Back in November I had worked on this window bench. Unfortunately, I still have not found the perfect material to cover a cushion with. I have searched high and low for “novelty” upholstery fabric and sadly, I am disappointed with what I have found so far. If you know of a great place to look, let me know.

Last night we finally started staining the other piece that originally was part of the window seat. I thought it was 20 drawers - it’s 25. There could have been 250, which is what it felt like when Mr. DD handed me #13 and said I was over half way done.

XBoy selected a lovely green for the stain. Almost blue-green. He picked it because it will go in his room to replace his toy chest and dresser. We’ll use a high gloss varnish which will make the grain and color really pop, plus protect it from his insatiable habit of coloring on anything but paper (so far we can include: the leather sofa, my antique column, the dining room table, the toy chest, and dart board).

Now for the window seat, Mr. DD came up with the recycling of the door knobs. That idea, while brilliant, just won’t suit this “new” dresser. I thought about using labeled drawer pulls, but again, finding something unique looking has been difficult (the labels were appealing as they could help XBoy keep toys more organized - yes, I’m imparting as much OCD as I can on him). Mr. DD thought it’d be fitting to take 25 hot wheels and set them up with screws and attach them to the drawer fronts. Unfortunately, Grandpa used seven of XBoy’s broken and crappy cars for a different project and even now, two years later, comes unglued every time he sees those cars as he’s convinced that they were his “favorite!”

The other decision we have been mulling over is how to cover the top. I didn’t want to stain it, but cover it in something ultra-durable. Heck I even suggested a piece of old marble, but Mr. DD nixed that. He suggested diamond-plated stainless, which would be pretty cool, but I though it’d be best to have something with a relatively flat texture.

So…besides giving me possible suggestions on the fabric for the window seat, do you have any thoughts for the dresser pulls and top? I promise pictures when we are done (as if that’s incentive enough to delve into your creativity, but that’s all I got).

I was tagged a bit ago by Shelli from BagMamma to complete the six-word meme that was apparently inspired by the book, “Not What I Was Planning“, which in turn was inspired by Hemingway’s proported statement: “For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn” (an infertility blog title if ever there was one that would never require a single post).

I’ve thought quite a bit about this, and while I worked and reworked in my head several phrases that might surmise my life to this point, one word in particular kept making a return like some kind of boomerang of phonemes. That word?

Extraordinary.

But I don’t mean “extraordinary” in the typical sense, as in “the sunsets over the Grand Canyon are extraordinary!” Instead, I see the word in my mind broken down into its two subparts: extra and ordinary.

Let me put this another way: if I was to say that something was extra dull, it just means that it is more dull, not that it’s more exciting. Extra Ordinary is just that when I refer to my life up until this point. The Extra comes into play when you look at one definition of extraordinary: beyond what is ordinary or usual.

My life stopped being ordinary November 2004 when I had the first of my four miscarriages. While one miscarriage is typically dismissed by friends, family and even medical professionals as not uncommon, it still changed my life forever. It was my gateway into Infertility; into my life made Extraordinary.

In this sense, who of us is truly ordinary? In attempts to get add to a family, it doesn’t matter whether you went as basic as OPKs and temping for several months or you traveled the globe for the sixth time for a donor egg transfer, you have become EXTRAordinary.

In some ways I do wish that my life had remained ordinary, holed up in this town in Nebraska living my life with a six and a three year old, and not carrying a chip on my shoulder. On the other hand, there is something so profound and far-reaching about the blogging community, both literally and figuratively, that I can’t imagine that it should have been any other way.

I guess my six-word story for me would be, “Finding peace in the extra ordinary.”

I had my third NST as well as another ultrasound to measure fluid levels. Everything is still normal as far as the baby is concerned. Not so normal is the worsening of the carpal tunnel, especially in my left hand.

