Wanna see more Bellycasts? Try these:
UPDATE: For those of you who are having trouble viewing Bellycast #4, I am not sure what the problem is. I’m not techy savy enough to figure these kinds of problems out!! But I am posting still pictures of the nursery tonight, so you’ll be able to see everything that was shown in the Bellycast. Sorry for the technical difficulty!
Last night Chris and I were laying on the couch watching March Madness. (For the record, I am number 1 in our pool right now, thankyouverymuch… Chris is number 8, but whose counting?) Its getting harder and harder to cuddle up together. Actually, its been darn near impossible in the last few weeks. My belly takes up most of the room on the couch, leaving Chris to either curl up in a ball at the far end or fend for himself on the tiny loveseat. Not exactly the cuddling experience people crave.
So, last night Chris was sitting on the far end of the couch and I started nagging in him to come sit with me. I needed a good cuddle, and he was just the husband to do it. It was tricky. Very tricky. He had to navigate through over-stuffed pillows, two dogs, my ice pack on my ankles, my heating pad for my back. It wasn’t easy for him. The closest he could squeeze was about my hip, which was not great, but it would do.
He lays down and we’re sort of nestled together, watching basketball. All of a sudden, he grabs one of the throw pillows and wedges it between my…um…rear and him.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Well…you’ve been a little…well…you never know when you might…so I thought I’d just put a little barrier up in case you…you know…fart.”
“You’re protecting yourself from my gas?” I asked, horrified. If it wouldn’t have taken so much effort, I would have gotten up and stalked away. But I’m seven and a half months pregnant and it takes more than a little blushing to get me to move these days.
“Well, you just never know. And I’m laying right in your line of fire…” he stammered.
It was quiet while I considered how much he had just insulted me.
“Eh, alright,” I said, turning back to the television. “You’re probably right anyway.”
My marriage is nothing if its not honest.
Today kicks off March Madness, and if you are at all vested in college sports or if you know any male you know all too well the time commitment and dedication it takes to be a March Madness fan. Personally, I’m a big college sports fan. I went to Florida State University where the culture of sports and beer are cultivated like fine wines and cheese. Being a fan is an artform in Tallahassee, Florida. While I mostly follow college football, I do dust off my basketball cheerleading uniform for one month a year and I cheer on teams that I know nothing about in the name of March Madness.
For years, I have stood on the sidelines as Chris participated in pools and brackets. I’d occasionally throw a good suggestion in the mix for him, but for the most part I just showed up and ate chicken wings. But not this year. No, sir.
Because THIS year, I’m IN THE POOL. That’s right. Chris finally agreed to let me enter the basketball pool that he and his friends have done for the past few years. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. I spent HOURS pouring over statistics that mean absolutely nothing to me in an effort to help me make at least a half-way educated guess. I don’t need to win the thing. I just don’t want to embarrass myself. Visions of playing golf with my Dad when I was little and being told to just pick up my ball because I had taken too much time dance in my head. I don’t want to choke under the pressure. I just want to be able to at least hang in there for a few rounds.
I called my sister when I found out I was going to play.
“Ginny,” I whispered. “When you pick teams that are going to win in a basketball tournament, what is that called?”
“I think its called your racket,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. I think that’s right,” I responded. (Its not right, actually. Its called a BRACKET.)
“And Ginny?” I asked. “Whats it called when you enter a group of people who all pick their rackets?”
“I think that’s called a pool,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. I think that’s right,” I responded. (That actually is right.)
So with the help of my trusty sister, I was able to at least FAKE the sports lingo I would need to be a real contender. Of course, Ginny went to the University of Florida, a university that makes Florida State look like a nursery school when it comes to team spirit. Chances are she was more immersed in the “culture” of beer than the “culture” of sports while she was there, so God knows what she actually knows about sporting rules. She looks great in a jersery and visor though, so I trust her judgment.
I submitted my BRACKET yesterday and the tournament kicks off today. Cross your fingers and cheer for Pittsburgh! They are my number one pick over U Conn (don’t I sound so sporty?). And if you have any basketball watching/picking/cheering tips for me to keep me from completely embarrassing myself, feel free to share. I’m gonna need all the help I can get!
Now, I don’t normally bring current events into this here blog because…well…they bore me. And why waste my time writing about things that bore me? But I just have to say what a dope I feel like Ed Liddy is. For those of you who are like me and try not to keep up with the news too often, Ed Liddy is the CEO of the publicity and morality challenged AIG insurance company. You know? The company whose giving away millions to the goons who made the bad decisions in the first place. More specifically, the goons who have separated me from my beloved Target. Yeah. Those goons.
Anyway, last night I was half concentrating on the news while fully concentrating on painting my toenails (cause those are my priorities in life) and I kept hearing the name “Ed Liddy, Ed Liddy, Ed Liddy.” I said something to Chris about how that name sounded to familiar to me, and he responded that it probably sounded familiar because he was MAKING NATIONAL HEADLINES.
“No…that’s not it…” I said. And I started Googling.
