Dear Baby,
The little fluttering kicking thing. It was cute for the first two weeks, and now it just plain hurts. Please chill out.
Love, Mama.

Dear Feet,
Please stop swelling. K? Thanks.
Love, The other body parts that need to get out of here once in a while.

Dear Dog,
It’s too darn hot to walk you. Please acquiesce. Or go talk to Number 1, and ask him to walk you.
Love, The hand that feeds you.

Dear Los Angeles,
It’s too hot. Stop it. Also, Google says that there are no smoothie shops in town, please fix that. Buying fruit and using a blender is too much work.
Love, The Suburbanite.

Dear Self,
Suck it up and stop whining. Turn off Tivo and do something with your weekend.
Love, Me.

This weekend we went shopping for Maternity Clothes: Round Two. The hair-band-attached-to-the-button-hole is no longer working for me. We picked up a pair of jeans, which fit great in the store, but they don’t. stay. up. when I walk around. These jeans are supposed to be the feature item of this store, so I don’t know what gives. Do all expecting women walk around with their pants falling down? How do I resolve this? It doesn’t help that the first time I wore them, I dropped bleach on the floor and splattered it on my pant leg. Grrr.

I needed a dress for a wedding in July. I bought a plain black “good enough” Target maternity dress for $5 at a consignment shop. It fits, and it works, but not for a summer wedding at 11:00 a.m. I found another dress for $40, and figured that will do.

Last night, the baby finally kicked hard enough for Ian to be able to feel it with his hand on my belly. The baby has taken to kicking me in the same spot at the same time every night.

We’re getting the office cleaned up to make room for baby. There’s finally enough room in here for the dog to “roll over” on command. It’s been so long since there was room for her to roll over, that she’s forgotten how to do it. The dog is a natural-born Diaper Change Alert System, does anyone have any tips for training the dog to change the diaper?

Also, Clickmom’s mother passed away yesterday, go send her some love: I bet she’d appreciate that.

Excuse me while I pull out the “I’m Pregnant” card and dance around on a street corner like a raving lunatic.

I’ve made three trips to hell Ikea this month.

Every time I go to Ikea, there’s no way to make it less than a two hour trip. There’s no way to walk in, walk to what I want, and walk to the cash register. In addition to the mouse-looking-for-cheese store layout, Ikea has a customer service ratio problem. Without fail, every time I go, I get ignored by 5 associates who won’t make eye contact with me, and then there is ONE associate who will act as if I have a right to shop in the store.

Today, I had to drive (my pregnant self) back to Ikea for an exchange, then I had to carry a sixty pound box from a parking structure, across a street, up a ramp, through the “summer items tent,” and into a door (my pregnant self).

At the door of Ikea in L.A., I was greeted by Ikea’s token Swedish guy named Nils. Nils was a doll. He told me where to put my box down, ran and got a cart (for my pregnant self), and walked me to the hallway which would lead to the returns.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t pack Nils with me in the shopping cart for the rest of my trip around Ikea. And, Ikea has their 5/1 unhelpful-to-helpful ratio to maintain.

I waited 15 minutes to make the return, while staring at a sign that says “we pride ourselves on doing 9 minute returns” or somesuch. At the returns counter, the returns guy mumbles inaudibly at me and then takes the cart that Nils gave me, so I went on a pilgrimage to find another cart. It would be too logical to place shopping carts at the entrance, I have to walk (my pregant self) through half of the store to get a cart in the middle(?) of the store, near the soft goods. I also have to walk by 2 associates who refuse to stop walking and make eye contact, to find a third who will tell me that (duh!) I have to take the elevator to the other floor to get a cart.

Onward, to replace a bookshelf that we thought could hang on the wall, but only came with the hardware to bolt it against the wall while on the floor. Half-way through the-mouse-looking-for-cheese-maze Ikea, I find the shelving units. I look up, and there is the exact shelving system that I just returned (my pregant self), and it is hanging on the wall.

Somebody shoot me now.

I turn around to get help, and spot the guy who sold me the set I just returned. This is my second encounter with the office furniture guy this week, and now he tells me, “Oh, you need a $10 mounting rack to go with it.” So I get the part number and walk through the cheese maze to get to the “self serve” pick-up items.

In self-serve, I find the box and the mounting rack that I need, but I can’t lift the sucker UP into my cart. I followed FOUR Ikea associates around, and ALL of them, saw (my pregnant self) me, avoided eye contact, and started walking faster in the direction that they were going. So I decided to stalk someone that was helping an associate with a fairly large order. I can wait my turn.

