I'll live in a van down by the river if that's what it takes.

I got two letters in the mail last week. Both from my OBGYN office.

One announcing the two! new! amazing! additions to their practice! One fresh out of med school eager to deliver 'da babies, and the other  a "friend of the practice" for years. Oh great, two more people that get to see my girlie bits between now and October. It's fine.

The second letter was not as exclamatory. My doctor, my beloved Dr. who has sliced open my stomach to remove one Alex Joseph Van Wormer, performed the procedure for my sweet tWIPs, and was there to hold my hand in anger and sadness with my bDub, is leaving the practice. In June.

The extreme tragedy is that I totally can't hate him for it, because he's going to some inner city hospital in the hoods of Ohio that treats the underserved and non-insured. And he's going to teach other doctors there how to be as awesome as he is.

But the internal struggle that I have is that I sorta do hate him for it because he's the only person I want holding that scalpel and slicing this child out of me. My scar from Alex is perfect & healed like a dream. He knows my body & what it's been through. I trust him implicitly.

I was able to squeeze in one last appointment with him before he leaves, during which I plan to kick and moan and groan and cry and otherwise act like a 13-year-old girl whose parents won't let her go to the movies past her curfew. Whhhyyyyy meeeeee?

There are 7 other doctors in the practice, and save the new girl (and one other one that should probably never meet me in a dark alley) they're all very competent, trustworthy, good doctors. So I'm sure I'll be fine. However, I do have a plan B to escape to the ghettos of Ohio (not hard to find?), shred my insurance cards and just do what I must. You know, mother's instinct and all that.

Make mine a triple.

So I've had what can only be described as the world's loudest Superbowl Halftime show/Monster Truck Jam/any Russel Crowe movie that involves lots of fighting/swords and very little hygiene stomping through my skull since....oh, Thursday.

It is the living worst.

And I REFUSE to be a person who gets migraines. I simply refuse. I've tried everything from chiropractic to inexplicable doses of caffeine to sinus meds to massage and nothing makes the pulsating in my eyeballs go away. In what can only be described as my greatest move of desperation, I also went to the hippie dark side and had Joe rub lemongrass oil on me. The result? I smelled like Pledge and still had a headache. So that was helpful.

I'm giving my beloved chiropractor two more days, and then I'm seeing a "real" doctor. I'm sure she'll only want to medicate me and not actually find the source of the problem, which is very uncool. But I will not say no to some Valium, let's be clear on that.

And because you read the above and wasted 3-5 minutes of your life depending on your reading level, here's what you really come here for:

And also, this:

I get the message, mall marketing people. I really do. But if you're specifically catering to young people, you can't use double entendres. You just can't.

Nerd alert.

Warning: this is a political post that has nothing to do with politics, I promise. Mostly because political rants and right/left soapboxes on the Internets make me want to punch a kitten in the face, but I digress.

But related to politics, Joe has commandeered a nerd fest amongst his group of homies called the "2012 Yard Sign Election." Basically, whenever anyone sees a sign, sticker or public display for (or against) any candidate, they email or text Joe. He keeps track of it in what I'm pretty certain is the nerdiest spreadsheet ever to exist.

Pie charts. Bar charts. Line graphs. Pivot tables. This thing has it all. It's nerddom at its finest. I get a wedgie and a swirly just looking at the thing. But the cool thing is, it's not really political at all--but it is cool to see which candidate has the most visible support on our local streets and roads.

This is real. And it hurts my brain.

Things I do that are totally, admittedly bizarro.

1. When using any restroom that is not in my own home, I never take the first wraparound piece of toilet paper. I always unwind it at least 1 time fully around, toss that piece in the loo and use the next piece.
2. I always hold my breath while walking down the basement steps in my childhood home. Not up, just down. My parents should probably move out before I suffocate on a random visit.
3. Unless others are needed for dress-up reasons, I always wear anklet socks. White.
4. I log into online banking at least 3 times a day, because I am certain someone is going to hack my account. So far, so good.
5. I eat my ice cream and yogurt with Alex's baby spoons because it lasts longer.

New Day. No Drama.

I woke up on time this morning.

My Momma is at home, taking care of my healthy, happy little boy.

