Jan
29
First of all, if any of you are also currently eating from the Fuckit Bucket, may I most sincerely recommend making yourself a Gooey Butter Cake. Take that sumbitch out of the oven about 10 minutes early, too, so it’s really gooey. Sure, you might need to go at it with a spoon rather than a fork, but that’s a small price to pay for putting the dessert equivalent of a full-body massage (WITH “happy ending”) in your mouth.
Also, please to be appreciating my fancy toes:
Sorry, I should have warned you before just sticking my feet all up in your face like that. I know some people are thoroughly skeeved by feet just like some people get weird lustful toe-boners and I hope you fall into the foot camp I’m in, which can basically be described as: Feet Are Benign Objects That Neither Call Me With Their Sexy Siren Song Nor Make Me Dry-Heave In Disgust.
That polish will probably be there six months from now, sadly. Oh, and I did look for Engorged Labia in my color choices but had to settle for whatever this was called — From Russia With Love, I think? Something wacky like that; makeup product managers must love it when they’re allowed to venture out of the “Peachy Keen” box.
The actual application-of-color part of a manicure or pedicure is nice enough, but it’s really all about the wonderful things they do to you beforehand, especially if you spring for the spa variety and get the bubbly foot soak and all. I even like the semi-terrifying paraffin dip, where you purposefully put your extremities in boiling-hot wax for reasons I’ve never understood yet still enjoy.
So I had my wonderful mani/pedi, and today I got my hair trimmed — just enough to put some longevity in the cut, I hope — and now I can focus on the important business of slothing around for the rest of the week. I’m going to read trashy magazines and surf all of your websites (heLLO, could you maybe update more often?) and make half-hearted attempts to make sure the house is ready for a baby and that we’ve put away all the bear traps and jugs of poison etc and will in all likelihood continue to mysteriously attract trolls at ParentDish while writing the most vanilla, non-contentious mommyblog entries on earth.
Also, there will be Gooey Butter Cake. Quite a lot of it, I’m afraid.
Jan
28
Pregnancy status: still pregnant. Blog updating status: surely veering into the “way too frequent” zone.
So! My blood pressure was at the high end of normal (155/85, I think?) at my OB appointment earlier today, which caused them to get a little squirrely and hook me up to a fetal monitor for a while so that Smalltopus could impress everyone with his ability to continually roll out of range of the goopy suction heartbeat-detector thingie. Then they did another blood pressure reading and everything seemed fine. Whuh? I don’t know either. So assuming the bloodwork they did today turns out okay, I’m all good until Monday. Well, except I have to go back again on Friday for another blood pressure and fetal non-stress test. I guess I’ll just keep my packed bag in the trunk of my car for now.
I don’t even have an appointment time for my surgery, I’m just supposed to call Labor & Delivery around 6 AM on Monday and see when they want me to come in. Apparently the hospital’s surgery schedule fluctuates depending on what’s going on — emergency deliveries etc — so it’s hard for them to commit to a specific time before the actual date. I find this mildly disconcerting, since I would prefer to have as many Known Variables as possible so as to more efficiently freak out about them ahead of time. But fine. FINE. It will be a festive Monday morning surprise, hopefully as in “Surprise! We can take you right away!” vs “Surprise! We made you wait all day long and kept telling you not to eat and now that you feel like shit on a stick we’re going to hack into your internal organs with bandsaws!”
Speaking of internal parts, I watched JB slop some fruit yogurt into a bowl the other night and cheerfully told him that it looked like placenta, at which point he whipped his head around and glared at me and hissed, “You did not just say that. You did not.” But yes, I did, because HA! I’m 38 weeks pregnant and although I cannot make you suffer as I do YOU WILL SUFFER NONETHELESS. Oooohhhhhh PLACENTA! Delicious, delicious placenta! Let’s talk more about PLACENTA.
And with that, I am off for my much-anticipated manicure/pedicure. I am thinking of just waddling in there and loudly demanding the trampiest, sluttiest damn color the salon has to offer. Something like “Engorged Labia”, maybe.
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