I can wait my turn, when I haven’t just lugged a sixty pound box to returns (my pregnant self). I can wait my turn when I haven’t just spent two hours on my (pregnant) feet, looking for the cheese in this maze. So the guy I’m stalking, he is working on a very big order, but he can’t bother to look at me and say “I’ll be with you in just a minute.” He completely ignored me for FIFTEEN MINUTES. By this time I was alternating between following him around and sitting (my pregnant self) on the concrete floor.

He finally looks up at me, “Did you have a question?” No, I need you to lift a box (for my pregnant self).

So I finally get my box. The cashier avoided eye contact, and mumbled even more inaudibly than the returns guy.

The bistro lady, had stopped making yogurt for the night (at 6:30? they’re open til 9!). Big.Pregnant.Indignant.SNIFF! But I survived all the way to the exit of hell Ikea!!!!!!

On to go fetch my car and bring it to the loading dock. I parked my cart at the loading dock and took my recipt from the attendant. Wow, he acknowledged that I came near him! Wow! He made eye contact! WOW! He spoke audibly (with a spanish accent, and a very severe speech impediment)! I wanted to kiss him. The one employee in the whole store with a legitimate speech barrier, and HE’S ONE OF THE ONLY TWO making an effort to communicate with customers. What gets me is that the loading dock guy is probably getting paid half of what everyone else in Ikea is getting paid.

This trip: two out of ten employees made me not want to gouge out their eyes. At least Ikea’s customer service ratio is consistent.

Dear Baby,
You won’t even breathe air for another twenty-or-so weeks, and I already owe you an apology. I’ve been so afraid to hope too much. I’ve been so afraid to jinx your existence, that we didn’t tell anyone about you until just recently. You are my pride and joy, you are my hopes and dreams. You are wanted, and your father and I wish you would hurry up and get here already.

Oh my gosh! I’m pregnant!

My coworkers threw you an awesome baby shower this week. You have a beautiful set of handmade blankets, and a whole bag of board books. They even bought you a stroller! You are going to be one stylin’ baby in all of your yellow Onesies and sleepers.
The Dog is getting jealous of your stuffed bear collection. We’ll have to go buy her some more nylabones.

I keep wishing that I feel you kick me. Sometimes I convince my self that yes, that was a kick, but then I second guess my gas. At midnight last night, I cursed you for being a night owl like your father. I was just sure that you kicked me, right after your father started snoring.

Now, Little One, you and I need to have a talk. I can understand giving me heartburn for eating a plate of enchiladas with chips and salsa; but what are you doing giving me heartburn from eating a bowl of Raisin Bran? Can we be reasonable now? I’ll lay off the salsa, and be extra diligent about my folic acid pill, if you can let mommy drink a glass of milk in the morning, DEAL? HMMMMM?

Now, come on, you and I need to go walk The Dog.

Dear Cameraphone,

You suck.

I’m not one who needs a fancy cell phone. But alas, there was no Old-Folks Cell Phone when I needed a new one. I don’t need anything but a dial pad and a send button. I was irked because I couldn’t find a cell phone without expensive extras like a color display, 32 bit ringones and an operating system of some sort. I agreed to purchase this nonsense because there was no cheaper alternative in the store.

But still, you tempted me.You tempt me with fancy advertisements and neat little toys. Bluetooth? What is this seductive hold you had on me? The possibilities seemed endless. Psychadelic Penguins? No Problem!

No more. Our love afair is over.

While it is handy to have a cameraphone for spontaneous outings, you are not a spontaneous phonecamera. Half the time, when I go to take a photo, it takes me 3 minutes to get you into the mode (or mood) to take a picture. It is nice to have pictures at the Weird Al concert, like this one.

It’s nice to grab a shot on vacation. This makes a lovely picture on my cellphone wallpaper, but it doesn’t go much farther than that.

So I take you along with me on outings, stuff you into my purse for a special day with a friend. Wait? Which friend was this? I can hardly tell?

I realize that you are a phone first, and a camera second, but if this is the best that you can do, then you are on your way out the door.
How shall I mark this special day? Shall I fill in the gaps in my memory with a sharpie? Is that what you would have me do?

This is not acceptable! This clown! This is not the face of my friend!

It takes me 47.2 steps to get Bluetooth to send these photos to my desktop, and then THIS is what you have to offer?

