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A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson

How have I never read this author before? LOVE HIM. LOVE. Must read all Bryson material now.



GRAWKKK! This lovely and beak-y specimen spent his days hanging out in our Oahu hotel. Do not feed or pet parrot, said the sign. No problem, says I.


Thursday, May 12, 2005

I have another damn cold, the depressing snout-plugging variety that leaves you with your mouth gaped open all the time, audibly gulping air and whuffling. Last night in bed I endlessly flipped from one side to the other, hoping to relieve the snotfest in my head, but it was no good. If I slept for more than one five minute stretch, I'd be surprised. Of course, all my squirming and nasal honkings didn't go unnoticed, I dragged JB right down into my personal hell. "Did you get any sleep last night?" I asked him this morning as he staggered out of the shower. "Ummm," he replied, blinking. "Sleep. Yeah, no."

I might have been able to rustle up some sympathy, you know, if I hadn't felt like wet shit on a shingle. "Sorry," I said insincerely, blowing yet another juicy blast into a kleenex. "That must have sucked for you."

I blame United Airlines. I mean, the last cold I had was just a few weeks ago, when I flew to Tokyo. COINCIDENCE? I think not. A plane is basically a giant metal tube festering with germs, that slowly fills with stale farts, halitosis, and people's hacking coughs, right? The entire flight from Hawaii to San Franciso, we endured the throat-rumblings of a women across the aisle, who made these sounds for 5 long hours: "Hem. Hrm. HEMMM. Hrm! Hrm! Ahem. Ahrm. Heck. HECK! Hem. Hrm." ETC. It could be her mucusy virus that's be rollerblading through my immune system right now. Bitch.

You know what the very best part about being sick while you're pregnant? Why, it's the plethora of medicinal options that lay before you, of course! NOT. Can't take decongestants. Can't guzzle Nyquil through a beer bong. Can't even take a ferchrissake Advil. Instead, for congested sinuses, one pregnancy website advises, "try putting two drops of tea tree or marjoram essential oil onto a tissue and sniffing it at regular intervals!" Sure, if I could actually sniff something. Spare me the hippie treatments, babycentre.com, you're talking to someone who is actually considering trepanning as an option for relief.

After the baby comes, I swear to god I am going to mainline triple-shot lattes, Benadryl, and raw salmon nigiri for a fucking month.


I was so focused on finding out the sex at the 21-week ultrasound on Tuesday that I completely forgot about all the other, more critical, tests they do. The appointment took a long time, as our tech clicked around and zoomed in on this and that and generally sort of freaked me out by staring at things and mumbling to herself. She spent several minutes hunting down an artery in the heart and I was terrified she'd end up telling us she saw something suspicious, some defect, but no - thank god, everything with the baby looks healthy. "You want to know the sex?" she asked, typing GENDER on the screen. We replied in the affirmative. "Can you make a guess?" JB had a better view than I did (why don't they make that monitor more visible, so the mother-to-be doesn't have to crane their neck Exorcist-style to see what's going on?) and blurted "boy!" just before she sort of drew a square around what was clearly an impressive male organ. You know, for a fetus and all.

This appointment revealed that I have what's called partial placenta previa - it's where the placenta partially covers up the cervix, because it's a dumbass and no one told it not to do that. Apparently, there's a good chance it will get a clue and move back out of the way over the next weeks, but if not, it'll mean a caesarian birth. Not a huge deal as far as I'm concerned. If that's the worst complication that comes up, hooray for large blessings. Also, caesarian babies have prettier, non-smushed heads.

Oh, and here's an image from the ultrasound. Aw, he's so grainy and nebulous!


A few months ago someone asked me if I had a "theme" for the nursery. Oh ho ho, I chuckled, a THEME. Please. Like teddy bears and shit? Barf.

Of course, that was Then. Now, I have hormones swirling madly throughout my system, and I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Such as purchasing a stuffed octopus, blue tang, and yellow seahorse online yesterday because it would be, like, sooooo perfect for the - get ready - underwater theme! And an octopus print for the wall! (I mean, octopuses are obviously where it's at for a kid's room. Just think of all those huggy, loving, sucker-encrusted arms!). And hey, is that a stuffed leafy sea dragon I see? CLICK!

I have no excuse for this behavior, except to theorize as my belly grows larger, my brain gets goofier. What other explanation can there possibly be for my lengthy contemplation and ultimate rejection of a plush clownfish, on the basis that it might be "too 'Finding Nemo'" for the room? PLEASE SEND HELP. Also, Fig Newtons.


Last but not least, I give you a drawing I myself produced as a wee tot. I can only hope our child shows a similar propensity for the fine arts, a masterful touch with the crayon, and a natural preference for bad puns (hum a few bars of America the Beautiful and my youthful GENIUS will become clear).

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