Imagine running your finger tips over some low grit sandpaper. At first it probably doesn’t hurt, but if you keep doing it over and over again eventually you’re going to feel first irritation, and then pain. The first two fingers and thumb tingle non-stop; flexibility is severely limited and performing simple tasks is becoming more difficult because of how weak my hand is. I can’t even insert my left ear-plug using the left hand. YOU try doing that with the opposite hand and you’ll quickly discover it’s not as easy as you would think. Additional suckage? It’s not just when I sleep anymore. It’s all day. Yesterday I sat with an ice pack wrapped around my wrist and hand to see if I could bring some comfort. Unfortunately, it didn’t help in the slightest.

My concern now is that it won’t diminish after Murdock is born, and that the damage has become more or less permanent (OB stated that if it doesn’t go away, it’s not related to the pregnancy). If my hand has become less than useful now, I’m worried about caring for a newborn if the tunnel remains blocked after the delivery. Then I will have to try to figure out when to have surgery while caring for said newborn since I’d want to get it done before returning to work in September.

It’s all speculation of course, using the worst case scenario, but what I thought was going to be a simple inconvenience has now become potentially serious.

I tell myself frequently that caring for a newborn with one useful hand is better than not having a newborn at all, right? I give myself reality checks frequently. Don’t even ask how many times I’ve worried myself almost sick about a stillbirth, especially after extended periods of quiet from Murdock. I also worry if it’s possible for an unborn to suffer from shaken baby syndrome…

I would like to write more about those fears, but something inside me makes me wonder if I’m not just trying to stroke my own ego when I should be focusing instead on the continuing preparations of the birth of Murdock and on just how lucky I am to be at this moment, especially when I am noting yet another of my shoulda/woulda due dates (Wolf) for myself, but the dates of a couple of other bloggers still either waiting or who have decided to put the painful processes of treatment behind them.

Par for the survival guilt-trip, I guess. I can’t imagine that it’ll ever go completely away.

I read two posts this week about nose-picking. After reading Jess’s, who referenced a candybar called Crunchies, my memory was triggered recalling that we have a candy that conjures up images of knuckle-deep nasal cavity searching: Goobers.

Except I couldn’t remember that it was called Goobers. Instead I googled “candy Boogers”.

I shouldn’t have.

Not only do they make Boogers candy, but it is advertised as LOOKING and FEELING like snot. What? It doesn’t TASTE like it, too? What’s the point, then?

Maybe you’d rather have some of these:

No?

What about these?

(Actually, these would be good for your work desk because you won’t have to worry about your fellow co-workers mooching your chocolate stash.)

However, if you want something healthy but craving something salty and crunchy, why not pick up a bag of these:

The other green meat! Entomologists everywhere love them! Enjoy your favorite friendly insect…. the cricket, in 3 delicious flavors: Bacon and Cheese, Salt & Vinegar, and Sour Cream & Onion.

Is it lunch time? I’ve got a sudden case of the munchies.

Thank You!

Mr. DD called me and said a package had been delivered to the house to “Baby Murdock”. It took him a while to figure out who the hell that was since we don’t actually refer to Murdock as Murdock in real life. It’s just usually an equal usage of “he” or “she”.

The package was from Summer at Worrier/Warrior who is just now teetering into her second trimester through donor egg, and I couldn’t be more pleased with her progress. Thank you, Summer, so much for the sterilizer. I learned the first time that cleaning bottles with brushes and dishwashers was a real pain in the ass.

Also, my friend Mel from Minnesota deserves a public thank you as well for loaning me her playmat, boppy and jumper-thingy. In just six short years jumpers have evolved from the door jam hangers to saucer-like contraptions that require nothing more than three square feet of space. Genius!

I would also like to thank Shanna at Shinny Laboo for the gender-neutral newborn items she sent me a few weeks ago. When the box showed up, its size belied how many tiny things can actually be stuffed inside and it seemed I’d never reach the bottom!

That concludes the “Thank You” portion of this post. Now onto the “Bad Night”:

Bad Night(s)

It seems as if I’ve been stuck in a nightmarish loop of “just three more weeks” for the past six. Groundhog Day for the Pregnant Woman, perhaps? And that’s just three more weeks before my c-section. It’s actually four until my due date. It didn’t help that while out and about doing an errand last night, an acquaintance I hadn’t seen for some time asked if we were having twins.