You and me, cameraphone, we are finished.

Oh My Gawd!

Apparantly, its not possible to post in the blogophere this week unless you pick a side on the Momtini debate!

I hate to sound lame here, but can’t we all just get along!? Apparantly not. Ladies, I love you all. I met fabulous people in in San Jose this summer. Fabulous, cool, nice, friendly, ladies. Yahootinis, Momtinis, and that nasty “women’s mineral water” aside; you are my friends. It is killing me to watch you ripping into eachother.

I expect to see heated controversy over an issue like this. Its not that I expect harmonious agreement among Lefties, Righties, Greenies, Attachment Parents, Detachment Parents, Prohibitionists, and the I-Would-Never-Give-My-Child-Artificial-Sweeteners crowds. What I did not expect in my RSS feeds today was to see my peeps attacking eachother! On a personal level! I was horrified to see that the names signed at the end of nasty, below-the-belt comments and tirades were those of my bloggilicous friends.

Is this what it’s like to be friends with women? The first time I saw Beth and Angela do this to eachother in the first grade, I wanted to scream at them and knock their two coconuts together. “Look what you are doing to eachother!” I’m a coward. I announced that I would not play with them for the rest of the day, and stomped home. It didn’t solve anything.

The worst part of riding on the Intercollegiate Horse Show Team was keeping track of which alpha female hated which friend because they were taught to wrap a leg differently when they were seven years old! It was too much to take. I just wanted to ride my horse and go home. Forget friendships.

I’ll admit that when I told DH about the Today Show interview, we did argue over it. We have not settled the arguement, and we do not agree, but that’s no reason to attack eachother over it!

I like ::points finger:: *you,* and *you,* and *you* and *you,* I see wonderful, fabulous and different people. It doesn’t occur to me that *she* doesn’t like *her,” because *they* told *she* that *her* said blah, blah, blah, blah blah. 

It makes me sad. I feel defeated. This is why I was a tomboy as a kid, a loner in college, and I don’t keep up with the girls I hung out with in high school. Why try to be friends with women? If they don’t turn on you, they’ll turn on eachother and tap their feet waiting for you to pick a side. Damned if you do…

I guess I’m horrified to see that friendships are the same online as they are in person. Shame on me, I guess.

I’d really love to take a couple of you and knock your coconuts together! Coconut Momtinis, anyone?

 

Woah.

 

Ugggh.

The thing about hobbies is: to get really involved in one, you end up not spending time on the others.  I would really love to find time every day to write, blog, cook, make jewlery, go horseback riding, jog, and finish my wedding album. And lose weight.

Weight? Wait! That is not a hobby!

Recently, I signed up for the weight loss program endorsed by Fergie, online. I don’t have time to go to meetings, and I figured it’d be easier to find information about nutritional data on the site.

Now, I get up every morning and record in my food journal. Then I look at the clock and it’s time for work. No blogging, no bible time, no jogging, just logging my food journal.

I am now officially the lamest person on earth!

This makes me a really great candidate for lively and engaging conversation. Hi, I’m Dink(y), my hobbies are: reading closet organization magazines, walking around The Container Store, and counting POINTS. Uggh! I’m bored with listening to me, I’d rather just keep my mouth shut!

Anyone want to teach me to make small talk? I’ll pay you!  I  don’t know what I want to talk about, let alone what I’m supposed to talk about at social gatherings. I’ll pay extra for the CliffsNotes version: I’m already struggling to hold together 1.5 jobs, a clean household, a healthy diet, finances, and a sense of who I am.

Come back and see the site redesign. Real soon now!

Twelve stops for stretching
Eleven-day rental car
Ten bathroom breaks
Nine people’s gifts
Eight kinds of tea
Seven stops for coffee
Six in-flight crackers
Five-hour flight
Four-hour drive
Three-story duplex
Two precious babies
And three whole pounds of Bulk Barn candy.

Any post that begins with: “I should like write a post once in a while,” is probably not going to win me any new RSS feeds.

I’m not getting a cold. I’m not. I’m not! I’M NOT!

I’ve been drinking Throat Coat and AirBorne by the quart, sucking on the Cold Eze that a student gave me, blowing my nose like crazy, washing my hands like a maniac.
That said, has anyone got any “miraculous chicken broth” recipes?  Maybe I’ll get a comment from the free-range chicken broth people. Seriously, what is it about chicken soup? Should I go un-lazy myself and make some from scratch?