A "Relaxing" Day at the Spa?

Remember those cartoons you watched when you were a kid (okay, maybe you still watch them now) when someone decides to cook a chicken for dinner?  Someone puts a very resistant (and very alive) chicken in a roasting pan (these are cartoons, after all), bastes it,  shoves it in the oven and cranks up the heat.  And as kids, we sat there laughing at this bird as he starts to turn shades of pink and red and sweat, all the while devising his evacuation route, which he inevitably finds, because we all know that cartoon characters don't really die. Might be a bit too morbid a message to send to young kids...I might very well have become a vegetarian at the age of 6 if I had actually watched that chicken die a slow death in a kitchen oven, then get carved open and served with mashed potatoes at the family dinner table.  Well, after a particularly dramatic episode at the spa yesterday, I can now empathize with that poor cartoon chicken.  

First and foremost, let me set the records straight about a couple of things pregnant women don't handle too well: noxious fumes, stupid comments about size/weight made by people who don't have filters, and heat.  I will be talking about the latter of those three.  Due to the residual effects of the panic disorder I had, I did not tolerate heat- or becoming terribly overheated- before I even became pregnant.  It was a trigger for me that instantly made me feel nervous and claustrophobic (which is why I had my wedding reception outside in the middle of July *smart*).   

I arrived at the spa with a good friend yesterday for a little post-birthday pampering and was ready to have my tired, achy body-turned-baby machine worked on.   I stripped down and put on a plush, velvety robe and wandered into the "relaxation room" to sip on some fresh cucumber water as I waited for my pregnancy massage.  After the massage therapist came to get me and take me back, I was instructed to take off my robe and bra and climb under the blankets on the massage table as she went to heat up the body cream she would be using.  *Bliss.*  (I don't normally indulge in packages like these- in fact, this is the first one I had ever done).   She started my massage by having me lie on one side while she worked the kinks out of that side of my back, shoulders and butt and then had me switch to the other side to do the same.  The cream she was using was unscented (thank God) but was a little warm, although it felt very relaxing.  For the last part, she had me lie on my back, semi-reclined, while she put a warm neck wrap around the base of my neck.  She started rubbing down my feet, thighs and legs with various oils and creams and we continued to carry on a jovial conversation.  She then took two heated towels (are you noticing a recurring theme yet with the words "warm" and "heated?") out of what appeared to be a tiny microwave and wrapped them around my feet.  At first, I felt like I just needed to have a sip of my ice water, so I asked to sit up and have some.  Perfect.  I laid back again, but continued to feel *off* and then a minute later, without any warning, I bolted upright (which was amazing enough considering I was almost flat on my back) and immediately knew I was going to pass out.  I didn't even think this was possible since I had been lying down.  I started hyperventilating and tried desperately to remain calm and control my breathing as the black spots started to appear and the room began to spin.  I remember uttering something about getting a fan, and luckily, there happened to be one in the room.  The massage therapist immediately turned it on full blast, went to get an ice pack and placed it directly on the back of my neck.  I was cognizant enough to remember that I should put my head between my knees, but but apparently not with it enough to remember that I had an 8 month pregnant belly in my way.  *No good.*  So there I sat, as hunched over as humanly possible in all my round, naked glory (at this point, the covers had fallen off of me and I didn't even care), wheezing and shaking and trying to find my "happy place," to keep from keeling over.  

I found out later that the bed was actually heated as well.  Lovely.  This person was supposed to be certified to do pregnancy massages.  And she was a nice girl, really, at a very well established, four-star spa.  But at what point in her training, I'm curious to know, did they tell her: "Place the pregnant woman on a heated bed, proceed to cover her with a warm cream from head to toe, then have her lie almost flat on her back (a big no-no when you're this far along) and then make sure she has a warm neck wrap.....oh yeah, and while you're at it, take 2 bath towels, stick them in a microwave until they're almost on fire, and wrap her feet in them."  

*I already felt like I'd been fattened up for the kill with my nice round belly.*  To her credit, I was given a discount because of the "drama," but as I wandered from my pregnancy massage down the hall for my facial, I was greeted by yet another warm bed and steam blowing in my face.  In not so many words, I told the nice lady to turn the bed off and point her steam elsewhere unless they were looking for a lawsuit.  Well, unless she wanted to know the joy of picking a naked pregnant woman off the floor.  The rest of the day, thankfully, was uneventful although I'm not sure how "relaxing" it actually was...