Come to find out, Ed Liddy was the former CEO of Allstate Insurance, where I used to work. I used to get emails from his guy on a daily basis! Granted, they were to the entire company, but still. Somewhere I have an email from Ed Liddy addressed to me. As I Googled on, I discovered that Ed Liddy was asked to step in as CEO AFTER AIG had essentially gone under and the government stepped in. Its not like he was there and this all happened. He was brought in AFTER THE FACT. And even more than that, they brought him out of RETIREMENT to enter this circus.
And he still. took. the. job.
That’s just insane. That’s like saying to someone, “Hey, I got this boat with a giant hole in it and I’d like you to come in and plug the hole, bail out the water, and make it sail again. And I want you to do it blindfolded. And drunk.”
And what did Mr. Liddy say? “Okey dokey!”
Now, I’m not one to speak on financial matters, or governmental matters, or a person’s choice of profession, but I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that you’d be hard pressed to find any other retiree who would trade in his Birkenstocks and socks for days spent getting your ass beaten by a Congressional committee… But maybe that’s just me.
(I’m not sure where this post came from, but I can guarantee that I will never post something like this again. Unless I’m blindfolded. And drunk.)
Have I mentioned that I’m huge? That I rival a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon? That I scare small children? Have I mentioned that lately?
In my first trimester, I wanted to be big so badly. Every morning I would wake up and ask Chris if I looked any bigger today. “Not yet,” he’d usually respond, and then I’d get pissed.
13 Weeks
In my second trimester, I finally started to show and I loved it. I paraded my belly around like it was a prized possession. When I’d see someone I hadn’t seen in a while, I’d happily announce, “Aren’t I huge?!?”
22 Weeks
Now that I am in my third trimester, I’m ready to kill someone. Preferrably the next person who tells me how big I am.
Week 30
I know people mean well. I know they say it with happiness and joy. But, honestly, why would you tell an obscenely large pregnant lady that she looks huge? Do you think she doesn’t know that already? Its like walking up to a blind person and being all, “Hey! You can’t see!” Most people at least make the effort to be polite when they tell me I’m huge by making the comment, “Its all baby! Good for you!”
What the hell does that mean? Its all baby? No kidding. I’M PREGNANT. What ELSE would it be if it wasn’t a freaking baby? But they use the “all baby” remark as a way to make me feel better. As opposed to saying, “You’re huge! Lovin’ those Girl Scout cookies, huh?” I guess that would be worse. A lot worse. I may actually kill someone over that remark, or at the very least I’d sit on them…while eating Girl Scout cookies. That might make me feel better.
But, for the record, putting the disclaimer of “its all baby” on the end of any kind of statement about a third trimester pregnant lady’s weight does NOT erase the fact that you just called her enormous. I mean, who are you kidding? We all know its not ALL baby. You and I both know that I’m not expecting to give birth to a 30 pound newborn. If you feel that you must comment on my size (and who can blame you – its like having an actual elephant in the room), then I’d go with a nice, “You are glowing!” or “What a sweet belly!”
The next person who tells me I’m huge and that – lucky me – it’s all baby is getting a pencil right in their eye.
Confessions of a Young Married Couple now has a Facebook page. This is, apparently, very different than the Marriage Confessions Facebook group that was already functioning. There’s a world of difference between a Facebook page and a Facebook group.
I don’t know. I don’t get it. I try to understand all this social networking crap, but I really don’t. Just don’t tell my former faculty advisor because I did my graduate thesis on social networking and they might, you know, revoke my degree or something…
Anyway, I think I’ve gotten it straightened out now and the Facebook page is up and running. Click Here to become a fan of the page and you will automatically be entered twice to win all future giveaways that you choose to enter. And if that’s not enough to send you over to the page, then try some of these inspiring reasons instead:
And the most important reason to visit the new Marriage Confessions Facebook page:
CAUSE ALL THE COOL KIDS ARE DOING IT.
This past weekend I had to make a run to Target. If you don’t know already, I have banned myself from Target as part of our household budget crisis. I’m only allowed to go now if I bring a sponsor with me to keep me from trafficking the shoes and baby departments. But this weekend, I needed to go and I needed to go by myself. I had to buy things. Things that no one should have to buy in front of other people.
When I got home from my Target excursion, Chris jumped all over me. Why had I gone? What was in my bag? How much had I spent? Did I count to ten before making the purchase (another part of my Target detox process)? And that’s when I flipped out.
“I don’t have to justify these things to you! Its none of your business!” and I stormed off to my bedroom.
In hindsight, I probably could have chosen my words more carefully and spoken more kindly, but I was backed into a corner, and when that happens I’m going to come out swinging. Just like Tanya Harding.
It was hard enough for me to go to Target that morning anyway. I didn’t want to buy these things anymore than you WANTED me to buy them, so don’t make it harder by asking me to justify unpleasant purchases to you. Don’t make me admit out loud that the reason I had to go to Target was because I have become so incredibly huge in the past few weeks that I had to purchase actual tools to help me mold myself into something resembling a woman.
Don’t make me explain to you that my chest has become so large that I now need a black market bra and duct tape to keep it in check. Or that I had to buy industrial strength cellulite lotion because the back of my legs are startling to curdle. Don’t make me justify spending $10.00 on a new maternity camisole that I must wear under all my clothes, every day, in order to keep my belly button from poking someone’s eye out. Don’t make me admit to you that I had to buy yet ANOTHER pair of even LARGER pants because my ass seems to think that it, too, is growing a small person.
