Old fashioned

Everyone in my neighborhood suddenly started wearing these rain boots in the last year.


At first I was all, those are kinda weird. Then I was all, those must be really dry. Then I was all, I gotta get me some of those. I am nothing if not a follower when it comes to the stuff other moms are doing in my neighborhood. That's how I convinced Josh to let me buy the Bugaboo back in the day.

Anyway, considering I walk to and from school and the store and whatnot every day and there's always a lot of damn puddles around, I thought they would be a good investment. That's what you call rain boots in this price category. An "investment." I might as well put solid gold on my feet for these prices.

But when I went online to find them, it was impossible to find size 7 in any color, much less black. What the hell? I tweeted about my lack of boot availability and a friend sent me a message that I should check Nordstrom. So I drove my ass up to the suburbs this week with Emmie and Maeve in tow to see what was happening. Shoe shopping with two kids. Why yes, I am clinically insane, thanks for asking.

Success! A size 7, but in silver. Not too offensive, but not my first choice. The saleswoman told me I could get on the waitlist for black, and that I would be No. 3 but she recommended taking the silver ones because they were the last pair on earth in size 7. OK, not really earth, but in America.

I took them home with hopes of a black pair dancing in my head. But then the color became less significant because ZOMG WHAT KIND OF PANTS DO YOU WEAR WITH THESE?

Leggings? Leggings are making a comeback. But what the hell does a three-months-postpartum fatass wear with leggings so as not to look totally 1987 or totally fat? And skinny jeans? Yes, skinny jeans. But God knows I am not forking over designer money for jeans that could A. be uncool in a minute and B. fit me for a few months before I lose all the weight. So I was thinking maybe Old Navy would do me right in that department, but I have never purchased jeans at Old Navy. Are they decent? I am looking for looks, yes, but also cheap since I'm not going to get much mileage on them.

What to do, what to do? So readers, those of you schooled in all things fashionable or even those who just read US Weekly and read about the fashion, can you recommend what I should do? It's not like I will wear these boots every day this spring, just days when it's rainy or wet. Which is like almost every spring day in Chicago. But you know what I mean.

Sponge-worthiness

Still pregnant. Nothing new to report.

However, in keeping with the theme of posting about my marriage this week, I have yet another story to share about the joys of matrimony. I know, can you believe it? I mean Josh is perfect in every way so it is puzzling how these things keep cropping up.

I have a major major MAJOR pet peeve when it comes to the house. I can't stand sponges. They're unsanitary, they're disgusting when wet, they hold smells and the site of them makes me gag. As a general rule, I don't use them for anything. If I have to clean a pan, I grab some Barkeepers Friend and a rag and get it done. And on the bizarre and unlikely chance I do use one to shine the sink, I throw it away immediately. Out of sight, out of mind. Although I know in the back of my mind that its lurking in the garbage in all its slimy glory, so I quickly take the whole bag outside because my God, it could crawl out of the can and end up on my face in the middle of the night.

Despite my fear of zombie sponges, for some reason, we have a Costco-sized package under the sink. And Josh used one for God only knows what this morning before I got up. So when I came downstairs and grabbed a glass of water, I was greeted by a yellow and green damp piece of disgustingness on the bottom of the sink.

I told him the last time he did this (which was just last week) that it would be grounds for divorce if he did it again. Guess who was surprised when I served his ass the papers this morning? He can't say I didn't warn him. I believe I might have threatened to punch him in the face as well. Can't be sure on that, what with the pregnancy-induced amnesia, but it would be totally justified in any case.

Seriously. I am about to deliver his third child and he can't throw the damn sponge in the garbage? We have 11 billionty more under the sink, it's not like he needs to conserve. Plus, once you use a sponge, it gets all gross and nasty and germy, so why would you save it anyway? These are questions I do not have the answers to.

There is currently no task in this house I would consider "sponge-worthy" and I am thinking about blacklisting them completely. If nothing else, it could save my marriage. I don't want to have to raise three kids by myself because someone couldn't curb his sponge use. Really, you have to take a stand somewhere. This is mine.

You light up my life

Can someone please tell me what the purpose of putting our Christmas lights on a timer is if my husband is going to go outside and unplug them every night?

This weekend, my nearly-38-weeks-pregnant ass put up all the outdoor decorations BY MYSELF. Josh was inside on the computer. He did actually come outside for something when I was just about done and I asked him would he be a dear and throw the extension cord down over the porch so I could plug it in.

As I plugged it in, I looked up with excitement to see how very very pretty they were and instead saw Josh's smirk.

"Looks like they don't work," he said. "Did you test them?"

"No, I didn't test them," I hissed. "They worked just fine when I took them down last year. God damn it, now I have to go buy new ones and re-do them."

"Let me know how that works out for you," he said as he shut the door behind him.

One trip to CVS and four hours later, I was stringing the lights by myself again. This time in the dark. He's nothing if not consistent in his holiday decorating aversions. This time, I plugged the lights in first. And yes, they worked.

I proudly told him that I had plugged them into a timer. It was set to come on at 5 p.m. and shut off at 5 a.m. You know, the hours of darkness in Chicago.

