Let’s be real here folks… you come to stopbouncing for the snark, not the baby talk.
Thus, I am going to do my best to keep the two blogs separate… that way you can enjoy the lighter side of Stephanie (which technically I lost in February when my body decided that the best place for baby protection was my ass) here and the pregnant side over on ssmak.wordpress.com
Seem Fair?
WTF is it with the coffee station at work?
There’s a bevy of issues here.
1) What is so hard about making coffee?
Is it that hard to fill the pitcher, open the pre-measured grounds, replace the filter, pour the grounds and pour the water into the maker?
2) How/Why do you leave significantly less than a cup of coffee in the pot?
Are you not going to want more coffee? I mean, it’s 8am.
Are you too good to make more coffee?
Who do you think makes more coffee if you don’t? The coffee elves? Because I’d like to hire them to clean out those gross-ass dishes which keep ending up in the sink.
3) How/Why do you leave 1/8″ of coffee in the pot and then put the pot on the burner (which is on)?
Maybe you didn’t notice the burner was on, that’s acceptable. However, when I can smell the burning coffee 30 feet away and you’re 15 feet away…
4) How/Why do you not go see just WHAT that burning smell is?
I mean, really… plus, I’ve seen you walk past the coffee station a number of times… did you stuff firecrackers up your nose as a child or something?
5) Who is stealing the sugar?
I took inventory and noted that we didn’t need sugar. The next week, there was a hub-bub that the last canister of sugar (with a brown label) was being used. Two days later a canister with the “old” orange-red label was in the trash can. (our sugar used to come in the orange-red canisters, we switched suppliers and the canisters are now brown, if that makes this less confusing.)
6) That little light near the “on/off” switch is a burner on/off indicator. If you’re moving a pot to another burner, why wouldn’t you turn that burner on? Unless, of course, there’s 1/8″ of coffee in the pot.
7) Make. Sure. The. Grounds. Make. It. Into. The. Trashcan.
8 ) Did you not notice that you spilled coffee all over the counter top? How about the floor? I’m a slip hazard when I’m NOT pregnant… plus, it’s not like it’s easy for me to get down there to clean up YOUR mess, BTW. Just saying. You know, in case you thought it was “woman’s work”. In which case, I’d like to introduce you to “Woman’s 2×4″.
Did I forget anything?
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It’s been a long standing joke between Steve and I about what we are going to do with the placenta after Mini arrives.
He’s got this unreasonable fascination with it, while I’m more KILL IT WITH FIRE.
Because it freaks people out, we’ve often, publicly, talked about having friends over and making it into salsa.*
Today, I was browsing the internets and came across something just as disturbing… I was going to just post the photo and link to it, but I don’t know if you’re eating or have eaten in the past say, 12-hours.
There’s a kit out which allows you to sew together a teddy-bear-looking thing from a placenta.
I so wish I was kidding.
So of course, I emailed it to Steve, “If we didn’t want to make salsa…”
“For some reason, I am extremely creeped out. EWWWWW, this will be a part of my new diet plan. I would rather eat the salsa.”
“I think ‘creeped out’ is reasonable and valid response to this.” , I replied.
And of course I couldn’t let it be… so I texted him, “Placenta Bear wants your soul.”
“STOP IT. Get it away from me!”
“It just wants to sleep on your side of the bed…”
* OMG WTF, NO!
(Yes, this is on ssmak.wordpress.com too, but I’ve got that linked/auto-posted to another site too)
There was something funny smelling about my gym bag so like a responsible adult, I decided to wash it.
I typically wash it after camping and then every other month; well, when I was a gym rat. So it’s not like this was the first time I’d ever washed it.
My gym bag is pink plaid, of course.
Over the fall/winter, I lost a pair of earrings. A pair I had gotten the previous Christmas after making it VERY known that I would like them.
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I knew I took them off at the gym, but they weren’t in my travel jewelry box (as I’m one of THOSE people who doesn’t work out in full make-up and accessories) not were they attached to any of my sweaters; for a while I would forget my jewelery box and would hook earrings on my shirts to prevent them from getting lost.
