Strong and Confident

I'm starting to wonder if anyone is truly confident in themselves.  Seems that the more I learn about people, the more I realize that everyone acts out of their wounds.  Seems as though the more confident a person acts the more broken they are.  Which loops around into a huge large circle with the beginning and the end being 'be kinder than necessary' because you just don't know anyone except yourself.  And chances are, that's scary enough.

But this lady.  I'm not sure she has one single wound, because THAT is confident:

Foodie Unleashed

I am a true blood foodie.  This isn't a condition, this is me.  It's as innate as survival to me, not just a too comfortable marriage, a backfired eating disorder, or stress.  I love food.  Really any food, apart from mussels or cannolis.  When I was a tender age around three or four and someone asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I replied, "eat nutritious foods!"  And that is as to the core as I can get.

beef barley soup and oranges, more accurately

Now imagine a foodie unleashed via pregnancy.  Yes, imagine.  We're talking Hostess cupcakes and spaghetti with butter and cheese and squash with brown sugar and grapefruit! and ginger ale with maraschino cherries! chicken, (so gross), elbow noodles (never mention that word again), bologna! salad with bacon and bleu cheese and pickled onions (for realz), mango coleslaw (do it) (ps that is a link on my own accord.  First time in a while, I know.  It will actually lead you to a real website, not San Diego car repair or Minneapolis real estate.  heh.).  You get the picture.  But that's only in the evenings.


Did you see this past weeks Glee about drinking awareness?  And all of the students and Mr Schuester come to school wiht sunglasses on because of their hangovers?  And Mr Schue mentions that the principal's cologne is so strong?  This is what my morning are like every morning.  My body wash makes me nauseous.  The smell of coffee, nauseating.  The idea of a Reese's egg is literally vomit inducing.  The foodie in me is nonexistent, and I feel like a sassy and picky fourth grader.  But that hasn't stopped me from  outgrowing my pants.  So soon.  And it's all because of the glorious 1pm-on eating.

The best part about it is when I hit the 50 pound weight gain mark and have the baby, by then I'm burnt out on eating so much junk and all the time.  (knock on wood- chances are just because I'm saying it means this time I won't lose it)  So unlike Giselle, who claims that it is a shame that some pregnant women think of themselves as a garbage disposal, I will eat to my content in preparation for labor.  Because (this is my ultimate fallback excuse) did you know that calorically speaking, going through labor and delivery is equivalent to participating in a triathlon?  Bring it on.  I've got some carbo loading to do.

Bus driver

For most of my elementary years I had this one Bus Driver.  Her name was something along the lines or Diana or Tracy or Nancy.  She was really cool.  Really cool until she got pregnant, and to my young and innocent mind she was more or less a bunny rabbit.  (Pot calling the kettle black, whatevs.)  When she was not pregnant she was simply a highlighted haired, slim lady with crayolaed pictures of her favorite little riders and a love note from her husband hanging on the dash.  When she was pregnant, she really turned into a downright monster.  We'd literally tiptoe on the bus.  If we made it on the bus, anyway.  Because she was not unknown to drive right past you, jsut for kicks or some authority, I'm assuming.  Not pregnant, on holidays she would give us our favorite candies and erasers and maybe a construction papered craft that she'd done the night before.  When she was pregnant we would tiptoe on the bus and before even making it to the second step she would bark, "DIABETES OR ALLERGIES?" then toss a bag of candy corn at us.

After her maternity leave she would come back radiant and beaming, showing us new picture of her ugly (you know they are) newborn.  She would practically hand cigars out to the boys.  It was very jarring for us, and took us the full rest of the year to recover and realize she was not a maniacal monster.  But then every fall we'd come back and she'd announce the dreadful-to-us news: she was pregnant.  Again.

It hit me like a mac truck today, that I am Tracy, Diana, Nancy.  I have rage that cannot be tamed.  Take, for example, yesterday, my round four to get a license at the dmv.  By round four red flags should probably be going up in NYS with quotes like, "slow!" "does not respond well to direction!" "does not read direction!" "unworthy of driving if she can't do this right!"  Instead, after a long line and my kids running in and out of rooms, the lady at the desk calmly told me that my proof of address didn't qualify because it's an insurance bill.  Red pen circling, "it's right here under the list of unacceptable."  I could've climbed over the counter and strangled her with my own hands.  I understand this is irrational and unreasonable, but hormones are hormones and I was seeing red.  RED.