"Me" Day

I am a birthday freak.  I like to make a fuss over people on their birthdays because I think that's how it should be.  Everyone gets their own special day, so it stands to reason they ought to be made to feel special on that day. This isn't like Christmas (don't get me wrong, I'm not bashing Jesus' birthday by any means), when everyone tends to feel special on Christmas morning- perhaps even a bit entitled-  (flashback: 10 years old sitting by the Christmas tree and counting gifts to make sure I wasn't getting "gypped."  Sad, I know).  Jesus had a birthday, and we all run out to the malls spending hundreds of dollars on gifts to give each other.  Some gifts are thoughtful and others are "pressure" gifts- you know, the ones you have to have on standby because inevitably someone that wasn't on your shopping list will give you a gift (*dang-it!*) and you will feel guilty for not giving them one, so you either scrap something together last second (re-gift, maybe?) or have the "standby stash" ready....absolute absurdity.  

Alas, I digress.   Birthdays are different.  In my opinion, it's the one day out of the year a person should feel a bit of entitlement- it is, after all, the day your fabulous self made an entrance into the world.   It calls for a bit of celebration: cake (and let's not leave out candles!), perhaps a lunch or dinner at a favorite restaurant, a little guilt-free shopping spree (if you're the shopping type), a last minute decision to stop for that favorite latte,  maybe a manicure or pedicure or some other form of pampering...(can you tell that I'm the indulgent type?)  A few years ago, I started joking that my birthday should be called "Me Day" (much to my husband's chagrin), and it just kinda stuck.  I still call it "Me Day"- more because I like to watch Jake roll his eyes in disgust.  Jake is at the opposite end of the spectrum when it comes to birthdays.  He wants no special attention whatsoever, could probably care less if there's a cake waiting for him and heaven forbid you put candles on it and actually sing to him (his face becomes a deep shade of burgundy).  He always tells me he doesn't need or want anything for his birthday, but I'll have none of that.  Meanwhile, if I tell him I don't really want anything for my birthday, he knows that I'm lying through my teeth and that there's actually this pair of shoes/handbag/spa day I've been thinking about.  But I will not let him get away with the "my-birthday-is just-like-any other-day" attitude.  I will make a fuss over people- even more so for my husband.  He just has to deal with it.  (A little birthday embarrassment never hurt anyone).

That being said, my birthday was a bit anti-climactic this year- but not because I didn't feel loved or celebrated.  I had so many birthday wishes from family and friends, an afternoon without teaching lessons and going wherever the wind blew me, lunch with a good friend, a special visit to the hospital to meet our good friends' baby boy who decided he wanted to share "Me Day," a birthday dinner with Jake and his family....it really was a fabulous day.  I'm even going to have a spa day this Friday with a good friend of mine for a little third trimester pampering (my birthday gift from Jake).  But even all of that seems to pale in comparison to the *other* birthday I'm counting down to.  Heck, screw my birthday- I'm ready to celebrate this little bug's arrival!  Yeah, you think I make a big fuss over people now...just wait 'til it's my own baby's turn.  It would probably surprise no one if I even insisted on having some celebratory cake in the room after the baby is born (this Momma's got to eat too)!   So the countdown is on...my birthday, Jake's birthday....Junebug's birthday.  

I am very aware of the fact that I will soon be holding the purpose for which I was born and I can't wait...

IKEA and some well-deserved brownie points

Jake and I kicked off this weekend with a trip to one of my favorite stores.  *Ever.*  It's the hard-to-miss blue and yellow monstrosity directly off of I-95 that I like to call IKEA.  I was super psyched to go, not only for the great finds, but also to be able to see some good friends of ours.  The four of us got there around 2 on Saturday afternoon, fueled ourselves up with some IKEA cafeteria food (Swedish meatballs and lingenberries anyone?) and began our excursion.  Being the incredible multi-level money-pit that it is, we didn't emerge into daylight again until about 5:15.  I almost felt like I had been in some sort of time continuum as I blinked into the bright sun.  I might have actually been in there for days and not been the wiser.