Joe and I arrived at work accident free.

All in all, today already looks to be 100% better than yesterday...with the exception of the phantom NAIL CLIPPER that sits somewhere in my vicinity. Seriously. No one's nails can possibly grow that fast. It's superhuman.

Where To Begin?

Ohhhh what a morning it's been. I suppose I will tell the tale from the very beginning, because that's what Julie Andrews would have me do. Buckle in kids, it's gonna be a long one.

Our morning began at about 6:45, when I woke in a frantic flurry because I had overslept the alarm and needed to be at work for a 7:30 meeting. We had worked it out the night before that Joe would drop Alex at daycare and I would pick him up at the end of the day.

As I was tornadoing around the house getting ready, Joe was being a dear and getting Alex ready for his day. You know - food, clothing and all that jazz. About the time I was applying my mascara, Joe hollered that he needed help because Alex was throwing up his bottle.

Lordhavemercy. My child was literally spewing 6 oz. of formula exorcist-style out of his lips. I've never seen anything like it.

After a quick check for fever (none) and realizing he was in very good spirts (still giggling at his 'toons and smiling like a fool), we decided he must've just had an upset tummy and carried on about our business. Five minutes later, I grabbed my cell phone, coat and computer and was out the door.

Cue the cameras to me walking into work and finally looking at my phone, only to find 2 missed calls and a text message from our daycare provider telling me she had the stomach flu and could not watch the kids today.

::facepalm::

In a tizzy, I called Joe EIGHT times, left 2 messages and sent 2 texts, hoping he would see them before he bundled Alex up and shipped him off to Daycare. Meanwhile, I went up to my desk and alerted my boss of the situation at hand. He was relatively cool about it and told me to just call into my morning meetings. And so I did - Supermom hops back in her car, managing meetings and life from the road.

Imagine my surprise upon pulling into the driveway and Joe's Jeep is nowhere in sight. Seriously? Did he not look at his phone? Uhhhm, as I very obviously demonstrated not 15 minutes earlier, this is very possible.

I put my meeting on muted speaker and sent Joe a text message: "Where are you?" I get back: "Headed to Daycare." I say, "Jane's sick. Come home. I'm here."

Fast forward 2 minutes to Joe calling me 3 times in a row. I'm still on my conference call, so I text him back, "In meeting. Can't talk." And I get back, "911."

Shiiiiiiiiiite.

I'll spare you the details moving forward, (mostly because reliving my morning is elevating my blood pressure) but to summarize, Joe got into a car accident as he was turning around to come back home. He and Alex are both fine, but the Jeep has seen better days.

I can't help but think that ALL of this could have been avoided if I just would have stupid looked at my stupid phone before I stupid left for stupid work. You can bet your sweet arse I won't be making that mistake again.

Oh, and Alex? Still spewing. My Momma's coming to nurse him back to health tonight and watch him tomorrow. Thank jebus for her.

Internet = Power.

It would appear that my blogging rants and raves and strongly worded letter fell on listening ears at Qdoba. Check out the new map: http://www.qdoba.com/locations.aspx. My beloved Mitten is no longer a claw.

*snaps* for me.

In other news, vote for Alex!

Unfair.

Why is it that the fabulous Heidi Klum aka Mrs. Seal can look like this?



And at the same point in my pregnancy, I looked like this?



FAIL.

ETA: For readers just tuning in, yes, those really are my feet/cankles at about 34 weeks pregnant.

Hypothetically Speaking...

If you were in a high-level meeting with your new boss in the middle of a very in-depth conversation and she whipped out her lotion bottle and started to lube up her legs without so much as skipping a beat what would you do?

Would you just look at her, blankly, as if to say, "Really? You're doing that now? Here?" And would you feel sort of like you were on the set of some sick office porno?

Cause that's what I did would do in this situation.

Am I The Only One?

It's no secret that JVW is a big sports fan. And it should be shouted from the rooftops that I am (usually) a very good wife and will watch said sporting events with him.

However, my eyes tend to see things a little differently. I don't catch all the big key plays; I can NEVER see the puck no matter how slow it's going; I don't know why some players get to shoot 2 free throws and some get 3; I rarely care if/why the yellow flag was thrown; I can never tell if the ump calls a ball or a strike. Instead, I notice people and details - i.e. crazy fans in the crowd, players with exceptional rear ends, etc.