I must be delusional as I thought most of my hugeness was originating out of my ankles. Want proof?

I have sharpei legs!! AAAiiieeeeeee!

Sleeping is still a much dreaded ordeal. I’ve become such a hormonal and whiny, crabby mess that when I wake by the fourth time each night, usually at 3:00 a.m., I’m literally in tears from the pain in my wrists and exhaustion. I never thought I would be such a blubbering mess at this point. At the same time, I wonder where I get the energy to answer the question, “How are you feeling?” with “Great!” when obviously, I’m not.

The Other Stuff

I did finally get someone scheduled to clean the  house. They will come for the first time July 11th. I went to that website to get my gift certificate for the service only to find that the GC is no longer available. You snooze, you lose.

Obviously nothing new to see here, move along. More interesting is the new reality show, The Baby Borrowers. I don’t know what is more insane: teenagers hoping to show they are ready to start a family now; or couples handing over their baby to clueless teenagers (of which there are one or two girls I’d love to slap across the face with a poop-filled diaper, especially the one who got so frustrated trying to feed the baby she ground out, “Fine, you can starve!” I’m looking at you, Alicea.).

If you’re not into picking up ONE. MORE. REALITY. SHOW! then I would also like to recommend that you stop and see Jessie over at Life As I Knew It Has Changed, who had a D&C as a follow-up to a biopsy that came back as pre-cancerous. A little stroking never did anyone harm, and she especially likes it…you dirty, dirty girl, you.

I just don’t get PETA. I try to remain empathetic to these people and appreciate how difficult society treats them, but sometimes their focus is out of whack, aka - they’re a little overzealous.

People for the Ethical  Treatment of Animals.

So how is sending marksmen to shoot pest-carrying (and highly overpopulated) pigeons not ethical? It’s not like the powers-that-be of Wimbledon were letting the tennis players beat the proverbial shit out of them with rackets or capturing them to be stuffed down one of the ball shooters to then be fired out over the property.

Marksmen. Hired gun-slingers. It’s a good thing they didn’t call on me with my pellet gun and questionable shooting skills. It took me shooting a bat the size of a field mouse three times with a BB before I killed it. Shhh. Don’t tell. Not like anyone can do anything about it since I wasn’t necessarily discharging a firearm within city limits. OK, yes I was, but I was also inside my house.

Instead of PETA getting all up into the grill of Wimbledon’s administration, why not brainstorm a solution to the problem? Sure they were all fine with the specially trained hawks, but that makes PETA a bit prejudiced for not getting upset about those hawks being treated as nothing more than arial body guards without compensation than they were about a bunch of nasty, shit-dropping pigeons.

I can’t think of one positive purpose pigeons serve and I can assure you that pigeons are not good eatin’. Who would have thunk considering that they are about the same size as dove, which can be quite tasty.

I frequently get asked if XBoy is excited about his impending initiation into siblinghood. I always respond with, “I guess….” I mean it’s not as if he’s asking me every time he sees me when the baby’s going to be here, or has he completely ignored me for the past couple of months.

I’ll first admit I am very glad we waited until we did to tell him. 18 weeks was neither too soon nor too late. At six years old, he grasps more of the concept than I expected plus he does not dwell persistently on the baby (like I do). He will sit with me during shows like “Delivery Me” and compare me to those women. I use those shows more to educate him on how the baby is going to look and especially those with c-sections. It’s funny then, that when he does talk about the day the baby is ready that I’m “going to be in a lot of pain. It’s going to hurt a lot, isn’t it?” Yep, thanks for the reminder, XBoy. I suppose it serves me right considering his recent painful medical experiences.

However, for every 100 positive moments and comments (like how he wants the baby in his room or how he’s going to teach the baby to talk and walk), there are one or two moments that remind me that bringing home a new sibling is never a smooth transition for anyone in the family.

Several weeks ago, XBoy and I were arguing in the car. A typical, “I want this!” versus “You aren’t getting that!” exchange (oh, how I envy you ladies who fret over your baby’s or toddler’s tantrums, because I’m telling you now, you’ll be praying for those days in a few years). The back and forth went on until XBoy pulled out all stops and said something to me that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and veer into the first driveway to have it out with him face-to-face.

