Wednesday, February 23, 2005


Let's review a few things, shall we:

I am over 30 years old. (31, to be exact.)

I have been gainfully employed in a full-time capacity for the better part of 10 years.

I have been married for more than five years.

I own a home.

Inside said home, I have a fire safe. (About which, incidentally, I have a pretty funny story that I will summarize briefly: We accidentally locked our passports inside the safe 24 hours before leaving for Puerto Rico. Panic ensued. A locksmith was called. Passports were recovered. A sum totaling more than $100 was paid to the locksmith. All this, and we discovered that we didn't actually NEED the passports to go to Puerto Rico in the first place. Oh well.)

I now very rarely eat Top Ramen.

And today, I officially selected a pediatrician for my as-yet-unborn son.

Yep, all evidence points to the scary fact that I am technically and in all other ways an ADULT.

Which is weird, because I feel pretty much the same as I did when I was in college.

The responsibility is a bit staggering to contemplate. So I suppose I won't contemplate it any more tonight. I think I'll wrap this up and go downstairs for some Ovaltine.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

pregnancy hazard #290

Almost biting my tongue every time someone I don't know feels free to call me "mama" or "mommy."

Eeeewwww!!!!! Can I just tell you how much I hate that?

It's happening almost daily now. From the guy at work (whose name I don't even know) who says "Hey mama" every time he sees me to the lady at the nail salon who says "Just a few more minutes, mommy" to Lord knows who all else.

I'd just like to state for the record that I am fully accepting of my impending motherhood. However, that being said, last I checked I was neither his mama nor her mommy. (Thank God, because of course my perfect child will know better.) It's the weirdest phenomenon. It's as if appearing pregnant makes you public property. People think it's totally acceptable to grab your belly, ask how much weight you've gained (no, really, I am not kidding about this one) and offer advice as if you either wanted it or asked for it.

I'm still waiting for the sudden epiphany that will bring me the perfect comeback. Until it arrives, I will continue to employ the fake half-smile that masquerades as maternal peacefulness, but in reality is merely forced restraint with a chaser of painful tongue-biting.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

a blogging rite of passage

At this point in my blogging career, I felt it appropriate to compile the obligatory list of random facts and personal insights to share with you, my 1-2 faithful readers. Enjoy.

I fell in love with (twice), and married my high school sweetheart. Sickening, isn't it.

I am obsessed with Ovaltine, chocolate malt flavor.

I love black, but hate navy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I stand against all that navy represents. It's so classic, so Talbots, so inextricably linked with sensible flat shoes and blazers with gold buttons.

My hatred of clutter borders on the compulsive. (I believe I inherited this trait from my mother, although oddly it was latent until just a couple of years ago.)

I am probably one of the least germaphobic people you'll ever meet. God gave us immune systems for a reason, people. (side note: it's bothering me that I don't know how to spell "germaphobic.")

On a related topic, I've always prided myself on my excellent spelling.

I tend to overuse parentheses. (But you already knew that.)

I will go to extreme lengths to avoid vomiting.

I have an overactive conscience.

I am an equal opportunity reader. I will happily go from reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich to A is for Alibi to the nutritional facts on the back of my cereal boxes, and love every word.

I really enjoy a good casserole.

One of my shallower life goals is to identify and capture the perfect pink lip gloss - the Yeti of the cosmetics world. At this point, the closest I have found would have to be a combination of Almay Raisin Glow and Clinique New Rain, but I will not give up until I find this elusive creature in a single tube.

I always pay my bills on time.

For some reason I've never really mastered the proper use of chopsticks.

On that note, I'm also not very good at shuffling cards.

Oh well. I'm sure I could think of some others, but frankly you probably have more important things to do right now. And so do I, since it's dinnertime and I am planning to hunt through my fridge for some leftover casserole.

pregnancy hazard #289

multiple accidental razor cuts in shower. large belly contributes to poor leg visibility, awkward shaving angles and general lack of coordination. recommend stocking up on large supply of small band-aids.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

ten more weeks

It's hitting me now. Ten more weeks until D-Day. Or maybe I should say E-Day, since we've all but decided to name the baby Evan.

Only ten more weeks.

Which means, only ten more free weekends.

Ten more weekends to lay around and be our lazy procrastinating selves. When he arrives, I'm afraid we'll have to act like the responsible adults in our thirties that it's been easy to pretend we really aren't. We like to think of ourselves as carefree, not tied down, spur-of-the-moment, et cetera... although all evidence speaks to the contrary. Case(s) in point: we spent New Year's Eve watching the first season of 24 on DVD, and Valentine's Day watching the episodes of Americal Idol that we Tivo'd while on vacation last week. Actually, given these facts, it's conceivable to think that the baby will fit into our actual lifestyle much better than the lifestyle I sometimes like to think we lead.

Ten more weeks for me to double up on pancakes and cheeseburgers, all in the name of eating for two.

Ten more weeks to load up on all the sleep, dinners out, movies and other things that people are constantly telling us that we will never get to do again.

Ten more weeks to accumulate all the gear you supposedly "need" for a baby. (On that note, the Great Wipe Warmer Debate of 2005 rages on.)

Ten more weeks to wonder what he looks like.

Ten more weeks where we have only ourselves to feed, clothe, worry about and pick up after.

Am I ready for this?