But when watching the Detroit Tigers, I can't help but notice that the "D" on the jersey is totally different from the "D" on the hats. Does anyone else see this? Am I crazy? It drives me absolutely bonkers!

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

And for a side-by-side comparison (jersey on L, hat on R):

I have to believe the MLB authorities have a very good, sane reason for this. Anyone know what that reason might be?

Randomness.

Please forgive the pong-like nature of this post, but there seems to be so much going on in the world and this is the only way I can control my little corner of it. I give you...The Bulleted List.

• Ellen. First, her season premiere was amazing. Are you kidding me with that dance? The woman is in the 50+ club. Go, girl! Secondly, as the new judge on AI...unsure. I love me some Ellen as much as the next straight girl with a crush on Portia, but will wait to pass judgment until I see it for myself.
• Kenny Chesney. New song "I'm Alive" feat. Dave Matthews? Fabulousness. Download it now. Very chill. And I don't even like DMB...as a general rule.
• On that note (pun intended), when did Phil Stacey get a gig? I'm jamming to XM32 @ my desk and his song "You're Not Shaken" just came on. Rather Clay Aiken-esque, but overall somewhat catchy.
• Baja Fresh. What's with the brown color medium salsa? I mean, it's delicious and all...but brown? Really? That said, my lunch was muy fantastico.
• Stamps. Way too effing expensive. It will soon be cheaper to drive a 1984 Chevy El Camino across the continental United States to say "hello" in person than to send a card.
• Glee. I practially peed myself during the season premiere. Best new show of the season, hands down. I heart it.
• Mr. President. Apparently I tuned in waaaaaaay too late to proclaim an opinion on his "Back To School" message to le children. Truth be told, I rather agree with what she had to say on the topic. Preach, sista.
• Sharpie. Why can I not find the new retractable pens in any store in Metro Detroit? Rar. If you find one, buy it for me please. I will drive my El Camino to come pick it up.

International Coffee.

I just went into the breakroom for a coffee refill. It's one of those days.

We have little stations throughout the campus where employees can get their caffeine fix. Some people do a $0.30 pay-as-you-go type of thing, others throw in $5 for the week and call it good.

The station closest to my new desk has something I've never seen: a sign on the money box that says, "U.S. funds, ONLY."

What? Are there people trying to pay for their java with Pesos? Baht? Yuan?

Perhaps I shall try my luck with Monopoly money.

Sometimes I Just Wanna Eat My Sammitch In Peace.

Let me set the stage: Joey, 2 coworkers and I sit down in the campus cafeteria for lunch. (For those viewers just tuning in, yes, JVW and I work together. And yes, it works. Very well.)

Enter CEO, who awkwardly sits at our table and attempts to join in on casual lunch conversation. Lame.

And so it goes for 45 minutes of painful, regrettable conversation.

I totally get it. The big wigs want to seem like they are at our level. You know, chill with the working folk and give the appearance of being a "normal" guy. But sometimes, I just want to comfortably sit with my peeps and talk about how much corporate America sucks; or about Alex's latest diaper explosion; or about how nearly everyone I used to work with has recently quit (more on that later...). And I cannot do any of those things while Mr. CEO is staring at me blankly, trying to remember my name and wondering why he continues to sign my paychecks. Oh, not to mention the fact that meanwhile, I'm trying to maintain somewhat intelligent conversation while simultaneously attempting to gracefully keep my turkey sammitch between my lips.

As you can tell, it was not the relaxing lunch hour I needed. Ugh.

Note to self: when I take over as CEO of the universe, do not attempt to have casual, spur-of-the-moment lunches with the "little guys." They do not appreciate it. Instead, hide in my office with Subway. Much more effective use of time and energy.

Today's Tidbits.

This afternoon I was gracefully perusing the internets for the telephone number to a local QDoba for the purpose of ordering lunch, and came across this: http://www.qdoba.com/locations.aspx.