Except Josh thinks the lights don't need to be on in the middle of the night. I disagree. I think if it's dark, they create a festive atmosphere. He thinks they ratchet up the electric bill. He has noooooo problem leaving his three laptops on all night, but two measly strings of Christmas lights and he's going all Al Gore on my ass.

Because he unplugs the lights every night, it means I have to go out and plug them IN every afternoon. And we all know how I loathe opening the front door to get the mail, so you can imagine how much I enjoy going outside to fish around for the end of the extension cord and reattach it to the lights.

This is what no one tells you about marriage. It's not for richer or for poorer, it's for annoying or more annoying. Now excuse me while I duct tape the extension cord to the lights so he can't possibly remove it.

First-class lazy

When I was younger, and I mean when I was living alone in my mid-20s, I always wondered how people didn't pounce on the mailbox the minute they got home. Who knew what was in store for you? Sure, bills, but there could be other cool stuff too. And I wanted to know right that second what was in the mailbox. And this was before the advent of Amazon and eBay meant packages were arriving almost daily.

But now I am a crotchety old lady who apparently can't be bothered with the mailbox. I can see it from the living room window. I only have to walk down the five porch steps to reach it. But I can't be bothered to go out and collect the envelopes.

For crying out loud, I see the mail lady deliver it most days and I just think, "Huh. The mail's here."

Every day when Josh comes home, he asks if I got the mail. The answer, every day, is, "Oh, no. Sorry. Can you grab it?"

If I do manage to somehow grab the mail, I just throw it on the edge of the island in the kitchen and wait for Josh to go through it. It's not like I don't know my credit card balance, especially since Josh is so helpful and monitors my spending online daily and will notify me immediately when I am 3 cents over my budget, so why even open the statements? I also don't need anymore Target catalogues, you know, since I am there once a week. And don't get me started on the real estate postcards we get. Why no, I did NOT know that you, random Realtor I don't know, sold a condo down the street last month. For $500,000? You don't say! That's admirable in this housing market. Great work.

Amazon delivers packages and I don't even open them, either. I know what's in them because I ordered them, or they're some stupid computer crap for Josh, so what's the point? I just leave them stacked on the counter. This is the ultimate laziness, folks. Not to mention, what if someone actually sent me a gift and I didn't know it because I didn't open the box? Unfortunately, I just can't be bothered.

Hopefully with the holiday season upon us, I will be so curious to see everyone's unintentionally hilarious Christmas card photos and pages-long updates on what an 8-year-old saw at the museum on a day trip back in June and what good old third-cousin-twice-removed-and thrice-divorced-and-remarried George is doing in his new job at the DMV, that I won't be able to contain the urge to run out the door and accost the mail lady when she arrives each day.

Or, I'll just let it pile up on the counter until the mountain threatens to topple us all and then I might get around to opening it.

The one where I am tired

First, look at all of you with your comments! I have some serious reading and commenting to commence. Which I will do some day this week when I am not so exhausted.

You might think I would be well-rested, what with only having one child around for the last week, but you would be wrong. The child I did have around was sick and clung to me like a life raft for four days. Unless he was sleeping in his own bed, Jack never. stopped. touching. me.

He laid next to me on the couch for eight hours each day watching kids TV and either had his head on my lap or was fidgeting his feet in some bizarre sort of kitten-pawing action on my thigh. I am pretty sure I have a bruise from his nonstop contact. And every time I would nicely ask him to please stop it for the love of God, he would tell me he didn't feeeeeel goooooood and give me a pitiful look. Do you know how hard it is to physically remove the foot of your ailing offspring?

And let's all remember that the sick child I had at home is the one who wakes up at 5:30 a.m. every day. So it's not like I was sleeping in and resting. Oh no, he still woke up early every damn day, so that pretty much sucked. When you're sick, you're supposed to sleep in. Someone needs to tutor him in the ways of the sick day.

And it's impossible for me to get any stretch of sleep longer than an hour these days, what with the shifting and the sighing and the snoring. No, not on my part, on Josh's. I even bought him some Breathe-Right strips to see if it would help and I think I can tell you, he is the only person on earth for whom Breathe-Right strips actually enabled him to snore more. It was like it opened his sinuses fully, thus allowing him to get even more power behind his breathing.

Oh yeah, and I have to pee like twice a night and I can't get comfortable and I keep waking up on my back, which makes me short of breath, so I have to turn over and that's like trying to roll a tractor-trailer back upright after it's spilled crates of live chickens all over the Interstate.

Hopefully I can get some sort of decent rest tonight and come back full recharged tomorrow, ready to show you pictures of the remodeling and the new bedroom configurations and share how I almost flooded the house with my crazy nesting.

Annual de-lurking day is here!

I am hearby declaring this De-lurking Day on this blog. Have you been reading forever? Are you relatively new? Did you stumble here from a search about H1N1 and your pregnancy? Did you think it was a p*rn site with pictures of moms?

No matter how you got here -- now's your time to pimp yourself out! Please leave a comment, even if you want to tell me how bored you are by me, and include a URL to your blog if you have one.

I haven't updated my blogroll in that thar sidebar over yonder in about two years, seeing as I use my Google reader for my blog-perusing needs. I am also supremely lazy and read comments in my email, which doesn't include URLs from commenters, so this will be an awesome way to update both my own feeds and hopefully to introduce all of you faithful readers to some outstanding writers. In return, I promise to come and comment on every commenter's blog in the next week to spread all that love around.