Just don’t make me say these things. No woman wants to admit these things – especially to her husband. Just let me buy them in peace and stash the bag in the back of my closet like a normal person. Let me keep pretending that I at least resemble the person I was before this kindergardner started expanding inside of my stomach.
Don’t make me tell you about all the secret things it takes to make a pregnant woman look somewhat normal. Just don’t make me say it.
…cause that would be really embarrassing.
I try to change my smell up every season. Its just a little thing I do. During the winter months, I wear a lot of vanilla and cinnamon and musky scents. I smell like a cookie. Sometimes I over do it, and I smell a lot like Play-doh. But when I get the combination right, its magical.
Around this time of year though, those richer winter scents start to feel a little…heavy to me. I know. I’m weird. Blame my mom whose obsession with candles, waxes, and all things smell-goody has been apart of my entire life. I pretty much associate all important things by their smells. To this day, I think of Chris whenever I smell grease because he used to work in a greasy kitchen when we were in high school. Its so strange.
Anyway, back to me.
As it was a tad warmer this weekend and a hint of spring was in the air, I decided it was time to change scents. I dusted off my Clinique Happy perfume (the ultimate in Spring perfume, if you ask me) and I headed off to Target where I spent about an hour smelling body washes. I finally decided on St. Ives Energizing Citrus. It smelled heavenly. Like a giant fruit salad.
But when I was in the shower last night, I noticed that it smelled really more like straight up grapefruit than it did a fruit salad. I smelled like I had bathed in a giant grapefruit.
As I was getting in my pajamas, I was still thinking about how I smelled like a giant grapefruit. And that’s when I looked down and noticed the giant grapefruit of a belly that I have sprouted in the past few months. I thought for a few seconds and then ran down to Chris, lifting my shirt to expose my large tummy.
“What does that smell like,” I asked him.
“I don’t smell anything,” he said, sort of freaked out.
“No?” I scratched my belly to get the scent really flowing. “How about now?”
“Its a grapefruit!” he said. “You look and smell like a giant grapefruit.”
And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I became the first living scratch ‘n sniff pregnant lady.
Our dogs have lost their minds lately. I’ll be the first to tell you that we don’t have the best behaved dogs. They have their golden moments, but for the most part they are jumping, slobbering, couch-coveting beasts. And I love them. As intrusive as they might be, they are only that way because we treat them like part of our family. For five years now, the dogs have been our children. Our hairy, smelly, spoiled children.
Lately though, they seem to be worse. Take the couch, for example. We recently moved our living room furniture around so that Chris and I could get more use out of our couch and loveseat. The problem with this is that for the past few years, the couches have sort of belonged to the dogs. Now, they are pissed that we are trying to relocate them. When Chris and I sit on the couch now, the dogs don’t try to lay with us or cuddle or spend time with us. They growl. They moan. They throw themselves at our feet, whining over the injustice that has vicimized them.
Such drama queens.
And its not just the couch. They dogs are now incredibly vocal whenever they feel they have been cheated. And cheated to them can be something as simple as not being fed at exactly 5:55 PM. If we are even 5 minutes late feeding Lucy (the little one), she throws herself at our ankles, moaning and barking until food appears in her bowl.
Clearly, something needed to change. We tried ignoring them. We tried putting them in time out. We tried giving them everything they wanted. Nothing helped. The dogs stayed in their rut and Chris and I continued to be frustrated with them. Finally today, we thought of a different way to handle this whole situation. Maybe the dogs were bored. They’ve been inside for the past few months because of the weather. They are tired of each other, of us, of their toys, of their food, of their couches. Maybe they needed a make over and a change in scenery.
So, we packed up this morning and took them to the park to take out some of their frustrations on ducks, small children, and the elderly. It was a glorious success.
Molly and Chris
Me, the Bean, my non-showered hair, and the dogs
Molly saying hello to the ducks
After a good romp in the park, we had a little water break at the car before heading home. Good thing the dogs are professionals when it comes to drinking out of Solo cups. Comes from all that practice stealing beers at house parties…
"Hey! This isn't beer!"
The trip home was a little tricky. Since Lucy was a puppy, she has been riding on my lap on our weekend trips to visit Chris in college. She’s a road warrior. A trooper. A traveler. Planes, trains, or automobiles – she’s done them all without so much as a blink.
Lucy riding shotgun, barking at anything that moves and wagging her tail like a college student on Spring Break
Molly, however, was not blessed with the travel gene.
About 5 seconds before Molly yacked
In fact, she is such a lousy traveler, that she didn’t even make it all the way home from our adventure this morning. She got so sick in the car that Chris had to get out and walk her the last few blocks home.
Molly prefers the sidewalk over the backseat
But once we got everyone home via their preferred method of travel, the dogs were 100% satisfied. They had taken the edge off and seemed calmer and not so pissy.
Relaxing back at the house on the back deck
I guess sometimes you just need to walk it off…