XBoy knew he had overstepped that boundary. It’s no different than when a couple gets into such a heated exchange that eventually someone says, “You’re terrible in bed!” or “I wish I’d never had met you!” Those are words vomited out in helpless fury. A last chance to wound when in all likelihood the words aren’t even close to the truth. I won’t share what he said to me, but even now that all has been forgiven, they are certainly not forgotten.

More recently we were going ’round and ’round about something else and he stomped off in a huff to escape to our bedroom. I happen to look over my shoulder and saw him pick up the scissors that were used to open the box of my just delivered playard and head to where it was set up, scissors extended to the fabric. I let out a shout and he jumped a mile. I called him over at which time he dropped the scissors and skulked out.

“What were you going to do with those scissors?!”

“Nothing! I was just going to lift the edge of the fabric with them.”

This led to a rather deep but brief talk (children this age have the attention span of a teenager, or even possibly a henpecked husband and talk too much and it all starts to sound like “blah, blah, blah” to them) about how we all will face some difficult changes when the baby comes, but that he will never have to worry about me loving him less, I will just have twice as much love to give.

Later when I told Mr. DD, he asked me if I ever question my parenting abilities.

Every damn moment of the day.

XBoy initiated us painlessly into parenting. He was an easy baby. He’s been nothing less than typical now that he’s six. We worry about how we are doing just because neither of us has something to compare to. But it just takes observing another parent and their similarly aged child to know that XBoy’s flightiness, belligerence, goofiness and streak of independence is completely par for the course.

That’s why I also know his rare displays of antagonism to the baby are normal ways for an only child of six-plus years to act out his jealousy, an emotion he’s never had to experience before when it came to his own Mom and Dad. Not only is the emotion raw and new to him, but he somehow has to deal with something that actually doesn’t even exist yet. The baby’s physical manifestation is currently nothing more than my changing shape, a bassinet and some baby clothes…basically a ghost or a mirage.<

Ultimately I know that XBoy will meet and exceed our expectations as the big brother. As I told my husband as we discussed our concerns, XBoy has a good heart. A good soul. During the many moments I freak myself out (jeezusbabiesarereallyfuckingsmall!), I do feel some sense of calm when I am reminded by the little things like XBoy picking up things for me when I drop them or bringing me his less favored baby blankets and extra lovies to give to the baby, that will remind me that we did this once completely clueless, we can certainly do it again.

Unless you’ve been keeping weird, stalkerish track over the past three years, you wouldn’t know today was our 11th Anniversary. Mr. DD and I knew, but neither of us woke up, cuddled and cooed, and rubbed noses before whispering “Happy Anniversary, Dawrrrling”. It’s another day in the times and lives of the DD Family.

Below is a picture of my Mom and Dad walking me up the aisle. Why yes, that is a Catholic church. My, how could you tell?!

Look how pious we are, kneeling in front of Father as he blesses our marriage. He was nicknamed Father Bing because he seriously could belt out a song like few others could. Today he is in a loving relationship with his male partner in New York City (last I heard). We were not surprised, nor disappointed in his choice to leave the church.

Mr. DD and I snuck in silly string and gave everyone else bubbles. My sisters conspired against us and gave the guests silly string, too. 

What can I really add to the picture below that isn’t already quite clear? 

This was from our first dance. The photographer really lit up the area, but trust me, it was more romantic in real-life (notice Mr. DD’s hair? Yes, that is a pony-tail. You can see it in the image of us kneeling, too. He cut it off sometime before XBoy was born). Since Mr. DD and I were “older” when we married (I was just weeks from turning 30), we basically took care of everything ourselves. I bought the gown directly from a wholesaler for a paltry $400. I made the veil, my gloves, and the decorations, and we opted out of a honeymoon. There are times I wish we could do it again and really go all out, but I would miss the silly string.

It’s kind of ironic that during the required premarital classes, one of the hot topics that Father and I were concerned about was Mr. DD’s rather serious outlook on having children. He watched his two brothers raise children who are a bit…odd. He didn’t want to be party to that pattern.