First of all, I must dole out brownie points.  The first set goes to Jake.  My sweet husband is normally the pillar of patience in just about any circumstance, but- probably like most guys- his attention span morphs into that of a 2 year-old upon entering into any retail facility.  (After one particular experience in Kohls, I thought we might need to consider counseling).   I recognized that this was not his ideal way to spend a Saturday, but figured since we were able to share the trip with Chris and Becca, he would at least have another guy there with which to commiserate.  As we wound through the maze of mod furniture and knick-knacks with such names like Vaker, Vorkelstopffen, Ekby Hensvik and Malma (to name only a few), I had to control the amount of drool seeping out the corners of my mouth while his eyes glazed over and he became particularly interested in any sign that pointed us in the direction of the checkout.   Unfortunately for him, the checkout was located at the very end of a maze of showrooms, which lead to the marketplace, which in turn lead to the gargantuan warehouse.  Even if you know *exactly* what you're going in there for, the idiotic (or perhaps smart?) design people made it so that you HAVE to wind through every little nook and cranny before you reach the long awaited shrine of checkout registers.  Big brownie points to him.   He's officially maxed out his shopping quota for the year now.  

And major brownie points also go to my right hip, which decided to start aching about a third of the way into our trek.  Being nearly 8 months pregnant, easily fatigued and somewhat achy isn't exactly *ideal* for big shopping excursions, but I felt ready to tackle the challenge (twist my arm, right?)  I arrived armed with Tylenol, comfy (but stylish) shoes, snack baggies and drink in my purse and nothing was going to stop me.  Except my hip.  After navigating tight aisle spaces, guarding my belly against shopping carts driven by people running on pure IKEA adrenaline and sitting in a few too many low-lying Swedish futons- only to discover that I couldn't get up- my right hip was clearly angry with me for putting it through such agony.   On the car ride home, I felt as though I had been hit by a semi.  *Sigh*  I can't wait to have my body back again.

The reason for this trip?  I swear I'm not a masochist- I just love to shop.  And of course, I love my friends even more, so it was a successful trip all the way around.  What's even more exciting?  The set of closet organization gadgets I now get to put to good use (nesting much?) Forget clothes.  If you need me, I'll be in our walk-in closet until all is as it should be.

Noise Aversion

We've all heard that pregnancy hormones can send a woman in her first trimester running for the toilet over the smell of certain foods or even the scent of aftershave her husband has been wearing for their entire married life.  Smell aversion is nothing to be messed with, my friends.  I lucked out on this one though, as I only recall a very few times where I actually ended up walking (or practically running) through the meat section of the grocery store, breathing only through my mouth so as not to start gagging.  I was sensitive to certain aromas, but not enough to bring on the dry heaves, thank God.  Instead, these lovely hormones decided to skip my nose to have a little fun with my ears.

That's right folks, due to a heightened sense of sound, I believe that I have developed certain noise aversions.  Just as smell aversions can often lead to gagging, dry heaving and sometimes ultimately puking, these noise aversions often cause me to have what I like to call *word vomit. This could be as mundane as my dog (I tend to think of him more like a rabbit on crack) barking incessantly at a squirrel outside.  This is an aversion to sounds in a higher decibel range that I simply can't tolerate right now.   It could also be the times when Jake calls me from work, and some days he just doesn't sound quite "right" to me.  Perhaps, I had thought, he should be sounding a little happier to be talking to me.   This is a different type of noise aversion- a heightened sense of tone quality.  *Look out, more word vomit.*   

But there is another form of noise aversion I'd like to address: aversions to noises that are completely and utterly unnecessary.  The other day, Jake and I were brunching at one of our favorite spots in Richmond- a small, eclectic diner situated in the heart of the city.  Like most diners, it's filled with various, and oftentimes loud, sounds: the clanking of dishes and silverware, chefs calling out short orders, the sound of the cash register drawer slamming shut, people talking and laughing.  But these sounds are only to be expected in such a place, so my noise radar had remained unaffected.  That is, until two men walked in and seated themselves at the table directly behind us.  At some point, each of them must have asked the waitress for an iced tea.  I know this not because I heard them place the order, nor did I see the waitress bring it out to them.  I know that they ordered two very large iced teas that must have arrived unsweetened because for the next 10 minutes (really, I'm not exaggerating), all I heard was the swishing of spoons, ice and plastic cups as these two grown men apparently worked feverishly to ensure that every tiny granule of sugar had dissolved into their teas.  Yes, above the talking and shouting, above the clinks of plates being cleared by the busboy, my ears could hear nothing but incessant swishing and stirring of ice.  At one point, I even turned around to look- not because I was aggravated so much as I was completely amused that two people were obviously so intrigued by the process of dissolving solids into liquid (let's go back to 5th grade, shall we?)- and I saw, to my relief, that the ice had actually melted in their cups and they were finally laying their spoons to rest.  Ah, sweet peace at last!  (Even Jake, in all his patience and understanding, was laughing at the antics of the apparently oblivious duo behind us).  I turned back around to Jake to try to finish our conversation but my attention was caught by a waitress walking past our table carrying two large glasses of ice.  Please God, no. No no no no no noooooooo.  And before I can think another "noooo," the swishing resumes.  There's fresh ice in their glasses again and it's not disappearing anytime soon.  I'm in serious disbelief over these people, who I determine must be obsessive compulsive- and mute- because neither one of them is talking to the other.  Not one word.  They just continued to stir the hell out of their iced tea, making mindless and unnecessary noise....and that's when I felt it coming up....more word vomit....and there was no stopping it. 

