Yay... local sports team!

I've decided to like football.  I know, it's a big step, and it seems just a little bit counter-everything I've ever stood for and believed in, but heck.  Maybe it's time for a change.

My brother has been a Buffalo Bills fan for nearly 2 decades.  He has loved them every day of the last 11 years, during which they haven't once even made it to the playoffs.  Because of him, I've watched a rather large amount of Buffalo football throughout the years.  And I felt really sorry for my brother.

After watching decades of Bills teams flop all over themselves and go through amazing maneuvers to lose absolutely any game in the second half, the last 3 weeks have found me just the slightest bit impressed.  Reason?  Well, oddly enough, the Bills keep winning.  Amazing, come from behind, jaw dropping wins that have actually glued me to the television.  I am not joking when I say, I have found myself WANTING to watch football.  So, watch out farmers.  You might have a little trouble keeping your pigs penned up.  You know.  Because they can fly now.  Right.

Anyway, the Bills are currently undefeated, after putting up a 40 burger against the Chiefs (it's a football thing, you wouldn't understand), beating Oakland in the last few seconds of an on-the-edge-of-your-seat game, and getting 4 turnovers off the Patriots to finally win by 3.

Now, I'm pretty sure you don't come here to read about football, but at the same time, I'm not sure why you DO come, so I'm not prepared to write anything off.  So I apologize for being all sportsy, but I thought you may like to know what's going with me, and what's going on with me is the fact that I look like this now:

Anyhow, hope you all find something worth cheering for tonight.  And, oh yeah: BUFFALO BILLS FOOTBALL RULES!!!

Pregnancy Cravings and becoming Susie Homemaker

I woke up Saturday morning and immediately felt, well, absolutely miserable.  I was already hungry, which is normal for every moment of my life these days, and again, just like normal, this also meant I was overcome by gut-wrenching nausea.

By the way? Sick of it. Just. Foh-reakin. Sick of it.

However, there's also a super-bright side to my 6 1/2 straight weeks of feeling like I have the flu every dang day of my life:  FOOD.

Unlike normal sick, where you feel relegated to ginger ale and saltines, pregnancy sick seems to require incredibly specific, obscure, and occasionally elaborate meal-fixes.  Basically, I eat the right thing, I feel better.  I eat the slightly WRONG thing (like tacos. As good as they smell, they make the baby just so, so very angry), I'm left with violent stomach cramps.  Really, it's sort of like an adventure.  And when I win, oh boy do I ever win.  I am not joking.  I ate a club sandwich at Chili's last night that just about blew my ever-loving mind.  They should seriously win some kind of award for that sandwich.

One food side effect of pregnancy is the desire, not just to eat, but to bake.  Apparently child numero dos is superduper picky about his/her food sources, and prefers fresh baked to prepackaged pastries.  All of a sudden things from packages taste a little more like the package than the food it's supposed to contain.  In other words, this kid has already locked me into the kitchen.

So all of these things are the reason why you find me here tonight, baking pumpkin bread that smells so good, I'm nearly brought to tears.  Again, not joking.  It's getting hard to read my typing and watch the majestic glory that is Empire, through the mistiness of my eyes.  Oh man.  If that bread tastes even half as good as it smells, I think I might have to do a jig.

And for my Jerry Springer moment, life is full of trade offs.  This past month and a half, I've traded my ability to ever feel healthy and normal, and gained a zest for food stuffs that I have never, ever before even imagined.  Something to think about.  Hope all of your trade offs bring you crazy dance-producing joy today!

Now I know how cat feels.

We have Cat.

Cat spends all night sleeping on our feet.

Cat spends all day sleeping on the arm of our couch.

Cat occasionally wakes up to eat and force humans to pet her.

Besides that, cat sleeps.

Oh, how I envy Cat.

Sometimes I think about blogging again these days, but during the few minutes of opportunity I have in the day, my fingers feel too sleepy to type, and my brain feels too sleepy to be interesting.

Exactly how much would you like to hear about my exhaustion, nausea, and newly developed passion for everything edible?  Are you fascinated to know how stupid being pregnant makes you?  Here's some of the more recent highlights:

- TWICE in one day, I dialed a number on my phone, then forgot to pick it up to my ear. I just stared at it, wondering what was supposed to happen next.
- I forgot to change my daughter's diaper last week. For an entire day. I put one on her in the morning, and didn't think about it again till she started to leak at 5.
- I keep forgetting stuff I'm supposed to be doing, and places I'm supposed to be driving.
- I've washed my body in hair conditioner, and come very close to putting lotion on my toothbrush.  I'm getting really nervous I might poison myself soon.
- I can't remember anyone's name. I mean anyone.  Real sorry, everyone I've ever met. I just don't know who you are anymore.
- I forget the date. Not just the day, but the month and year too. Frequently.
- I forgot my own age the other day. I read it a bunch of times, and kept agreeing with myself.  Yep, I'm 26.  It took a friend to remind me that I'm 27, which was terrifying, because it really felt like a lost a year of my life right then.

It would not be a stretch to say that I'm about two days from dropping my jaw and drooling on myself.  Shoot, I already wind up with bits of food and toothpaste spilled down my shirts most days, I'm constantly tripping when I walk, and the other day I somehow managed to drop a drawer full of heavy things on my foot, because I don't know how to properly use cupboards anymore.