I’ve been looking in earnest around the house, dumped out my gym bag at least a dozen times and washed it at least thrice since losing said earrings. I knew they HAD to be somewhere… i was just hoping they weren’t eaten by the washer.
Last night, I pulled the bag from the dryer and noticed something shiny on the floor.
FINALLY, my earrings had been lodged loose from wherever and were found!
YYYEEEEEESSSSSSS.
While pulling my clothes from the dryer, I got to my Favoritest Maternity Shirt- White with tiny black polka dots, collared v-neck, tie in the back… makes me feel cute, goes with jeans and dress pants.
“WHY is this pink?!” I asked the washer and dryer. “PPPPPIIIINNNNKKKK?”
And then I looked at my gym bag.
What the universe giveth, the universe taketh away.
Four of us are watching Purple Rain, killing time/trying to decide where in Cleveland we should go.
Male Friend: WHAT is this movie?
me: Duh, PURPLE RAIN!
Male Friend: I mean, what is it? Who is that guy?
me: Duh, it’s Prince!
Male Friend: What is going on in this movie? What is he? Why is he dressed like that?*
me, deadpan: He’s a vampire.
Male Friend: WHAT?
me: Yeah, why else would he be dressed that way and all I’m-over-here-and-now-I’m-over-here?
Male Friend: No way.
me: You’re right. He’s not a vampire. He’s just Prince. That’s just what he does.
Steve and I are driving home from Ohio.
“Holy shit, that guy has a claw hand!”
and
“Holy shit! Those cows are having sex! Like full-on bull-mounting-the cow-sex!”
I can tell that Mini’s first words are going to be swears.
And another chapter in the “Ah-ha! I knew I wasn’t crazy!” chronicles.
I RSS fed a site called “I’m Remembering” which is dedicated to toys and fads from the 80′s and 90′s.
There’s been two things from my childhood that I KNOW I had, but can not remember what they were called.
One of them were those sneakers that had zippers around the soles so you could change the tops of your shoes.
And one of them was the Fisher Price “Talk to Me” reader. I am not the Stephanie mentioned in the post, but I am a Stephanie and I do remember this device.
AAAANNNDDD there’s one of them on ebay. You know I’m watching that. This was my FAVORITE toy in kindergarten, despite the fact that I could have read the stories on my own.
(oh, and if you know what those zippered shoes were called, and not Roos, the whole top of the shoe came off, let me know?)
*It’s the opening scene-ish where Morris Day and the Mother-Fing Time are playing in the club and Prince is being all sneaky-like behind Apollonia.
WTF GD?
Hey, Gestational Diabetes, WTF?
No, really. I want, nay, need to know.
When I went in for lab work, my levels were “elevated” (not “OMG!”, but above normal). Which meant that after losing 4 hours last Wednesday and an entire Saturday (which come to find out, despite my questioning the lab, WAS supposed to be a three-hour test; not pencils down at two hours.), I got to lose ANOTHER 2 hours on Tuesday because I had to go for “Education”. Said “Education” involved the doling of a glucose meter* and a look of sheer confusion from the dietitian when I said I don’t eat a lot of animal based protein. For real though, from the look on her face, you’d though I had asked her to build a replica of the Hindenburg out of popsicle sticks.
After everything was said and done (sans crying fit!) all of my levels have been WELL within range.
Maybe now people will understand that I am not good with lab work. Or perhaps it was that I’m not that much of a sugar junkie, so when you deliberately overload my system, of course I’m going to have processing issues.
WTF Pushy Prom Date?
Annoyance: Hey, you want a doughnut?
Me, nicley: No. Thank you though.
Annoyance: They’re fresh from Hortons.
Me: No. Thank you.
Annoyance: They’re chocolate.
Me: No.
Annoyance: Are you ssssuuuurrreee?
Me: I ALREADY TOLD YOU NO THANK YOU.
Annoyance, startled: Well. Okay then.
WTF Sidewalk Walker?
If you’re on the side of the sidewalk that has 20 feet between you and say the curb, and someone is coming towards you and they have 1 foot between them and some sidewalk construction, would it kill you to move over a couple of feet so you can both get by?
It would?
I see.