Needless to say, we left our waitress a good tip for having to clean up after all of that...

 

*word vomit (wurd VAH-mit) v. the vigorous expulsion of a string of obscenities and complaints (which may or may not include name calling) often preceded by thoughtless acts, words or noises on the part of an unsuspecting individual. Warning signs include but are not limited to: facial contortion, bulging eyes and/or veins, gritted teeth, flushed cheeks and white knuckles. 

It's Not Easy Being Green...

This Kermit quote might be interpreted entirely differently if I were referring to the first trimester and the astounding level of nausea I experienced at times.  This time- thankfully- I'm only referring to being "Team Green. "  This is a common phrase for those couples wishing to keep the baby's gender a surprise until D Day.  It's often understood that they want to keep it a surprise for themselves mostly, although I have known of a few couples who find out and attempt to keep it a secret from friends and family.   After leaving the big 20 week ultrasound (the picture above is one we had done at 18 weeks), an expectant couple will be on one of three teams: Blue, Pink or Green.  Most have made up their minds long in advance as to whether or not they wanted a sneak peek at the goods.  Shortly after finding out I was pregnant, Jake and I had such a conversation that went something like this:

Me: "Well, once we know if it's a boy or a girl, we can start working on the nursery and picking a theme...." (*yes, I'm type A...how did you guess?*)

Jake: "We're not going to find out what we're having- that ruins it!  This is one of life's few great natural mysteries..."

*crickets*

You know all the great marital advice you get about communication and working to come to a compromise?  Yeah.  It might work for choosing a flavor of ice cream at the grocery store, but there are some things that compromise just isn't an option for.  This would be one such thing.  I mean, there's no way to compromise and say, "Well, how about we look between the legs at the ultrasound and then pretend like we didn't see a penis."  Or, "I'll look at this half of the baby, and you can look at the other half and we'll flip a coin."  Nope.  It's either Team Green all the way, or no Team Green- those are the options.

Or so I *thought.*  I admit that initially, I was on board with having a Team Green baby.  I had high hopes that I could rewire my pre-existing type A personality to cope with a 10 month surprise-in-waiting.  I fell in love with the idea, not realizing the implications.  Most of the "implications" are currently sitting in the top drawer of the baby's dresser: green, yellow and white (and I might add- somewhat "homely") looking onesies, footies, bathtowels, burp cloths and receiving blankets.  And let me clarify that when I say green, I mean a puke pea-green color, and the yellow is more of a mustard-booger tint (*just whose complexion is gonna look good next to either of those stunning options, I ask you??*)  The other implications of Team Green: patience and...well, just patience.  It wasn't so hard at first.  It's not that difficult when the baby resembles something closer to a sea turtle on the ultrasound photo than it does an actual human being.   Before I even reached the second trimester, I had locked in on a color scheme for the nursery (that didn't remotely involve either of the aforementioned colors) and was gender neutral ready.  We had also already decided on a boy and girl name before I even found out I was pregnant.  Done.  All I had to do was wait....

Fast forward to my 24 week check up and a routine conversation with a nurse who I'd never seen before.  I assumed she was either new, or filling in for someone else.   As she flips through my chart, she decided to let a certain pronoun slip...as in, "well, ___ is measuring right on track and everything looks great."  AHAH!   To which, I said- "it's a ___???"  (I mean, I couldn't help it- if I thought I had heard her correctly, I wasn't about to let her just leave me hangin'.)  The poor woman looked mortified, the color draining from her face. *oops*   I reassured her- in my delight- that it really was okay, that I was actually happy and relieved to know and that my husband was the one who had convinced me to "ride it out" to begin with.