Now? He can’t imagine his life without XBoy. And while he took a while to come around to accepting that a second child would never come easily and without a lot of tears, arguments, invasive procedures, medical tests and financing, he has always been my quiet shadow of strength through it all.

If only he could have learned to not be such a freaking slob after all this time, he’d be perfect!!

I’m actually working on a legitimate post, which explains the recent flurry of crap, or as I like to call it “fluff”.

However before I put it out there, I’d like to thank all of you who tried to help locate my lost post about XBoy’s Dental Drama. I’m still feeling a bit gutted about that.

I don’t know what to say about Bloglines finally updating. I’m still promoting exporting your Blogline feeds to Reader.Google, which is really easy.

Some of you have noted the generic avatar assigned to your comments. My little monsters…While I personally think they are kinda cute, there is a way of personalizing your avatar without having a WordPress account. If you go here, to Gravatar, you can create a free account and assign an avatar to your email. Once you do that, whatever wordpress blog you comment on will have your own personalized avatar and not the mystery man, or quilt block or amoeba-like monster attached.

I’ve decided to have a postpartum baby shower, cooties be damned. Even I am left uninspired to purchase much for Murdock not knowing his or her sex. Apparently over 70% of expecting parents find out the sex of their child prior to birth, so guess who the manufacturers are appealing to? Not the less than 30% of us looking for “gender neutral” items. And while a majority of gestators find out, I find it ironic that whenever we admit we don’t know if Murdock is a boy or a girl, we are enthusiastically commended for making the “smart” choice in waiting. You and I both know that same person is saying to those who know, “Oh, that’s the way to go! It makes shopping so much easier!”

Of course these are the same people who say to me, “Someone wasn’t planning for the Summer heat, now were we?” I seriously attract Stupid. It’s got to be a reflection on me somehow.

Anyway, as I was saying about the shower, I had been working on a wish list/registry kind of thing which is now published as one of my pages. It’s also password-protected, but it’s the same password. I honest-to-god expect nothing. I actually started it to help me figure out what I needed and to compare prices, but since I’ve been asked…well, there it is. Trust me, nothing too exciting.

Cripes. Look what rambling can do to what was supposed to be a short post. Blech. Par for course since the post I’m working on is actually long. Enjoy brevity as I know it!

While I’m still quite blue about my post being lost, I actually had the opportunity to laugh out loud at this picture. Well, not specifically  the picture, but some of the comments already posted as potential captions.

Since most of you are of the rather snarky type (that’s why I love you, of course), I believe you should put those skillz to the test and see if you can come up with the winning caption. You’ll really have to dig deep though, as there are a couple of doozies already.

An added bonus, selfishly noted, is that I can come back later to that post and see which of you took up the challenge and maybe smile some more.

Several years ago I had a crazy roommate who stole my photo albums and high-school year books out of the room I was renting in her house. In light of her mental instability, I had my things packed and moved out within 24 hours…with police escort.

Losing those items that were irreplaceable makes my stomach turn even now, almost 20 years later.

Today I wanted to show you a picture of XBoy’s new teeth, already making quite an impression only three weeks after he lost the four baby teeth. To show the change, I was going to link to that original post about his accident…

The post? It’s gone. The title is there. Your comments, bless your sweet souls, are still there. But my words from that day are gone. I even tried finding them via cache. And now, as stupid as it sounds I want to cry. It’s not just that post, either. I’ve just realized that even though WordPress told me the posts were downloaded, only the titles and the comments came across on many.

On too many.

And I’m heartsick and I’m surprised with how upset I am. I truly wanted to have all those moments out there to someday share with my son, and now? With all the problems with updates not happening and assuming my posts transferred…I feel a little foolish for crying over spilt milk. But those posts were more than just brain-dumps. They were reminders, memories. And now those moments written spontaneously, are gone.

You know what 34 weeks of a relatively normal and uneventful pregnancy will do to you?