Now, won't you share with all of us?

Mmmm, bacon

After yesterday's exciting events (see: treatment for swine flu) I took the Tamiflu my OB prescribed, ate some chicken soup and went to bed where I slept peacefully for 11 hours.

I woke up not feeling like I was hit by a truck, which was a lovely change of pace, and spent the day convalescing in bed. It was kind of like being home sick from school -- I hung out watching daytime television, eating soup and relaxing -- except I had the Internet to amuse me. It's a good thing Twitter and Facebook didn't exist when I was home sick in fourth grade because I would have claimed mono and tried to stay home for the entire school year.

Surprisingly, the Tamiflu really helped. I don't feel like I am going to die at any moment and the aches and fever are a thing of the past. Now the cough? That stuck around. And the stuffy nose is still going like the Energizer bunny. But for the most part, I feel human.

Emmie was dispatched to Grandma's house until I am no longer oinking and I have been trying to keep my distance from Jack as much as possible. He's been OK about it, and even knows I am not supposed to be touching anything or anyone. I picked up a bowl in the kitchen tonight and he looked alarmed. "Mommy, does that have germs on it now?" he asked with concern. Poor kid, I am going to make him a germaphobe in no time.

Josh has picked up the slack and thankfully he can work from home some of the time, so he's been able to pitch in when needed. I pulled myself together enough to pick Jack up from school, but cautioned everyone to stay 15 feet away from me as I shrouded myself in a cloud of sanitizer.

In closing, let me give this public service announcement: if you are pregnant, get the H1N1 vaccine. Trust me, you don't want to feel like this when you are pregnant. If you have kids, get them the H1N1 vaccine. Trust me, you definitely don't want your kids to feel like this. Especially not kids who can't even tell you how miserable they feel because they can't talk. I know people come down on both sides and there are strong arguments for vaccinating and not vaccinating, but as someone who has experienced it, it's not fun and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Well, not knowingly wish it. Unfortunately for all the shoppers at Whole Foods and Trader Joe's yesterday, as well as my friend I had breakfast with and all the people around us, I unknowingly infected you with my pestilence. Although that's probably how I picked it up in the first place, so what goes around, comes around, I guess.

On second thought...

Right after I published that last post, I am pretty sure I was hit by a truck. Aches, chills, fever -- you know, the three symptoms I didn't have that convinced me I didn't have H1N1.

The nurse at my OB's office says based on symptoms and because I am pregnant, they are prescribing Tamiflu and treating me for swine flu.

Oink, oink.

Shutting my yap

Two weeks ago, I was spouting off to Josh about how the extra Vitamin D that I have been taking must be working its magic on my immune system because the kids were sick three times in the last six weeks and I, chief nose-wiper and coughed-upon caretaker, didn't get even a sniffle.

And then the weekend arrived and I ate my words and then some. It started with a little cough Friday night, nothing major. By Saturday morning, I was hacking up and lung. Sunday, I started with the congested nose.

This morning I woke up at 4:15 a.m. with a headache so severe, my back molars hurt. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't stop coughing and I was convinced I was going to die. Perhaps a bit melodramatic (who, me?) but definitely a valid thought considering the time of day and the fact I am nine months pregnant and can't take anything stronger than Tylenol.

I tossed and turned and might have woken Josh up just to tell him how bad I was feeling. He mumbled something about that being too bad from his side of the bed and continued on with his snot-free, phlegm-free rest. When Jack woke up at 4:30 (why yes, we DO love daylight savings time changes around here, thanks for asking) I figured I might as well be the one who helped him to the bathroom seeing as I was already up.

Upon returning to bed, I started mentally tallying all my symptoms with that of the H1N1. Considering I have only had the vaccine in my system for 10 days, I probably don't have the proper levels of immunity built up. But I didn't feel like I had been run over by a truck, I just felt as if I had a bad cold. Perhaps a touch of bronchitis. Or pneumonia. Or the plague. But not the flu.

So I soldiered on with my day, getting up and showered and getting Jack ready for school. I dropped him off and had breakfast with a friend before hitting two grocery stores. Supermom for the win!

This in no way precludes me from claiming illness when Josh gets home from work, however, and making him do the dinner/bath/bedtime routine while I hide out in our bedroom in a haze of vaporizer mist and the smell of Vicks rub emanating from my person.

I sacrificed my naptime so I could get some work done, and now I am thinking that was a horrid idea. I'm sure Jack will totally be up for a game of "Let's rest our eyes and be quiet on the couch" when he gets home from school. That's one of his favorites. Right after "Beat on your sister" and "Throw your trains across the room when they derail off the tracks."

If I'm still alive tomorrow, I will regale you with photos and pictures from Trick or Treat. If I'm dead, Josh will take over my blog and alert the proper authorities. If that is the case, I can only hope he lives up to my blogging standards and brings the funny.

Shock value

Recently, we had a ton of light bulbs all burn out in various parts of the house. The kitchen lost two, the dining room was down one, the living room had three of the six out, the hallway between Jack and Emnmie's room was completely dark, you get the idea.