Jake wasn't exactly pleased to hear that I was no longer riding the Team Green train anymore, though, as I expected he wouldn't.  Well, he might have been relieved since I started the conversation with what every husband wants to hear after a long day's work:  "Um, babe....I need to tell you something...and I don't want you to be mad...."  He was probably bracing himself for God only knows what, and I would make a sure bet that his first thought wasn't "oh my god.  she found out the baby's gender."  

I hoped to ease some of his disappointment by promising I would keep the surprise in tact for his sake and that no one else had to know besides me.  My lips would be sealed.    So for now, the baby is still referred to as "the baby" or  "Junebug," just like we've been calling it for the past 7 months.  I'll admit it's been a bit tricky to make sure I don't have the same "pronoun mishap" (as I've come to refer to it) as the nurse that day.  I told Jake that I would just continue to go back and forth between "he" and "she" and told him not to assume the first thing I might blurt out would actually give it away.  So far, it's been working out.  But it's not so fun to have to constantly monitor what I say, or how I say it.  As for baby clothes?  I haven't gone on any shopping spree to speak of since I found out- in fact, I'm rather proud of my own restraint in this area.  When I do decide to indulge and buy this little one some outfits, I plan to keep them well hidden- possibly even stashed at a friend's house until I'm ready to wash them (and then hide them again).   Only about 8-10 more weeks to keep up with the charade. 

Until then, I'm downgrading myself to Team Half-Green (as if there is such a thing).  And half-green = half fun.

"Now...what did I come in this room for?"

I'm a living, breathing testament to preggo brain.  And I quickly discovered that not only is it real, but it's intense.  I swear, I have never felt so stupid in my life (minus, of course, some chosen drunken moments in college).   Friends had warned me of the fate my brain cells would suffer upon getting pregnant and gestating a child and I was somewhat surprised and amused to actually see "brain drain" listed as a potential pregnancy symptom, but I continued to assume this was yet another old wives tale.  Wrong.  

Like clockwork, it started for me- literally- the day I found out I was pregnant.  It was a Saturday morning, and Jake and I had decided to go out and run a few errands after breakfast.  I was in the dreaded two-week wait, and although I had been experiencing some typical early pregnancy symptoms, I was trying to convince myself to wait another two or three days to take my first pregnancy test.  I was in serious need of distraction to keep from getting my hopes up, so I suggested we go look for Halloween costumes for a party we were throwing at the end of the month.   Off we went, and although we had a good time, it proved futile in keeping my mind off anything and everything preggo.  We came back home, unloaded some stuff from the car and came in to have lunch.  Another hour later, I was going to call a friend of mine, but couldn't find my phone anywhere.  It was my newest toy, time-suck, and little modern marvel all rolled into one- the iPhone.  And it was gone.  After realizing that it was not resting in it's usual place in the side pocket of my purse, I frantically turned the house upside down in search of it.   Looking back, I realized this was the only point in that two week waiting period that I thought of something other than being pregnant.  *This was not the distraction I had in mind, however.*  Was I losing my mind?  I didn't even take it out of my purse the whole time we were in the store, and I distinctly remembered having it with me when we left.   I did nothing short of digging through our trash can in hopes of finding my little black beauty.  What the hell?  Frustrated and distracted, I went out to our mailbox to bring the mail in and as I walked past my car, a small black object on the windshield caught my eye.  Holy mother of God.   There it was.  Sitting outside in the bright afternoon sun for two + hours- and yes, on the windshield. Ohhh, right. *lightbulb comes on* I had taken it out of my purse and then set it there momentarily in order to help Jake grab some bags from the backseat. 

Now, for the past five days, I had been experiencing what I thought and hoped were undeniable early pregnancy symptoms: sore boobs, fatigue, recurring tension headaches, some mild nausea, bleeding gums...I had a mental checklist that I was updating every 10 minutes.  For whatever reason, none of the above mentioned symptoms were enough to make me pull out my pee sticks and have a go.  Yet, the first thought that popped into my head upon seeing my iPhone chillin' out on the windshield of my car was, "oh my god.  I think I'm pregnant."   It was pretty uncharacteristic of me to have had a brain fart of quite that magnitude.  Thank God it wasn't raining that day.  I walked into the house and straight into our hall bathroom, pulled out the pregnancy tests and 2 minutes later found myself face to face with two very undeniable bright pink lines.  Thus, the preggo brain drain began.  *Special thanks to that lovely hormone, progesterone.* 