WTF Dreamtime?
Really subconscious? You couldn’t think of any better situation to put me in than transporting Adult Stephanie to 15-Year-Old Stephanie’s job at the drugstore, running a cash register?
THANKS.
Props Bailey!
Aw, you knew that I was having a rough night and that 2 a.m. cuddle was f-ing awesome.
You scored extra adorable points by resting your head on The Baby Bump and sleeping.
WTF, wait, No, AWESOME!
Twilight, or Eclipse, I don’t know which is which… anyway, here it is, acted out by lolcats and loldogs.
*Which I have to admit, I have on the lowest stab-with-results setting as possible and I can’t feel it. YYYYEEEESSSSS.
Awesomeness:
We met out with some friends on Friday night for dinner.
These friends have not seen Pregnant Stephanie at all, so naturally, there were comments.
HOWEVER, everything said was WONDERFULLY nice!!! Which is what a pregnant lady really needs to hear. Unlike, say, a family member who after her mother said I was carrying a girl (Stock reply: “Okay.”) said such was remarked because “when you carry a girl, you lose your beauty.” That is on The No List.
ANYWAY, so the compliments were pretty much, “Unless we knew you were pregnant or saw your bump, we wouldn’t know you were pregnant!”. This is good because lately, when The Bump arrives a step or two before I do, well, it’s good to know that I don’t look like the StayPuft Marshmallow Man.
Note to anyone who knows someone who is pregnant, please, pay them a compliment… the neurosis that comes with all these sudden changes is quickly quelled by a well-delivered, “You look adorbs in that outfit.”
Junkie-like Bruising:
After a chastising you-need-an-appointment-for-this-test, I was able to get my lab work done bright and early at 630 Saturday morning.
Due to the nature of the test, I had blood drawn twice from my left arm and once from my right arm,which was already bruising from Wednesday’s debacle.
Honestly, I don’t know how junkies keep injecting stuff into their veins… by the time they hit my left arm again, they were going through bruising and well, that doesn’t feel real keen.
And no, I’m not anemic, I just have the transparency of Casper. So now, in the hottest time of year, I’m sporting Super Sexy Duel Inner-Arm Bruising; in winter/fall, I could have covered them with a sweater/sleeves.
So my Saturday pretty much was blown. I cried on the way home from the lab (due to discomfort) and cried again at home (due to discomfort, a headache and stomachache). I tried to nap, took Bailey in for a nail trim, hoping that getting up and moving around would help me feel less like shit…
Things must have been pretty rough, as Sunday morning, Steve remarked that I looked like I felt so much better; and he knows not to insult a pregnant wife.
Time for routine blood work!
730: [up until this point] Good lab opens
736: Arrive at lab. See that there are about 7-8 OLD OLD OLD people already waiting.
Explain to Fat-Ass Receptionist that I am in need of a 1-hour glucose test done and if we could go ahead and get that glucose in me…
Fat-Ass tells me that I don’t need an appointment. I explain that I know, but with the quantity of people already waiting, it may be near an hour until I’m seen anyway.
Fat-Ass asks me to take a seat.
840: Called into draw room.
“This lab can’t take your insurance for the glucose test, that has to be done at Pure Evil Lab.”
“This information would have been useful when I walked in… AN HOUR AGO.”
“I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal…”
“I am not blaming you, but, CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT THAT PERSON OUT FRONT’S JOB IS?!?!? BECAUSE I’VE BEEN SITTING THERE FOR an hour AND SHE DIDN’T MENTION anything TO ME.”
“Well, um, er…”
And then Fat-Ass waddles down the hallway… the tech says to her in this chiding voice, “Now, Lucille, we’ve talked about this, if someone is here for the glucose test, you need to find out what their insurance is.”
“She told me she had an appointment.” Fat-Ass says between heaves; walking is hard!
“I did no such thing! You told me I didn’t need an appointment and to have a seat. WHICH I DID. Not ONCE did you mention anything about insurance. Not this morning, nor yesterday when I called to inquire about fasting.”
By now, the hallway is starting to fill with techs who, up until this point, had been non-existent and are now quite curious. The tech hands me a sheet of paper with an 800 number on it for Pure Evil Labs.