I asked Josh to replace them because changing the bulbs requires someone to stand on a chair. And when I change them, I usually just drag the nearest kitchen stool around the room and climb up and down off of it. The stools are about four feet tall, have about a three-inch backrest on them and spin. So when I climb up, they tend to wobble and move in circles and pregnant ladies with cerclages probably shouldn't stand in that position.

So he said sure, he'd change them, and three weeks and mucho amount of nagging later, he finally got around to it. Except he replaced them with the eco-friendly bulbs. Those are nice and green and all, but they can't be used in dimmable light situatuons. All our lights on the first floor are dimmable. But Josh, in his quest to save more money the environment, said he was switching them. He did, however, leave the dimmable ones in the living room. I suspect that's only because he likes mood lighting when he plays XBox 360 at night, not because he cares about how I look in flattering light.

He also, in his infinite wisdom, didn't replace one of the bulbs in the dining room. His reasoning? It would save electricity to not have that bulb in there. Perhaps we could unplug one of his five laptops that he runs 24 hours per day. I imagine the cost savings might be a little more than one measly lightbulb in the dining room.

I lived with his decision for a few days, but yesterday I just couldn't take it anymore. Emmie is obsessed with turning the lights on when she gets into her highchair and every time they come on, she points at the dark one and says, "EH?" Which translates to "Why the hell didn't Daddy change that damn bulb?" Plus, every time I sat in the dining room, which is three times each day, it drove me to the brink of insanity. Call it nesting, but my GOD, I couldn't stand the sight of that dark little can light and I was going to do something about.

Last night, while the kids were eating dinner and Josh was out of town on a little business trip, I marched over to the utility closet and pulled out a bulb. It was dimmable. Look at me, just flaunting my lightbulb choices right in his face. My eight-months-pregnant ass climbed up on a dining room chair and replaced the bulb. Just like that! Done.

Jack was all kinds of horrified -- "Mommy! Do NOT stand on chairs. That is not nice!" -- but I assured him it was OK in this instance and only for grown-ups. Emmie thought it was the funniest thing she had ever seen and showed her appreciation for the new rays of light now streaming down upon her by throwing her half-chewed piece of cheese at me. Thanks for that. But because I fought the man and won, I didn't care.

When the kids went in to eat breakfast this morning, I heard the familiar "EH?" from Miss Emmie and Jack yelled, "Mommy! The light bulb is broken again!"

Son of a bitch. Darkness where once there was light. After I plunked down everyone's oatmeal, I climbed up on the chair again to investigate and found the glass of the bulb had broken off at the neck, leaving the inner workings of the bulb in the fixture. Huh. Weird.

I figured I must have gotten a bad bulb and decided to take it out and start again. But how to grab it without the glass surrounding it? Notice, at no time did I think, "Wow, that's live electricity just flowing right through there. Maybe I shouldn't grab it at all."

I reach up, bend the little metal thingies that are sticking out and proceed to shock the shit out of my fingers. I yelp, slam my hand on my leg and suppress the urge to drop the F-bomb. Jack looks up and says, "Mommy, what happened?" Oh nothing, Mommy just sent a kajillion jolts of electricty through her hand and straight into her uterus. I'm sure it's fine.

Because I am nothing if not resourceful, I immediately walked to the computer, where I googled "electrical shock pregnancy" and found many useful entries. Many of which contained the words "fetal distress" and "death." A few deep breaths later, after the realization that people on Yahoo Answers are complete idiots, I figured things were fine. It was a momentary buzz that didn't knock me unconscious and WeeBey was wiggling around just fine. Although that could have been spasms from the possible electrocution it just suffered. Hard to tell, but being my third pregnancy, I just told WeeBey to rub some dirt on it, it would be fine.

I then called Josh to inform him of my stupidity. After asking if I was all right, his next words were, "I told you we should have left it empty." Oh yeah? Well you can just be the next one to get shocked Mr. Energy Savings. You can deal with it tonight. He calmly told me he planned to turn the light switch OFF before touching it. Oh yeah? Well... well... whatever. You just wait until I dim the lights and burn all the bulbs out at once. Then we'll see who's happy.

Just call me MacGyver

Josh left for a weekend in New York this evening and I had to stay home in Chicago because I am pregnant and my OB said she wouldn't feel comfortable with me traveling at 30 weeks in a high-risk pregnancy.

I never get to do anything (says the woman who went to France the last time she was pregnant and to New York, Vegas, San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, Dubai, the Maldives and Florida in the last year). Boo hoo. I also had to cancel a trip to Florida at the end of the month because of this pesky pregnancy status. I never have any fun. (I can feel all your eyes rolling collectively to the backs of your heads.)

Technically, Josh is going to do some IT work for a friend's company. But this friend throws awesome parties for a living so I find it hard to believe when he tells me "we'll be working the whole weekend." Sure, sure. Working at Buddha Bar and Marquee til 3 a.m. is more like it.

He'll probably be rolling in around 5:30 a.m. just as I am rolling out of bed with the early-rising Jack. Except he'll have a few beers in him before he passes out and I'll just feel like passing out from exhaustion.