It can make you totally unprepared for when you start having contractions five to ten minutes apart as you drive home from the water park 45 miles away and the only other person in the vehicle is your six year old.

It’ll make you take note of each mile marker, just in case you have to call 911.

And even after you make it home and put your feet up, and the contractions finally space to 15 to 20 minutes apart you feel it’s necessary to call your OB.

Mr. DD fretted nervously and asked what me what I was going to do. I told him that if it got worse I would go to the hospital, they would give me some drugs, and then I’d come home the next day.

Talk about putting on a brave face and bullshitting.

Today will be a quiet day of activity for me, even though the kitchen floor crunches as I walk over it and the laundry has reached Everest proportions. I’d say it’s time to use up my house-keeping gift certificate (as well as temporarily hire their services over the next several weeks).

So while 34 weeks is pretty close to the end, I was also reminded that it’s still too damn early.

I’d like to believe that I’m not vain, but who the hell would I be kidding? Maybe “vain” is too strong. Let’s just say that it takes a certain self-indulgence to get breast implants, wear make-up, dye my hair to keep the roots at bay, keep nail polish on my toes, and of course daily maintenance of the unibrow even though I’s gots me a man.

Several weeks ago, I gave up the keeping up.

Because I refused (OK, I procrastinated) to purchase a bra that would better accommodate my implants while they compete with boobinitis, I have moments of regret for ever having surgery. I also am flashing back to those weeks after XBoy was born that not only would I fail the pencil test, I’m sure I would have failed a 2×4 test.

The only times I bother now with any make-up are when I have a meeting, church, or an evening outing with the in-laws (they don’t need to see how dark my eye-bags are or how I’m spontaneously morphing into a Trill. Yes, I know: sun screen).

The parting of the Great UniBrow has been complicated as I prefer to lean over the bathroom counter to remove the strays with a tweezer. Murdock, being the big-headed fetus that it is, objects to me mashing him/her against the counter’s edge, so I try to use a hand mirror. Since it is not my usual means, it’s awkward, and the daily sweep has been reduced to two to three times a week. Well, you know those hormones that are “Trilling” my face? They also make hair grow faster so the plucking  is now really just foraging.

Actually the hardest part during all this has been watching the scale. I was 15 lbs heavier when I got pregnant with Murdock than when I got pregnant with XBoy, thanks to years of stress, injections, stress, over indulgence, and stress. I also have gained in 8 months with Murdock what I had gained in 9 with XBoy, which probably explains why the current estimate of Murdock is sixish pounds, when poor little XBoy was 5 lbs and 12 oz at term.

It’s all fine, I guess in the big picture since it still is all within range of normal, but I can’t help but worry about what I’ll be dealing with in another nine months. I’m not the most physically active person in the world. Truth be told, I’m lazy. I use the excuse of asthma to not participate in anything cardio-related. The running joke I have right now is that I have two choices to get back into any of the clothes I had before October: Bulimia and Anorexia.

Bulimia’s appeal is I get to eat and eat and eat, but damn it! Then I have to puke and the thought of once again having vomit go up and out my nose *shudder*…not to mention that pesky side-affect of losing one’s esophageal lining after repeated purging, not to mention my back side feeling the “burn”.

Anorexia: not eating and exercising religiously? Neither of those options appeal to me. Refer back to my statement about being lazy. Admittedly, I’m not eating much now. While I was able to finish off full course meals a few weeks ago, enough food to put a Husker football player to shame, I’m now to the point that a couple of chocolate chips or maybe a handful of marshmallows fill me up. You wouldn’t want to imply that maybe the chocolate and marshmallows may be part of my problem, do you? Keep in mind that it’s nearly summer, I’m eight months pregnant, I feel, look AND walk like a troll, and my husband said to me this morning as he kissed me good-bye: “You look like a beach bag.”

Yeah. I dare you to go there.

I’m sure I’ll be pretty distracted by a certain needy little being who won’t care how many stomach rolls I have when I sit down or that there appears to be more shadows under my eyes than above. I’ll just have to take baby steps, now won’t I?

***************************************

If you or someone close to you has suffered from either Bulimia or Anorexia, please do not take my literary jesting as not caring or that I take the diseases lightly.

