Email me


Journal entries:




Sign up for email notifies:




The Hot Flash Club, Nancy Thayer

I have had this major chick book thing going on lately. If it's got a foot on the cover or the words "irresistibly wicked" on the back, I am ON IT.

Check out:

Hey, boys! It's Steak and BJ Day!


Ha! HA HA HA! I wish I could tell you I took this photo, but sadly, it came from the Interweb. My fervent prayer is that it's a real sign somewhere.

Monday, March 14, 2005

I've read a lot of pregnancy-related books, and overall, I feel fairly well informed at this stage of the game. I've learned about all sorts of weird symptoms, possible complications, what to avoid, ways to stay healthy, breathing techniques for labor, and how to fix an inverted nipple. So I have to tell you, I was completely unprepared for what, so far, has been the most physically tortuous part of pregnancy: the full ultrasound bladder.

My appointment was for 10:00 this morning. The paperwork I was given had stern instructions to drink 3 full glasses of water one hour before the appointment. Which I did.

I didn't. Get. Called. For the actual ultrasound. Until. Ten. Forty. Five.

For a person who has been occupied with the nearly full time job of peeing since mid-January, waiting longer than 15 minutes between restroom breaks is a major challenge on its own, never mind the fact that it was more like TWO HOURS and I'd put down a bunch of water for the express purpose of filling my damn bladder.

I was absolutely miserable, sitting in the waiting room trying my best not to explode, but that was nothing compared to having the ultrasound wand thingie pressed into my abdomen. Here was the moment I'd been looking forward to, when we'd see the first grainy images of our child, and the only thing on my mind was a very real and growing fear that I was going to hose the exam table - and possibly the entire room - with urine, if she pressed ANY HARDER.

After a few minutes of prodding, the technician told us the baby wasn't in a good position for the nuchal translucency test, and that I could go to the bathroom before she tried some more.

At Overlake Medical Tower, Suite 260, in the toilet next to exam room 1, at precisely 11:00 in the morning, a beam of light shot down from the heavens, and a shining choir of angels appeared, who sang a glorious ode to joy while I peed for at least three and a half straight minutes.

The rest of the ultrasound was much more interesting to me once my bladder was no longer at critical mass, but the technician sure wasn't having a good time. She had me lie on one side, then the other, then put my knees to my chest, then walk around, all the while rummaging around on my belly with the goo-covered wand, but none of it did any good. Although we did get to see quite a lot of footage of our blurry, black-and-white, squirming 3-inch fetus (singular!), I have to go back tomorrow so they can try once more to get an image of the back of the neck. "This time," said the tech, "you can drink less water." Wayyyy ahead of you, lady.

Oh, and at one point during the scanning process she told me she could see that I have gallstones. Like, THREE OF THEM. Apparently they are causing me no trouble, but what the FUCK, gallstones? Jesus.


Our weekend started out at suck on Friday when we hit an immediate wall of I-5 traffic that didn't let up until Olympia, and moved on to blow when it was discovered that our iTrip had died and gone to shitty Mac peripheral heaven, but Saturday was a major improvement. We spent the day at JB's family cabin on the Umpqua river, and no lie, I got a sunburn, it was so nice out.

We spent both Friday and Saturday nights at JB's brother's apartment, on an air mattress that slowly leaked throughout the night. Both mornings, before the sun came up, enough air had escaped so that we were essentially lying on the floor. We also had two small blankets to share, neither of which could adequately cover one person. When I got home yesterday, I french kissed my king-sized, duvet-covered bed until my tongue was coated with cat hair.


I got to work today to find out I had printed the wrong bar code UPC on all our brand new software retail boxes. 5,000 boxes, all with what amounts to a horrendous typo. Also, I dropped a piece of bacon on my shirt while eating lunch, and thank god I was alone, because it wasn't until several minutes later that I noticed it - a hunk of BLT, just sitting there on my ever-expanding boob shelf. Yes, somebody DOES have a case of the Mondays.

<- back ::: next - >