846: Stomp out of the office. Other waitees look to see who is making all the ruckus.
847: At the car, I call the 800 number. It’s the number to have specimens PICKED UP from your site.
848: Start to walk back to the lab for a new number.
849: Having a moment of clarity, I call Steve to direct me to nearest Pure Evil Lab. Because I have to get an Rh shot, they need to check my CBC levels 24-48 hours ahead of time to make sure I’m well enough to get the shot, so it’s not like I can try again later.
853: Arrive at Pure Evil Lab. There are 10-12 people waiting.
955: Get into draw room, get glucose. CHUG.
1110: Get blood drawn. Fight with tech over whether to apply tape or not to my arm. Try to extract instructions on how to hold the cotton on my arm (bent or straight? how long?)
1120: Stop at Wendy’s for Brunch.
I was presuming I’d be in and out of the lab by 9, 930 to stop at Hortons and that’d-be-that.
1145: Make it into work… So my supposed to be 1-hour test, took 4.
We spent Saturday morning with a friends who argues with you about EVERYTHING.
Seriously, if you say off-handedly that the sky is a loverly color of azure today, he will argue with you that it’s more royal then azure. He argued with my MIL over her not having heard the phrase “horse whisperer”.
Knowing this, I try not to make any statements that could be interpreted as opinion.
“What’s it like being pregnant?”, he asks.
A reasonable question. “Meh. Not so bad… pretty much like usual, though I have a bit of a belly to contend with and sometimes the baby beats the living snot out of me or makes me a bit uncomfortable…”
In a I-can’t-wait-to-hear-what-you-say-to-this-voice, he asks, “So what are you going to do about camping** this year?”
“What do you mean?”
Frustrated, he says, “Are you going to go?”
“Hell yes I’m going.”
He is appalled that I would say such a thing, not the swearing, but the admittance that I’m going. “Aren’t you afraid?!”
I’m confused. “Afraid of what?”
‘Duh Woman’-tone, “Falling on rocks and stuff?”
“No more than usual. I’ve already lost sight of my feet.”
“I’m just sayin’, is all…”
And I come back with my stock response to unsolicited advice, “Okay.”
“No, I’m just sayin’…”
And, well, I’ll avoid boring you with the back and forth.
As an aside, I’m presuming that most of my vigilant readers understand that being knocked up isn’t really setting me back in my pace of life. Sure, there’s a few things here and there I can’t do, but it’s not that I’m lazing about, demanding Steve to fetch me Stouffer’s Mac&Cheese. For the most part, I’m pretty much doing what I’ve always done, just with more breaks and an occasional “oomph” or other such noise of exertion.
Our friend, through no fault of his own, has a disability which has allows him a handicapped parking tag. While at one of our stops, I “oof!” myself into the truck and he remarks, “I should have brought my parking tag! Then we could have parked closer!” (BTW, we were like, 3 spots from the door…)
I remark, “We’re not that far.”
“We could have parked closer!”
“Why would we need to park closer?”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE PREGNANT!”***
I sigh. “I am. But I’m fine.”
“But then you wouldn’t have to walk so far!”
“IT’S NOT THAT FAR.”
“BUT YOU’RE PREGNAT!”
“I am pregnant, not disabled, I can walk.” I say, perhaps a bit too gruffly. Steve snickers.
“I’m just sayin’….”
“And I’m just saying that I’m capable of walking 20 feet to the door. BUT THANK YOU.”
Those few pregnant ladies who choose to play The Pregnancy Card are giving the rest of us a bad name… seems that no one listens to me when I’m pregnant; if I would have wanted to sit/had seconds/use the bathroom rightthiseverysecond, I would have said something.
It’s almost like 75% of my converstations are arguements based since I CLEARLY do not know what I need.
This is frusterating.
*Technically, he’s Steve’s friend, but you know how that absorption thing happens…
** Our annual camping trip takes place in mid-late September, I’m in early October. “Camping” loosely translates into “3-days of drinking” and “binge eating”. Example 1. Example 2.
*** Holy shit! When the hell did that happen?!?!
Absorption