Do you consider yourself a connoisseur of vinyl albums covers, specifically from the early 80s?

Are you a closet rocker?

Do you have a warped sense of humor?

If you answered “maybe”, “not really”, and “yes!” respectfully (or any other combination as long as the third answer is anything to the affirmative), then this YouTube video is for you.

Now rarely do I ever post video links because 1) they take time to load; 2) they require you to have a certain set up on your own computer; and 3) is a cop out for a “real” post (as if any of my posts could be considered “real”!- HA!), but this one is just pretty damn cool. By the way, you can get the jist of the video without sound, but it’s much funnier with.

When the Twitter Bandwagon rolled out, I was of the mindset to let it just float on by like so many blogging “trends” out there (Facebook, anyone?). Of course I was sucked in by peer pressure, like the lemming I am, and signed up. So just wanted to let you know that I have a Twitter account and if you would like to join in the fun, just click the little pin-up cowgirl over there on the right of your screen.

Next:

I was able to get the last of my TypePad posts moved over, thanks to Kate’s suggestion about deleting x-number of posts to get within the 100 maximum posts TypePad is currently allowing to export (due to some fucked up update they installed, which may or may not have been fixed by the time my agreement with TypePad expired). I have seen a handful of blogs deleted over my few years of blogging, and I have to tell you that I can’t imagine how difficult that must be since it caused me a few heart palpitations just to delete a few posts, even though they had been exported already to here. I’m still working out some bugs as a result, though.

Wow. This is some exciting shit, no? Sorry, I’m feeling a bit uninspired since Bloglines is still not updating my feeds and have not responded to my help ticket(s), nor to the threads started by hundreds of others with the same problem.

Finally:

I had my 34 week ultrasound today to double-check the growth of Murdock’s kidneys. While they measure appropriately enough, OB wants to check them once again after Murdock is born.

Is born.

I still haven’t been able to visualize it, quite frankly.

Other than that, I was shown Murdock’s hairy head and pug-face (head measures at 37-plus weeks, so at least s/he will have something in common with XBoy who measured 90% in the cranial department for, like, forever. I’d like to believe it’s grey matter, but I think it’s just a predisposition to ego, thick-headedness, and physical imbalance) (XBoy has very little propensity for athletic ability).

Murdock is also currently head down and has thus far refused any attempt at getting a 3-D facial image that doesn’t look like something or someone either crapped on his/her face or beaten him/her with an ugly stick in utero. Hell, it could be a little of both for all we know.

Next appointment in two weeks in which we do the non-stress test (contraction and heart monitoring).

Vive la Reader.Google!

Me: C’mon…you know you wanna….

Him: No. I will feel…uncomfortable…

Me: Please?! I need you.

Him: Fine. We’ll do it on the recliner. You get ready while I am in the bathroom.

*** 20 minutes later ***

Me: That feels soo-oo-o good. We really should have done this sooner.

Him: Hmmm-mmmm….

Me: Oh…oh! You missed a spot!

Him: (after some initial fumbling) Better?

Me: Oh, yes!

*** 5 minutes later ***

Him: Anything else?

Me: No that was perfect for now. I’ve got something different planned for us tomorrow night since I feel kind of “naked” now.

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Who knew that a few minutes of removing toe-nail polish could be so racy? Tonight, we paint!

Mr. DD and I have many differences of opinions and habits, whether it’s thoughts on raising a child (yes, you are responsible for insuring your child eats lunch, even if he hasn’t told you he’s hungry yet), to kitchen hygiene (using a dish rag on the counter and not wringing it out and then letting it fester in the sink cannot even be considered “helping out” in the kitchen).

But one thing we do have in common is an appreciation for certain antiques and heirlooms. We are no means the kind of couple that would ever spend a weekend “antiquing” at the markets. One of us would certainly end up murdered - or at the least, maimed - by the other, but occasionally we have oohed and ahhed over the listing in a auction flier, specifically furniture.