Um. Hello?!? WTF is up with Michigan? Did the creator of this graphic ever even LOOK at a map? It's a shameful disgrace to our pleasant peninsula...not to MENTION the fact that the entire UP is MISSING. MISS. ING. As in, it's not there!

I write for a living. I'm good with words. You better believe QDoba will be getting a strongly worded letter re: this shittastic map from yours truly.

Some people's kids.

Oh, The Horror!

Upon seeing the horrible fate that most of my female relatives wished upon me in the "Guess WIP's Birthday" game, I decided to send them a little nastygram thanking them for their "well-wishes" for a 2 week overdue baby the size of a THREE MONTH old. In return, they decided to share their birth stories with me.

My cousin, Debbi: Oldest (Ryan) due June 21. By July 4, she sat through several firework shows hoping they would jar him out, but to no avail. They induced him on the 5th. Her second (Justin), was induced on his due date...and thankfully he wasn't the 11 lbs. they thought.

My cousin, Jeannie: Oldest (Sammy) was 1 week late. She spent 43 hours in labor only to have a C-section, delivering a 10 lb. 4 oz. baby (OMG). Her second (Jimmy) was breach, so she again had a C-section two weeks early and he was STILL almost 9 lbs.

To be fair, it was these two that correctly predicted the cankles, so I have to believe our genes are that strong, and that my birth story will be as they say. I'm so, so screwed.

Feel free to share your birth story (if you have one) in the comment section. Especially if you had a 7 lb. baby 2 weeks early. Give me hope!

That Would Explain It.

Caitlin, I believe I've got the foundation for our official case vs. Palmer's/Laila Ali on lockdown. Put on your fancy lawyer hat and pay attention.

To paint the backstory for those unfamiliar, I recently posted a complaint about my newfound stretchmarks. (Gasp!) I, like many other expectant mothers, fell prey to the Palmer's "Laila Ali is proof that Palmer's works" ads and rubbed my belly down every morning and night like I was Aladdin rubbing the lamp for Genie to appear in hopes to stave off the red, wormy, eternal marks.

Behold the photo from the ad in question:



Is it just me or is she like 2 minutes pregnant in this picture? Of COURSE she doesn't have stretch marks and of COURSE "Palmer's works. She's the proof" because it looks like she just ate a few too many sliders and needs to drop a really good deuce to get that bloat down.

I didn't have stretch marks when I had a bitty tum tum, either. No one would! It wasn't until week 35 that those unwelcome bastards made their way to my skin surface. Misinformed and manupulated by Palmer's, I was under the impression that my daily slather ritual would prevent stetch marks...much like they supposedly did for Laila Ali.

Kids, you have homework. Someone find me a bare belly pic of Laila at 35+ weeks and PROVE to me that she doesn't have stretchmarks. Lies, lies, lies!

Prep The Elbow.

So I'm walking out of Subway today at runchtime (yeah...I can stomach it again) carrying/balancing 1 bag of sammitches, 2 chips and 2 drinks in my chub-a-licious paws.

While fumbling around in my pockets to find my car keys, I clumsily dropped the keys in the middle of the parking lot.

Oh good Lord. How am I going to maintain balance of the foodstuffs I am carrying AND bend over to pick the keys up off the ground?

Note: it's probably been weeks since I've been able to bend on my own. Joey picks up everything I drop at home (which is a lot) and when he's not around, others usually have sympathy on the prego girl and will get the felled item for me.

I managed to swing it, but it took me a little longer than it would a person of normal midsection size. And you know what? Some effing d-bag totally HONKED AT ME. As in, "Honk, honk. You're taking too long, lady. Get out of my way."

Seriously.

The look I shot that loser might have stopped his heart for 2-5 seconds - I was like that Ice Girl from X-Men. I picked up my keys, rebalanced my armful of food/beverages, looked up at him, pointed to my tum-tum and then looked glared back at him with the evilest of eyes.

And then took baby steps the rest of the way to my car, probably causing him to have an aneurysm. He's lucky I didn't get his plate numbers.

Today's Rant.

Despite my usual crabbiness about being enormous, there are times I rather enjoy being pregnant. I love eating lots of crazy and scrumptious things. I love that Joey is amazing (not that he's less amazing when I'm not knocked up...but it's just different kind of attention). I love singing to WIP and feeling him kick me (not sure if he's clapping or booing). I love wearing sweatpants 99% of the time.