So that's my life lesson these days, my friends: HUMILITY. Learn it. Love it. Forgive others because no one is more slovenly pathetic than yourself.

My muffin top is all that!

Yesterday I wore my size 8 "WAS happy to call them fat pants", and exhibited a sizable, un-ignorable, makes-me-want-to-give-up-on-life sized  muffin top.  That's right.  Those freaking pants should need a belt to stay on, and instead I'm bulging out everywhere like I'm frickin Pop 'n Fresh.

So I'm weighing in this morning at 151.2, and it's not like I've been gaining additional weight, exactly, but dang it all, it sure looks like I am.  According to the internet, there's a dang good reason for this:  This is my second kid, and I'm starting to "show".

Right? ... No.

Only, you can't see a baby, or a cute little bump.  You can see all the extra baby chub left around after my LAST pregnancy, now being pushed out and super-powered.  It's terrible.  I feel fatter now than I did last pregnancy, when I weighed 20 pounds more.  I cannot freaking wait till I look pregnant, and not like I'm trying to smuggle a medium sized inner tube under my shirt.  I am not joking, if it gets any worse, I'm moving exclusively into sweat pants and maternity wear by the end of the week.

An oldie but, well, my favorite.

This is an entry I wrote on my Xanga site, 4 years ago yesterday.  To date, it may just be my favorite thing that I've ever written.  It's a little racy, so skip it, or read with caution, or with a glass of wine, whichever's your pleasure.

My title is: Another stupid example of how our country is made up of whiney faced a-holes who sue people for making coffee too hot call them racists or biggots or sexists for having any thought that contradicts what any other person might think or say or do- An Essay.                                                      

So last night was Friday, and Shane and I went to the grocery store to pick up some eggs. While waiting in line, we decided to purchase our very first Cosmo magazine, in order to discover how a woman might pleasure her man in a way no other woman might have had the nerve to do so yet. (It was called: "The Sex He Secretly Craves". We were guessing anal. It wasn't anal. Awkwaaard...) 

But as we skimmed through the glossy pages of sexual suggestions, we came across something rather alarming: an article entitled A New Kind of Date Rape. Well see, personally I was getting pretty bored with both the "too drunk to know better", and the "sure her lips said no but her va-jay-jay said yes yes" forms of date rape, so I was intrigued.  

So here are the steps to the posh new date rape fad we must all fall in with, sayeth Cosmo, Goddess of creepy sex tips and so so perfume swatches: 

1) If we both get really really drunk, and then we're fooling around, and I whisper no, but we're basically about in the act, and you don't zip up before I pass out, (seriously, I'm that drunk), you raped me. Slammer time. 

2) If we both get really really drunk, and we've actually begun the act of coitus, and I say no, and you don't immediately pull out and tell you how much you respect me for my mind, you've got it, more slammer time. 

3) If we both get really really drunk, and have again begun the bow chick chicka part of the evening, and I don't so much as say "no", but maybe stiffen up in a way that displays a certain distaste for what's currently going on, and you don't run out of the room with your pants still around your ankles, once again, I'm raped, you're imprisoned. 

4) And lastly, say.... oh, I don't know, we both get like, really really drunk, and then we're fooling around, and that's nice, and then we go a little farther, and then you (how do we put this in a PG, "babies still come from storks" way) "begin the beautiful act of love by comin on in for the special hug time" (Nope, that sounded really kind of pervy) and then I make a groany type noise, and you say, "What's wrong?" and immediately leave the special hug scenario so as not to in any way do something I don't want, well for you sir, you're sicko rapist, that'll by 5 years hard time.  

Cosmo notes the fact that this new rape phenomenon (which they call "Gray Rape") is in part due to (gasp) excessive drinking, women becoming more sexually aggressive, and the culture and lifestyle of "Screw me now, get my name later". However, they also go on to discuss that women need to be allowed the "right" to continue expressing themselves in a sexually and heavily intoxicated way. Just know, as a man, if you happen to make eye contact with a woman who is both sexual AND heavily intoxicated, you are probably a rapist. Now off to jail with you, you sexual miscreant. No passing Go, no collecting any actual Pooty Tang.

Aaaaaaand Bloat.

Feeling very poochy lately, which is another way of saying that I feel like my stomach region has taken on a life of its own and has decided on a general expansion of property.  I feel fat.  Tight pants.  It feels uncomfortable to lay on my stomach.  The whole 9 yards.

I've been mostly blaming this on my to-ridiculous-to-mention eating habits (por ejemplo, I made ice-cream a meal every single day for like, 3 weeks), but today I found some wonderful news:  By about 6 weeks, (aka, now) I should be able to notice a little "tightening around the waist" especially since this isn't my first rodeo.

So yay!!!  Pregnancy Book also suggested that I "probably have gained a few pounds by now". Which begs the question, how do you know me so well, Pregnancy Book?!?  Uh-may-zing.

Sorry I haven't resumed writing lately, I've tried a couple of times, but it got a little confusing to read when my head collapsed onto the keyboard.  If anyone notices these days that I'm walking around with the letter J embedded in my forehead, remember how sleepy baby-making gets you.  And now it's 7:30, time for my daughter's bath, followed by my pre-bedtime nap.  Ah, c'est la vie!