Recently, I went to a household auction that listed several desirable objects. Usually I go to snoop because antique pros are always willing to pay top dollar over what Joe Blow can if they know it’s something they can sell for a profit. I understand they are in a business, but it sucks in a way because they aren’t looking for something to enjoy for themselves.

At this auction, one of the pieces I was attracted to was a “dough trough”. It looks like a bench set up on legs with a lid. At one time there was an auger-type mixer inside and they would blend the dry ingredients for bread, add water and then the family matriarch would move it to a smaller section inside the trough to rise.

I fell in love with the piece and it’s authentic worm holes (no minimum wage worker was hitting it with a pick or chain like they do today to “age” wood); it’s hand planed surfaces; and it’s square hand-forged nails. It was the one item I was prepared to “win” and I kept my game face on during the bidding, while at the same time openly acknowledging the my opponent by never taking my eyes off him.

Surprisingly, even when I thought I should give up, Mr. DD (who stood behind the other man) encouraged me to keep going, which I did until the auctioneer shouted “Sold!” and announced my number. The piece will find a new home as storage for the spare bedroom now that I have it cleaned up.

  This last picture is a great example of why I enjoy antiques: notice the fine vertical scrapes in the wood? Those are actually years of finger nail scratches from where the owners would lift the lid. The stories the owners of those hands could tell…

My thanks to the Show and Tell project sponsored by The Stirrup Queens for today’s post inspiration.

I was going to post a redirect to my new home, Punch Drunk, this weekend, except TypePad has decided to suddenly acquire this nice little glitch that allows only 100 posts to be exported from their files.

100 posts from no. 672 would be no. 572, right?

The last post I had exported from TypePad a few months ago was no. 555. That's right. 17 posts and the related comments are hanging in limbo land and I'll be freaking pissed if they don't have this resolved soon because here's the other issue:

I was also sent a reminder that my enrollment expires June 21 here unless I update the expiration date on my credit card info, which I don't want to do.

So I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. I don't want to lose those 17 posts because they also happen to fall during some of the more emotional parts of this pregnancy: November and December.

Shit. My move may have to be put on hold, and I hate having any part of my life on hold, even if it is "just" blogging.

And another thing, it seems my new posts on Punch Drunk aren't showing up on Bloglines? Any one else notice this or am I just super oblivious?

I’ve never felt as dirty as I do right now being pregnant. Dirty in the moral way, not the literal way.

When a couple is struggling with trying to get pregnant, the advice that comes spewing from anyone who knows they are trying is overwhelming.

Granted, most of the time, the suggestions, such as wearing boxer shorts, and certain positions, and propping up the hips are presented rather innocently even if wholly unwelcomed. Kind of like advice on how not to burn your vegetables when grilling the chicken at the same time. Of course, there’s always the pig in the bunch that’s willing to “help out”. Hey, if that’s the fantasy he needs to get his own job done, fine, but I certainly don’t need to know.

But now, I have tolerated much waggling of eyebrows and winks and fist pumping motions and not just from friends, but strangers passing me by with looks that say loud and clear, “I know what YOU have been up to”; or as a friend of mine from ages ago would say when he spotted a very pregnant woman, “She didn’t sleep with her feet in no bucket.”

My favorite  reaction was one that took place after mass on the church steps. The husband of a couple we were neighbors with at our old house told me how it seems that he just saw me a couple weeks ago and didn’t even know I was pregnant. I replied that yes, I really have popped recently. He said back to me, “That’s not all the popped, now is it?” *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*

As he stood there smirking at me and my husband, I was a breath away from replying back that Mr. DD wasn’t even around when I got myself “popped”. What an asshole. An unfortunate side affect to his comment was that now I had the image of him and his cold-fish of a wife fumbling about in the dark. Gah!

It’s as if I want to tell everyone the cold, clinical details of Murdock’s conception so they can just stop imagining Mr. DD and I getting our freak on and then making nasty innuendos. Why do people think that’s appropriate?! In fact, it’s too bad that they don’t know I’m nearly back to virginal goodness and purity at this point, trust me. Well, as close as I can be considering it’s me. Whatever, back off, Smutty McSmutmouth.