Since then, my memory has deteriorated and is not nearly what it used to be, and I have been warned that it may never return.  I have forgotten phone numbers of people I dial on a regular basis (and this, from a person who could remember every phone number of every house I have lived in, in four different cities since I was five years old).  I have walked into a room and wondered what the heck I came in there for to begin with (if you have seen our house, you'd know this is tough to do as there are not that many rooms).  I have gotten in my car, driven out of our neighborhood to go to....wait, where the hell am I going?   I started leaving myself post-its with reminders- everything from birthdays, bills, my own social security number and cat's name, much like someone with Alzheimer's.  My reaction time is even slower.  When it comes to math, I would fit into the "borderline retarded" category.  But even with quick math (you know, the kind that most 10 year olds can do in their head), I stutter and stammer and search for my calculator, which I also seemed to have misplaced.   

It's gotten bad, people.  It's probably going to continue to get worse before it gets better- if it ever gets better at all.  Thankfully, those on the receiving end of my brain blunders have been more than understanding.  Apparently there is validity to this "brain drain" after all.   I just hope I can get some of these brain cells back once baby is here....*fingers crossed, but not counting on it.*

"Walk this Way"

Ah, the joys of the third trimester:  the impending due date, a now very obvious baby bump, the sometimes uncomfortable but always reassuring kicks and squirms from baby, putting final touches on the nursery....but we all know that mother nature can't leave well enough alone, so she added a few other things to the list as well: heartburn and the acid-vomit burp, swelling in places you never thought possible, the awkward "bend-over-while-crossing-legs" move that becomes second nature when you sneeze so you don't pee your pants, (*this is quite fun to explain to curious onlookers in TJ Maxx: "no, I'm not in labor, just lost control of my bladder, thanks*). And now I can officially add the "preggo waddle" to my list.  

I admit, I always found it adorable to watch extremely pregnant women walk around- one hand on the small of the back, the other hand on the belly- it seemed like the classic "preggo" stance.   Oh, how that has come back to bite me.  I don't even think I'm that big yet, but apparently I am just big enough to have to modify how I walk.  I've discovered that it's not just the belly that causes this- it can be the type of pants I'm wearing or even the shoes.  My old navy maternity jeans are currently getting stretched to their breaking point.  Now, this could be attributed to the fact that my hips are widening to make way for the 13-ish cm head that will be descending in a few more weeks (um, ouch).  OR, it could be the fact that I have four (actually, now only two) boxes of Girl Scout cookies that start calling my name the moment I set foot in my kitchen in the mornings.  *sigh*  Either way, my pants are getting a little less comfortable these days and if I didn't have to look presentable for my piano lessons, I would seriously be rolling up in Jake's oversized flannel pajama pants.  The other day, I was wearing these particular pants and some cute black thong sandals I bought at Target last year.  It was 80 degrees here, and I was already sweating more than I care to admit. I had no idea that my feet were capable of sweating so much, by the way. *Ick*  This meant that I couldn't get any traction on my plastic wedge Target specials.   So let's do some quick math: baby belly + tight jeans + sweaty feet + sweat-slicked plastic soles of Target thong sandals = me, waddling up my students' walkways.   Just call me "Daffy."

I plan to celebrate this minor milestone by investing in some bigger jeans, a new pair of shoes (preferably with better traction)....and maybe one more box of Thin Mints.  ;-)

Knowing where to "draw the line" (more parking fun)

My rant of the day: Parking spaces are too freakin' small.  Or maybe cars are just getting too damn big, but one way or the other, something's gotta give.  I think the "stork parking" is a fabulous idea for us mamas-to be, but unfortunately it's not enough anymore to have a parking space to call our own.  They need to also be 2-3 feet wider to better accommodate those of us who are no longer able to see our feet.  (I don't ask for much, really).  But I have officially reached the point in my pregnancy where turning sideways to shimmy into a tight space no longer works for, well, shimmying.  I have discovered this on several occasions when- and I'm still not sure how this happens- I "forget" that my belly sticks out.  (Yet, I just can't seem to "forget" that my ass is widening...)  Take for example, a sliding glass door that is open only so far.  Having had wonderfully flat abs for most of my life (one of the few things I actually liked about my body), I still instinctively turn sideways in an effort to squeeze through tight spaces, only to end up bumping my belly or find myself wedged for a second or two.