His leaving actually inspired the MacGyver in me because it meant I needed to figure out why the alarm system wasn't working for the last two weeks. Well, I actually know why it wasn't working -- we removed a sensor during the remodeling and that caused the whole system to freak out and randomly blink and beep at us until we broke down and paid the $145-per-hour fee to have some dude come out, put on those weird little shoe covers and hit the same buttons we could have hit ourselves.

I also may or may not have dropped the remote sensor on my key chain and watched as the little buttons flew all over the kitchen when it split open upon impact. Those little remotes are not cheap and when I saw what happened after dropping it a mere three feet, I might have cried a little. I also never did find one of the teeny blue buttons. I suspect Emmie ate it. Or it fell underneath the dishwasher where it will never be seen again. Either way, it's dead to me.

Not wanting anyone to break in and kill me while Josh is gone, or at least not break in and kill me without the alarm blaring, I decided to call and schedule a service appointment. Except the guy told me I would have to pay the $145 per hour, despite the fact we just signed up for a new service plan. Apparently they don't cover fixing the remote when you drop it and lose one of the keys. Which is bullshit. It also doesn't cover replacing a door sensor because you installed a whole new door. Again, bullshit.

The helpful dude on the phone told me he was all for saving me money, so he would walk me through the process of attempting to fix both things. The panel was easily fixed -- as I predicted, we only needed to push a few extra buttons -- and voila, a working alarm.

The remote involved a little more intricacy. The dude was trying to explain how the keys should be arranged, but he was talking about mirror images and how it would look if it was face-up, but it was really face-down so I should just mirror what he was saying and then I freaked out and felt like I was taking the ACT again and I suck at spatial relationships and I might have dropped the F-bomb on him under my breath and then threw the remote across the room.

But then I put on my big-girl pants and took charge of the remote and drew a little chart on a piece of scrap paper and successfully arranged the keys. They didn't work. I might have thrown it again.

The dude told me to just give it up already and I said I didn't need the service call ANYWAY and then I hung up. Because I am a mother, and I know everything, I decided maybe he told me the wrong configuration for the buttons. So I pried the remote open with a butter knife and rearranged them. AND IT WORKED!

How you like them remote buttons dude? I did it all by myself and didn't even need you or your stupid mirror-image remote configurating advice.

So in case anyone is thinking about coming to kill me this weekend, I fixed the alarm and you totally won't be able to do it in secret. I have thwarted you.

It's an honor to be nominated

There's this little blogging contest over at The Bump. SnarkyMommy.com is in the running for Best Stay-At-Home Mom Blog. I, being of a competitive nature, would like to win. And you can help!

If you wouldn't mind, I would so dearly appreciate some nominations. Don't feel obligated or anything. But it would be awesome. And I know it's a little annoying, but you have to register for their site to nominate. But it's not like they ask for your first-born, just a few standard questions.

You can click the image below, or go to http://pregnant.thebump.com/extras/mommy-blog-awards.aspx.



In the meantime, I'm over here just bathing myself in hand sanitizer because I am surrounded by a bunch of feverish, sickly children who clearly delight in spreading their pestilence to pregnant women. It's totally acceptable to keep them at arm's length, right? Even when they whine and cry and look at me with their little red eyes and rosy cheeks?

Please help me stop

Josh bought cupcakes to take to work with him this week. Sweet Mandy B's cupcakes, to be specific. If you're not from Chicago, you wouldn't know anything about them, but suffice it to say, they are like crack.

Not one to let annoying customer service hinder my love of cupcakes, I have returned to this bakery time and time again since The Mini Cupcake Debacle, as chronicled on this site two long years ago.

I made Josh buy me an extra one when he made his purchase, just for kicks. I am pregnant, I can indulge. That was Monday. Tuesday, I went to a birthday dinner for a friend and they had Sweet Mandy B's cake for dessert. Wednesday, Josh brought a few leftover cupcakes home with him from his work party and I plucked one from the box and ate it. Tonight, one of the last two cupcakes was calling me forlornly from the kitchen. I had to eat it -- it begged me to.

To sum up: four consecutive days of cake. There is one lonely cupcake left in the box right now. It is sleeping. I see it from where I am sitting. It's all soft and sugary in its purple blanket of frosting. I know with all my heart I will eat it tomorrow.

Please, someone help me. I have an addiction. And I am powerless.

Jamming at the United Center

I realized last night that all three of my children have now been to a Pearl Jam concert in utero. I told Josh that Pearl Jam only tours when I am pregnant and he said that's not really true, I am just always pregnant. He makes a good point.

Attending a concert surrounded by 21,000 people drinking beer and smoking various substances is a little depressing when you have to be stonecold sober, but that also always makes for good people-watching. Last night's PJ show at the United Center didn't disappoint.

I saw a guy get into a fight with security -- dude, it's a Pearl Jam show and you weren't even sitting on the floor. Calm the hell down. No one's crowd-surfing and I'm sure your flannel shirt was awesome in 1993, but now it's just sad. You deserve to get thrown out for that fashion crime if nothing else.

There was the girl who was so wasted after the show that she upturned a garbage can in the hall and had to be subdued by her boyfriend. Her boyfriend chose to subdue her by placing her in a headlock and dragging her away. When a good samaritan tried to intervene, the girl turned on him and tried to shove him to the floor. Again, it's not a Rage concert young lady. Get a grip.