Or, take for example today, when my washing machine broke for the second time in 6 weeks.  I nearly fell on the floor weeping.  I called service and they told me that they could come on Friday.  Friday?  I have clothes that are locked in my washer, my husband WORKS THERE and this just happened a few weeks ago.  Friday my ass, ma'am.  Again, I realized this was irrational and the whole shebang, but my rage cup was overfloweth.  At least today I channeled my adrenaline into efficiency and sorted all of my laundry into garbage bags and brought it to the local laundromat.  (That's what she said.)  SIXTEEN loads I got done in two hours.  Frankly, I don't even know why I own a da*n washing machine.

So friends, if you, too ever run into a Tracy, Nancy, Diana, don't judge, don't hate, don't think they are angry because they're pregnant, because they're not.  You'll just never know when it's going to hit them (or you).  It may be in a scrub store, (Mr Incredible needs medical scrubs, what can I say?) when you or her are buying scrubs, maybe when you're even buying scrubs online.  YOu just don't know.  Just the progesterone, OH! the progesterone.  It's a downright drug.  It basically causes severe narcolepsy, rage and hunger.  All at once.  All day, for approximately 13 weeks.  Don't hate, don't love, just give me my way then get out of the way.

BOO!

Well well well, friends and frenemies, it turns out I am in the midst of being punk'd.  I'm just waiting now for anyone to jump out at me and scare me out of my boots.  Then I'm sure my laughter will turn to rage really immediately.  Because as that country song says, "God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy."

Turns out Peppy the dog is pretty crazy, too.  Oh and I'm pregnant, to boot.  Pretty nuts.  Good nuts, but nuts nonetheless.  Nuts is nuts, eh?  So what I should be doing is sitting in my Eames lounge chair eating Hostess cupcakes whilst my chillens color with sparkley crayons, but in reality I'm trying to keep the house in decent order, begging the kids not to mess up anymore rooms, and eating Hostess cupcakes.

On a more upbeat note, we finally got a Swaggerwagon.  Should I star in its next commercial?  I would, if I could just get some creative juices flowing and a new video camera.  (Don't order one from Dell, no matter what the price.  It doesn't hook up to the computer to dl, and when you call customer service they transfer you the middle of a Bali street where only 25% english is spoken.)

Well, that's all I've got for now.  Later.

I've been punk'd

There was all this hype about a huge snowstorm that was supposed to hit last night.  My bff, in her usual fashion, stocked up on milk and beer.  Me, in my atypical but becoming all too familiar fashion, stocked up on beef barley soup and pastry hearts.  Oh, the joys to be hormonal and weight gain expected.  Anyway, this "snowstorm" maybe maybe would've thrown San Diego for a loop.  But not us Buffalonians.  The pending anxiety of it, however, threw everyone (University at Buffalo included) into a tizzy, schools and businesses closing.  (I'm warming up at the mere idea of this)  My next door neighbor's plow came at least twice during the night.  Naturally, I expected to wake up and see nothing but a winter wonderland.  Instead I woke up to see no more snow than there was on the branches and the steps to the play set in the backyard.  (La Jolla I'm coming for the rest of the winter).

me!??!?!?!!?

I've recently begun to think that I'm constantly being Punk'd.  Like there are all sorts of conspiracies around me and hidden cameras are just waiting to get a ridiculous reaction out of me.  My reaction always ends up being, "am I being punk'd?" which always ends up twice as ridiculous because a) I'm not on camera, b) I give myself away by thinking the world revolves around me.  So by the light of the moon this morning, only half-way in my pajamas, I squintedly asked aloud, "am I being punk'd?"  There was no snow, but next door neighbor's driveway had been repeatedly plowed, and the ice trucks were up and down my street all night long.  Whaat?  But apparently, here we are, in the middle of a storm.  I'm dutifully eating my beef barley soup and pastry hearts, and I turned up the heat, just for effect.