate to receive or give presents, I think it may have to do with the fact that I hate to be told what to do, and buying presents for the sake of buying them seems really stupid. I mean, shouldn’t there be a 1,000 word essay on why I should buy you a gift? And vice versa? And holy cow if I have no clue what I would actually want anyway. When I want something, I do this thing that may sound a tad extreme - I pay for it myself. I know, right! Anyway, to you December, I will try not to look at the gift giving as a necessary chore, but something I should relish and be gleeful over and enjoy. Right after I make that appointment with a lobotomist. However, at least one good thing comes from all of this. Yep, TWENTY FOUR HOURS OF THE AWESOMENESS THAT IS A CHRISTMAS STORY. Ralphie!