Then there was the lovely couple sitting next to us from Pennsylvania. The woman was telling Josh how they left their six children (SIX!) at home to come to Chicago for the show. While Josh was chatting with her, the husband looked at my "Pregnant is the new sexy" shirt and conversationally asked if I was pregnant.

"No," I deadpanned, and took a drink of my (non-alcoholic) beer. Because it was in a regular beer cup, he had no idea it was O'Douls. He turned about 10 shades of red and started to say something when I saved him.

"I'm just kidding," I said. "I am totally pregnant. But wow, you should have seen the look on your face!"

Maybe I should have been nicer to the poor guy. He didn't come all the way to the Windy City to be harassed by a pregnant lady. But I just couldn't resist.

The weekend

I could write a big post about BlogHer and my experience there, but it's been talked about practically to death by everyone else. And by everyone, I mean the entire population of the Internet. Seriously, everyone went and everybody bitched about a baby getting elbowed in the head in a rush for swag bags and everybody talked about how commercial blogging has become and everyone got drunk. Except me because I am pregnant, wah.

My experience can be summed up like this: I spent a weekend with some really amazing women and had a ton of fun. We gossiped and went out to eat and shopped and got mani/pedis and went to parties and attended a few panels. This was a pretend "weekend away" for me, since it was held in Chicago, so Josh took over child duty and I got to sleep in and come and go as I pleased. I stayed out late every night and had fun. Exactly what I wanted it to be.

As for the conference itself, the humor panel kicked all kinds of ass. It consisted of Anna from Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder, Deb from Deb on the Rocks, Jenny from The Bloggess, Jessica from Bernthis, Kelcey from The Mama Bird Diaries and Wendi from Wendi Aarons. I didn't read these women before (except for The Bloggess) but after almost peeing my pants over the things they said, I certainly am now. And you should be, too. They inspired me to be funnier and even more of a smartass. So really, all of you readers will be the beneficiaries of my BlogHer weekend.

Then I came home and realized hanging out with 1,400 women from various parts of the country was a really stupid idea because ohmygod, the germs. I have no immunity from the Atlanta germs. Or the Austin germs (and sweet bitty, is every blogger from freaking Austin or does it just seem that way?). Or the Calee-fornia germs. And you know what all those people probably had lurking in the recesses of their hand wrinkles? I'll tell you. Swine flu. And you know, "the pregnant" is a risk factor in swine flu death. So I'll probably die in the next two weeks thanks to some random person who handed me her business card right after she licked it.

In the meantime I do have a sore throat and I am trying to not Google the shit out of early swine flu symptoms. I am sure this sore throat has nothing to do with the fact I was out late, screaming at the top of my lungs to be heard over all the other screaming women within a five-foot radius. Or that I caught a chill in the midnight air on Poppy's rooftop deck. Or that I coated my throat in liquid chocolate at the Mommy Needs a Cocktail party. Nope. It's clearly swine flu. It was nice knowing all of you.

BlogHer awaits

A few months ago, I heard the BlogHer conference was in Chicago this year, but was non-plussed by the idea of attending. I couldn't imagine paying to hang out and listen to people talk about blogging. I mean I have been doing it for five years now, I am pretty familiar with the concept.

But then I was out with a few other bloggers one night in March (incidentally, that was the night I got violently ill with a stomach ailment and chalked it up to Indian food, except HA, I was pregnant and didn't know it) and they all told me how you don't need to go to the conference because all anyone really remembers anyway are the parties. That of course piqued my interest, I mean drinking and hanging out are two of my favorite things to do.

A few weeks ago, one of my favorite bloggers (Sarah of "Life at 45 Degrees") was having a shitty few weeks and I insisted she come out for BlogHer, despite not having tickets. She could just go to the parties with me! So she booked a flight and she'll be here tomorrow. We'll be picking up another awesome blogger (Sarah, of "Harry Times, All Jacked Up", although we should all be calling her Dr. Sarah since she's a newly minted PhD) and the three of us will be going for manicures and pedicures.

Then we'll be off to dinner with a large group of other bloggers before hitting some parties. Of course, I will have to remain sober, sigh, but I will hand my free drinks off to the other ladies. Despite not being able to drink, I am so looking forward to this weekend. I am hoping to have fun with the bloggers I already know and to meet several I have been reading for years. I also hope to meet many, many new bloggers.

So if you're attending, and you spy me with your little eye, please come and say hello. I'll even give you one of my nifty new blog business cards! And I won't be drunk, so the chances of me slurring my words and not remembering meeting you are very slim. Also, I won't spill any drinks on you. Maybe. But if I do, I won't have any excuse for doing so.

In the meantime, look for a large number of tweets on my Twitter feed this weekend. I am sure all of Twitter will crash from the sheer number of bloggers all doing it at once from the same spot, but maybe they'll use messenger pigeons or something.

Who on earth designs this shit?

I spent the last two afternoons searching for the Holy Grail: a dressy maternity top that isn't more than $100 and doesn't look like a tent.

Is it so much to ask that Old Navy or Target or the Gap add a little spice to their T-shirts and tank tops? I mean I appeciate a good everyday shirt as much as the next woman, and God knows I do love me some smartass pregnancy T-shirts, but I am going to the big BlogHer conference next week and I have nothing to wear.