Today, as I was leaving my favorite coffee shop, I was rather irked to find someone had parked their gi-normous suburban right on top of my driver side door.  (Rant within a rant: If people insist on driving these mammoths-on-wheels, they ought to at least know how to park one).  So there I stand- cup of decaf in hand, laptop under arm and now a personal vendetta to top it all off.  I have read stories of women who ended up having to climb through their back doors, or through their passenger door and over the console, and I'll admit that I assumed those women were probably 9 months pregnant, carrying twins, or already on the fluffy side. But I stand corrected: I am barely 7 months pregnant, baking only ONE bun, and don't consider myself fluffy (although when this is all said and done, I might end up revisiting the last part of that statement).  I saw no easy way to get into my car.  Now, given that my car was parked front and center- more than likely, I was providing comic relief to customers who were sitting in the cafe enjoying their lattes as they watched me walk from my passenger side door, to the driver side, then back to the passenger side....and yet again to the driver side...opening my door and getting half of my butt in, closing the door to open the back door and dump my belongings, switch coffee from hand to hand,  reopen driver side door, poke my head in and twist my body, hop on my left leg as I thrust my right leg in...(and realizing that "sucking in" my belly does nothing to flatten it anymore and actually only serves to make me lightheaded).

For a brief hormonal moment, I saw myself hurling my steaming cup of coffee all over the windshield of this vehicle that had clearly been parked by someone who was legally blind.  If that was the case however, then I reasoned they probably wouldn't see the brown liquid all over the front of their car and thus my wrath would be wasted.  *sigh*  (Notice how it never occurred to me not to seek revenge because that's technically the "right" thing to do.   I will say it again- pregnancy hormones cannot be reasoned with).  So after my own personal version of the  hokey pokey to get myself into the driver's seat, I sat there and did something I know will come back to haunt me one day: I vowed that I would never be seen driving one of those larger than life, parking space-hogging, monster suburbans.  Ever.  I've already sworn off mini-vans , so I'm not sure what options this leaves me if our family ever grows beyond 2 kids (which we're hoping it will).  Maybe an ugly gray passenger van?  Now wouldn't THAT be cute.  

Really....snow??

Ever think about the end times?  Or wonder about the pandemonium that will ensue with the approach of the apocalypse?  I am here to tell you I have witnessed it.  It is Kroger here in Richmond the day before a snowstorm.  I kid you not.  I had no idea there was such a dire need to buy ingredients for pancakes when it's going to snow.  And toilet paper- in the event that you will need to poop 13 times in the next 2 days.

It happened yesterday.  Snow, that is.  Around 4 pm, the rain/freezing rain mixture that we affectionately label "winter" here, turned to this unusual white stuff and continued to fall- heavily- through the evening, overnight and well into morning.  The metro Richmond area awoke today to find about 8 inches of snow on the ground, after four + years of barely any accumulation to speak of.  *If you have lived in Richmond for the last decade or so, you might begin to convince yourself that these are blizzard conditions*  It hasn't helped that the last few months- actually make that years- have been nothing but false alarms, so much so that for the last 3 years, I have operated under the assumption that our local meteorologist has a bona-fide learning disability.  I should be so lucky to go to school so that I, too, can be wrong 80% of the time at my job and still get paid. 

That being said, this is one of the prettiest snows I've seen in a long time.  The word "breathtaking" comes to mind.  This is clearly what sets me apart from people who live in the northeast and Midwest, who are probably sick of this weather by now.  I'm sure if this were to hang around for a couple more weeks, I'd be way over it too.  I doubt I'll even go outside to play in it, although with my round belly and pasty whiteness, I might make for a decent snowman if I stood out in our front yard long enough (and maybe stuck a carrot out of my mouth).  Ironically, Jake left his snow boots up in Michigan with my parents over the holidays because we just *knew* that Richmond would never see snow again.  I have to admit, when it came time to take out the trash, I rather enjoyed watching him stumble around in my fur-trimmed platform wedge Payless special boots (complete with rhinestone buckles) because they were the only things tall enough to keep the snow out.  Good times.

So for now, I'll gladly take a day or two of mild cabin fever and enjoy the beautiful view from the comfort of my sofa.  It's a great excuse to have some coffee or hot chocolate, bake some cookies, spend an over-abundance of time online...oh, and clean like a mad woman (if you are the pregnant, nesting type like me). :-)