Today, all I want to do is share all of my intriguing theories on airport bathrooms with you. These are highly controversial theories that could possibly catapult me into Discovery Channel stardom, but I can’t. Wanna know why? Because all of my mental facilities are focused on the scary effects of food on a pregnant belly. I never thought I would utter these words in my lifetime, but I am scared to eat. How could this be? What is happening to me?

This pregnancy-nausea thing has me completely baffled. It’s nearly impossible to explain, but here goes. You know when you are so hungry that you feel like throwing up? Kind of like when you’ve past the stomach-growling phase, and moved into the feeling truly rotten phase when eating sounds like torture? Ok, that’s how I have felt for most of the day. Now, most would say to eat some food for criminy’s sake YOU STUPID WHINER, but it’s not that easy because then you run the chance of eating something that makes your stomach blow up like a helium balloon while you moan and whimper in the bed ALL DAY LONG ON NEW YEARS EVE. The bloating, people. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, THE BLOATING.

All day I have had an internal dialogue about my gastric state of affairs.

Why do I feel like throwing up?
I am NOT going to throw up – I’ve made it through 9 weeks and I’m not starting now.
Am I hungry?
Should I eat something?
What if I eat something and get a horrific belly ache like yesterday?
Have I eaten too much today?
Maybe I’m feeling nauseated because I have eaten too much.
But what if I haven’t eaten enough and that’s why I’m feeling nauseated?
If I were to eat something, what would give me the least amount of volatile gas?
Should I eat eat half of the meal and wait thirty minutes to see how my stomach reacts?

And then I resort to making a mental checklist of what I’ve eaten in the past 12 hours like some tweaked out anorexic calorie-counter. Bullshit. Total bullshit.

So what I am trying to say? Hell if I know. How about have a wonderful New Years Eve and a non-bloatational 2006 (yes, I know that isn’t a real word. Don’t fuck with a pissy pregnant lady).

p.s. – On a much happier note, my breasts look fabulous. Thanks for asking.


The Christmas Season Needs To End


Ok, it is time to stop the madness. I can’t take it anymore.

For the past 4 days, D and I have been on scheduled 1 to 4-hour incremental visits to family and friends. The first day was fun, second day was interesting, third day was tiring, and the last day was just ridiculous. And of course, Christmas wouldn’t be complete without an utterly inappropriate exchange with an utterly inappropriate individual. But let’s save that for a rainy day…

I’m tired, peeps. Here I thought I would be able to keep you updated over the Christmas holiday, but it just isn’t working out that way. I need a nap. And you know why? Because I’m pregnant! Yes, you heard right…a little whoorl is on the way! I’m in my 9th week, and I feel good. Well, besides the gas, bloating, fatigue, heartburn, overactive bladder and the excessive need to wash my hands every five seconds to keep all of the grody sick people germs* off me, I feel good.

And I want to tell you all about it, but I must get ready for lunch with my grandparents.

I hope everyone had a fabulous holiday weekend!


Christmas on Speed


I have officially entered the “Oh Mother F’ing Shit” Christmas phase. Between the last-minute gifts, 5,000 errands, packing for my trip to Oklahoma, and oh yeah, attempting to NOT get fired from my job, I haven’t left much time for updating.

Never fear! Once I settle in at my parent’s home on Friday, I will have mucho time to bore you with all sorts of holiday cheer.

Until then, check out this cool photography site.

Sayonara my little reindeer.


A Call To Action


Fellow bloggers, do you have friends/family members who still don’t fess up to reading your blog? People who don’t blog themselves and don’t realize the information we receive about our readers?

Would these people just cringe knowing that we see HOW MANY times they visit us daily?

Frankly, I’m tickled pink.

To my peeps out there – yes, you know who you are. I dare you to comment. DOUBLE-DOG DARE. I mean, c’mon, that’s the Cadillac (or Porsche, if you will) of all dares. How could you not?