I know people complain all the time that their closets are bare and they have nottthhhhiiiiiiing to weeeaaaarrrrrrrr, but I really don't. I am scheduled to attend several fun parties and I am going to show up in a T-shirt if someone doesn't come to my rescue but quick.

This has been a problem for me with each pregnancy -- I find everyday stuff I adore but it's the going-out stuff that presents the challenge. Trying to justify spending a serious load of cash on stuff I will only really wear a few times is hard. Especially since, as I am constantly reminded, someone else makes the money and all I do is spend the money.

I have tried local boutiques BellyDance and Kickin'. My favorite store during previous pregnancies, Swell, is out of business. Sob. I have one more option -- Krista K -- that I am checking out tomorrow and then I give up. That or Josh is going to have to pony up $100 for a shirt I am going to wear about three times. And then I will be contacting attorneys to fight the divorce filing he will drop on my ass. So that would just cost us all way too much money in the long run.

Please, oh readers of my blog, help dress me for BlogHer! I prefer black, or if it can't be black then another solid color, and tight-fitting. I like people to know I am pregnant, not guess what I am smuggling under a tent. But at this poing, I can't be picky and I will be happy with something that just looks nice. Bonus points if I can buy it somewhere in the Chicagoland area. I would even be happy with express shipping to get it here by Wednesday.

Park it

When you live in the city of Chicago, you get some pretty great perks. Easy public transportation, great restaurants, access to an awesome lakefront, homeless people living in your alley, rats living in your yard, you know, the best of city life. But you also get totally screwed by something called the City Sticker.

Even though you have to register your car with the state -- and pay them a nice little fee each year -- you also have to buy a sticker from the city of Chicago just to have the right to park on the street. The cost? A mere $75.

Additionally, if you live in a densely populated neighborhood, you will have zoned parking on your streets. That means you have to buy ANOTHER pass, this one for $25, so you can legally park in the zoned area. Want your friends to be able to park on your street when they visit? You're in luck! You can purchase 15 daily guest passes for the low, low price of $8.

So we ponied up $140 (that would be times two, since we have two cars registered to our address) for the privlege of parking on the city streets. And the kicker? We have a parking spot! We don't even NEED to park on the street. But they get you because if you ever leave your house and park on a street anywhere, anytime, you have to have the pass displayed. They even have some ridiculous law that lets the city check cars in parking garages to see if they have the stickers.

The fine for not having the sticker is $75, the same as buying the sticker. And you have to buy the sticker anyway, so it's like paying double. I know the amount of the fine because I have indeed been ticketed for not having a sticker in the past. Not once, but twice, in the same year. Stupid.

But the biggest ridiculousness of the whole thing is that the sticker is made so if you try to peel it off, it not only starts to disintegrate, it will not come off the windshield. Which is great when it comes to thwarting thievery of stickers, but terrible when it comes to getting the old sticker off when it's time to put the new one on. I have seen cars with seven years' worth of stickers stacked up the windshield because they're impossible to remove.

I had three stickers to get off this year on my windshield and tried like hell to peel them off with my fingers to no avail. Josh suggested Goo Gone, that miracle remover of gunk, and I added in my own idea of a razor blade.

Making sure I was in a well-ventilated area, lest the fetus get some weird birth defect from the fumes, I sprayed it on and waited a few minutes. That just means I opened the car door and called it ventilation. It said on the label to make sure you DO NOT INGEST, so because it was bolded on the directions, I made sure to follow them. All the while thinking, "Why on earth would you ever think to drink a bright orange liquid that comes in a spray bottle from Home Depot?"

I scraped the stickers off with the razor blade and it was like a miracle. Every bit of sticky came off the windshield and I was so excited I skipped into the house to tell Josh. He looked slightly horrified and said, "You didn't let it touch your skin did you? I don't think you're supposed to touch it."

Oh great. I looked down at my now chalky-looking fingertips and immediately washed them again. And again. And one more time. Awesome. I have sacrificed my fingers, and possibly the health of my unborn child, but by God, we have no more stray city stickers on our windshield. It's totally worth it.

That's not a dream, it's a nightmare

You know how people complain they have a recurring dream where they're back in school and they haven't been to class all semester but have to show up and take the final and they're all "Oh my God, how am I going to pass?" and then they wake up in a cold sweat?

I was telling Josh the other night that I have a way-weirder whacked-out recurring dream.

I am playing softball, but I can't catch a flyball or field a grounder. In fact, I turn my head away and wince as the ball comes towards me. And with grounders, I pick my head up and my glove comes about a foot off the ground.

And every time I have this dream, which is a couple of times a year and most recently two nights ago, I wake up pissed off at myself. I mean of all the stupid stuff to dream about, this is definitely the stupidest because with the thousands of hours I invested in softball in Little League and then through high school and a week of college*, there is no way I would ever turn my head and wince as the ball came my way. It's just not possible thanks to muscle memory.

Maybe it's my subconscious telling me I am getting old. Maybe it's my actual consciousness telling me I am out of shape, seeing as I have not done any actual exercise (outside of walking) since I got pregnant with Jack FOUR YEARS AGO. Maybe it's the washed-up athlete in me telling me all the muscle memory in the world won't help when you haven't played ball in seven years.