And I know it's very uncharacteristic of most pregnant women, but I actually really like it when people rub my belly. Even if it's a perfect stranger...I honestly don't mind at all. In fact, I sort of wish it happened more often, but I suppose people are hesitant to just go up to a random belly and rub it.

But there is something that drives me absolutely batty - people constantly asking how far along I am. It's one thing to ask me every now and again; I get that. If you ask no more than once a month you're a-ok with me. But asking every single time I see you is simply unacceptable. If the last time you asked me I was 32 weeks and that was one week ago...do the math. I'm 33 weeks now, moron.

I know it's a silly thing to get agitated over. Especially since I don't mind the strange belly-rubbing. But there is this one lady who literally asks me every time I see her how far along I am. Sometimes it's more than once a day. No joke!

I'm five minutes farther along than the last time you asked me, lady. Now step off.

Ex-SQUEEZE Me?

Oy.

I have pretty much been steaming over this post since Saturday night, when the "incident" I'm about to write about occurred. Allow me to set the stage for you:

I was at a community fundraiser event in Muskegon with Kelli on Saturday. She's kind of a big deal around the state, so she was asked to emcee and perform at said fundraiser. I went for (mostly) entertainment value and to enjoy one of our last sister weekends before WIP arrives.

We arrived at the venue on Saturday a bit before the show began and I was wandering around, looking for Kelli. (Please note: I had on the same outfit I wore to my shower - polka dot dress, black tights, black ballet flats...I promise this is important information.) Anyway, I found Kelli and we were walking to the restroom (surprise!) when a grumbly old woman approached me and snarled, "You're pregnant. This is your first."

What I wanted to say was, "Yes, Captain Obvious. I AM pregnant. How astute of you to notice!" But I mustered all the fake pleasantness I could and said, "Yep! My first - due in April. We're so excited!"

And the snarly old wench said back to me (as she scanned her rich, snobby judgemental eyes up and down me), "I could tell. Those ankles!"

Hold me back. I'm gonna rip her face off. She said "Those ankles!" as if I had some sort of flesh eating bacteria all over my body and I repulsed her to her very core.

Remembering that I was a guest of Kelli's and not wanting to embarrass her, I swallowed my true feelings and plastered a Patty Pageant smile on my face and said through clenched teeth, "Oh, yes. Thank you so much for pointing that out. It really makes a pregnant girl feel good about herself." And laughed it off.

To which SHE replies (again, with the eye roll and judgmental eye-scan), "Well, I'm a doctor. I notice these things."

SERIOUSLY. I was more appalled than I've ever been in my life. A doctor of ALL people should know that you DON'T point out a prego-woman's cankles. As if I don't feel disgusting enough already.

In summary: she sucks. And I'm wearing pants from here on out.

**Edited to add: In my pregnant state of absentmindedness, I neglected to mention that I returned home from said trip to a fabulously cleaned house, complete with laundry done, folded and put away. And the ironing was done, too! I told you Joey was awesome. Be jealous.

Welcome To My World.

So...I woke up yesterday morning to a delicious, delicious back rub. (Yes, I've said before how incredibly lucky I am and how awesome Joe is. It's fine. Be jealous.)

As I mumbled myself awake Jake made his way into the room. He's not allowed up on the bed, but he rests his front paws up there, keeping his back paws on the floor. (We have hardwood floors, so it's hilarious to watch him slip over and over...he'll never learn.) Anyway, Joe started petting Jake and telling him how lucky of a dog he is - because he gets to be WIP's first pet. I'd never actually thought about it much because I never had pets growing up...save my sister's goldfish and the occasional "weekend babysitting" of the school hamster. But I suppose it's a big deal in the pet world to be someone's "first."

Then Joe starts giggling and says, "WIP's porn name will be Jake Grinsell." (You know, the middle school game where you take your first pet's name and the street you grew up on...) He just couldn't get over how funny that was.

So, yes. Instead of wondering if our son will grow up to be an astrophysicist or find the cure for cancer, my husband figures out his porn star name. Nice, Joe. Nice.

Oh, and how timely is this article?