national holiday, or national rub it in day. TBD.

So I get online today and check out the daily wacky holiday, as I do out of odd curiosity at times.  Turns out, such bull shit [ahem] coincidence says today, September 29th, is National Attend Your Grandchild's Birth Day, National Coffee Day, and National Women's Health and Fitness Day.

 

i do not lie.

 

see here: http://www.brownielocks.com/september.html

 

while I'm sure this website has the same validity as wikipedia, it's rather interesting that here I am, all sorts of knocked up, and the three holidays listed seem to most certainly pertain to my current situation.

 

First of all.. I'm not mean, I'm grossed out.  There is NO ONE, other than my dear unconditionally loving husband, that needs to see, almost see, imagine, or be present for the stretching of anonymous body parts to the size of....gasp....a BAGEL. WHAT?!?!? Yes... exactly.  When i thought hmm, dilating, centimeters, psh.....yea yea well, take me back to 2nd grade, but i TOTALLY was imaging the tiny little dashes on the ruler. Turns out those are millimeters, and a centimeter equates to about 2.5 per inch. That means 10 centimeters.... yeah, do the math. BAGEL.  Not the little hole in the middle of the bagel, the whole damn thing.  Sure, how would you fit a watermelon through the inside of the bagel hole.. I get it.  If that were the case, we'd all be hoping for half the leg of a little person to come out, as that's about all that can fit.  But that brings me back to the 1st holiday.. National Attend Your Grandchild's Birth Day: I will not be allowing observation of this holiday in my family.  It's not a movie.  There's no popcorn. Sorry grammas, you're awesome, and once things are cleaned up and shrunk down, you can join us and the screaming alien that I'm sure I'll let you hold without using Purell, but no site seeing on this b-day,

i can tell you that.

 

Next.. National Coffee Day.  Did they plan these together? As to say.. ha-ha, think about your soon-to-be stretching girly parts...[not to mention those nipples I've been hearing make an appearance at some point, don't get me started]...but MUAH-HA-HA, you get NO coffee.  No special kick to get you through the thoughts.  No... "extra whip, extra shot, skinny please"...  Unless you get decaf and hold the extra shot, but lets be honest...when growing limbs, lungs, and hopefully a penis (not my penis, i mean the babe), how productive is a caffeine-less cup of joe? Not very to this girl.  Especially when thinking about holiday number three....

 

National Women's Health and Fitness Day.  REALLY?  Oh, I'm sorry... while sulking in my labor thoughts, lacking my aforementioned latte, you want me to get my fitness on?  Well, this body is bringing milkshakes to the yard... not dumbbells.  While my pre=pregnant self would love to take part in your special day, I'm afraid I won't be able to make it to the main event.  Don't get it twisted...I'll exercise in my own right because I obviously don't want to be a fat plump pregnant chick, rather sporting a cute basketball on top of my normal frame, but between the extra blood-flow slowing down my oxygen supply, to the miraculously timed hunger pains that strike at any inconvenient moment, I think I'll just sit this one out.  Maybe hang on my couch, slightly uncomfortable because of the odd pressure on my tailbone, and even thought my doctor told me to stay off of google, research things like:

• linea nigra
• will my belly button hurt popped out backwards?
• funny maternity shirts to ward off random hands that find their way to your growing beer-less gut
• is it ok to swim with dolphins?
• is this hair growth normal?
• what fruit is my baby this week?
• how does a breast pump, pump?
• how to convince your doctor for an extra ultra sound
• how to spot a penis in an anatomy scan
• how to avoid a grumpy grande #2 during delivery
• how to convince your DH he's actually the crazy one
• and actually.. what does DH, BFP, and LO mean?

 

Take that you dumb holidays. I veto all of you, and because it turns out I'm growing another sassy human and there's power in numbers, you can't do anything about it. 

 

love always,

me and the bean

never say never, justin bieber

so it begins.  my adventure in blogging.  i've been working on this for a short time now.  short time as in months, but only got the precious owl and enticing title at the top before other life activities degraded this task and the blogging got shoved far away. shoved like that time in 8th grade when that red-head chick i called a guy beat me up.  she shoved me into the metal lockers that were at least 5 times my own size, as was her man-hand.  i'm sure those of you that knew me then can remember this.  angela was her name. in my defense, she really did look like a boy.  

so here i am, and when i swore i'd never be a blogger, but...

as justin beeber says, never say never.

tape 1:

i shouldn't be surprised that someone would want to rip my probably purple backpack to the ground when i was in my sassiest stage.  i don't have a record of being the sharpest whip in the crayon bucket.  why wouldn't i call the brut of our grade a boy after she failed the test that was so easy and she called me a brat?  pure pint of genius..  but really, my report cards and i swear on all things candy,  im smart!  i just have moments of blurry.  which leads me to kaseyisms.  this is a real word.  if you look it up in the dictionary, you probably won't find it, who am i kidding.  but, around these parts (like my house and stuff) someone says that's a kaseyism and no questions asked. 

so, i'm not from the 50's. i'm not even from the 70's.  i'll claim the 80's if for no other reason but the totally awesome side pony i rocked everyday of those five fantastic years that i barely remember.  my first concert was paula abdul, i owned plastic roller-skates, i still watch the golden girls, my go-to move was the running man, i wore tie-dye shirts looped through a plastic thing (?!) on the side of my "hip", and my dad wore shorts shorter and tighter than most women would care to see Justin Timberlake in running down the beach while you lounge with your umbrella drink and floppy hat.  but that's beside the point.  the point is, how the heck do i know what the 50's are like?  apparently my adoring husband, nate, the boat fixer hillbillies, and my favorite sister-in-law, sara, all studied this decade endlessly. 

i watched nate as he went over to the metal water feature to wash his hands of the boat grease.  lift handle, scrub fingers, rinse, wipe hands on pants because-what-good-is-paper-towel-when-you’re-a-boy, done.  so when it’s my turn, of course i do the same, or what i think is the same.  i waltz over (i usually don't "walk".. i like to take my time. nate calls it pokey... i call it graceful), get the soap and start the scrubbing, walk over to the metal faucet, which looks a little like this...only it had a hose attached to the end…   

so i start pumping the handle. figure about 10 pumps will give me enough water to rinse my hands off for sure. walk over to the hose, pick it up, and hmm.  no water, no drip, i got nothin.  oook, stupid big metal handle, i'll give you 20.  so I prance back to the clanky vintage device, start pumping, causing a ruckus, and as i'm pumping away…..are those chuckles.  why you ask?  i'm with you- i have no idea!  i look to the source and there stand eight wide eyes, four even wider mouths, pouring laughter. Oh NO. at this whipper snapper?  nate marches over to trump my knowledge and briefs me on holding the pump in the upward position.  apparently, the modernized version requires no manual stimulation and i'm left to swallow my blurry moment with 4 cackling Einstein’s of the 50's rolling in their tear dust.   

fine.  ha-ha-ha. i'm looney, they win.

 but the treble with that is... i've added yet another kaseyism to my ever-growing list.