Whatever it is, I would rather have the dream about walking naked down the street. That would embarrass me less than missing an infield pop-up any day.

So, do share: what's your recurring nightmare?

* I had a full four-year scholarship as a pitcher and lasted exactly one week due to a rotator cuff injury. So I left that school, went to my backup as it still had a spot for me, and lived happily ever after. My dad's 401k is still thanking him for my decision.

Ladies Day doesn't mean Manners Day

I had to get the oil changed in my vehicle today and because I had no one to watch the kids, I dragged them along with me. This was a source of great concern to Jack. What were we doing? Why did we need to "change the car?" Where were we going to do it? Would there be a special treat involved? You know, standard 3-year-old concerns.

I herded them into the car and drove in the general vicinity of where Google Maps told me there was a quick oil change joint in Peoria. I chose this sort of establishment because I am familiar with the concept: you pull up, wait in your car, drive into the little garage compartment, wait in your car some more, pay and leave.

It's all very nice and easy because you don't have to get out of the car. Which means you don't have to unbuckle first child, remove first child from car, carry first child to other side of car, unbuckle second child, help second child climb down, balance first child in one arm while trying to keep grip on second child's arm as he tries to run away in parking lot, wait in waiting area with two children, poke eyes out because two children won't sit still or STOP TOUCHING THINGS, Twitter from cell phone about horrid experience while children grab candy out of pay machine despite not depositing any money, take candy away and listen to children die because of unfairness, ignore dirty looks from other man waiting for his car, take windshield wiper out of first child's mouth, pay bill, pick up first child who is now screaming because you are leaving, drag second child by arm as he refuses to walk normally through parking lot, shove second child into car while he yells about wanting a special treat, watch helplessly as second child climbs into front seat and laughs hysterically, walk first child around to other side of car and strap her writhing body into carseat, threaten second child that if he does not get into his carseat THISINSTANTIWILLNEVERTAKEYOUANYWHEREEVERAGAIN, walk around to other side of car, watch as second child scampers into backseat laughing, tell second child there will be no special treat, strap second child into carseat while he wails about lack of special tret, walk back around car yet again, get in car, bang head on steering wheel, start car, drive home, vowing to never, ever, ever take children anywhere again. Ever.

Not that I would be familiar with any of those events.

After I drove about a mile out of my way, I realized I might have missed the oil change place. I turned around, while being interrogated by Jack about where the "car change" place was, and finally located it. I decided to check the price before committing to the procedure and almost fell over when I found out it was $38. Nothankyouverymuch.

Again, Jack shows grave concern over leaving. I explain it was too expensive and surely Mommy could find a cheaper place than the Mobil chain. Walmart! Walmart has an oil change place. Ooooooh, but you have to get out of the car. Dilemmma: save money or damage sanity and place undue stress on unborn embryo. Decide embryo has six more months to get over it. Josh will be so pleased when I report back that I went to Walmart.

I arrived in the lot and hustled the kids out of car, hauled ass into Walmart only to hear the clerk tell me there are six people waiting in front of me. I crumpled to the ground and wept, but he didn't care. So I dragged the children back to the car in search of something else.

You might be asking yourself at this point why I didn't just go another damn day. Valid question. Because at this point, it became the "principle of the thing." Now I had to get the freaking oil changed and no one was going to stop me. Oh ho no.

I started to drive aimlessly in the direction of the new mall (the old mall is still in existence in Peoria, but since this one was built five years ago, everyone calls it the new mall, although it is no longer new) thinking maybe I would just wander around there and entertain the kids for a while.

Except on the way, I saw a drive-up oil change place! Joy in Mudville! Even Jack was smiling and talking about how we CAN get the car changed!

I pulled up to the bay door and asked if I could please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stay in the car with the kids. The pleasant young man checking me in said it would not be a problem as long as he drove the car into the bay. Noooooo problem.

I jumped into the passenger seat, which sent Jack into a state of panic, and the young man drove it in. Another nice young mechanic was about to get to work on the car when a surly mechanic one bay over yelled at him, "Why is that woman in the car?"

Mechanic 1 looked a little startled and said that I requested it because of the kids. Mechanic 2 FREAKS out on him and yells, "Well if the car starts on fire, she'll never get those kids out of the seats in time. You should know better." Because you read all the time about cars catching on fire during ROUTINE OIL CHANGES.

During this exchange between what I find out is a mere worker (nice Mechanic 1) and his boss (surly Mechanic 2), I rolled down the motorized window, removed my sunglasses and said to Mechanic 2, "Dude, calm down. You don't need to yell at him. I told him I wanted to stay in."

Mechanic 2 then turns his seething anger at the gods of carseats on me.

"You can't be in the car," he said.
"I have stayed in the car hundreds of times for oil changes, I will take my chances," I said.
"I can't let you do that."
"They let you do that at Jiffy Lube."
"Well, this ain't Jiffy Lube."
"I can tell you, I wish it was right about now."
"I sure don't."

Since the oil pan was already open and I was staring down imminent death from spontaneous oil change combustion, I sighed and went through the complete works of child removal from the vehicle. (See: paragraph 3.)

Except there was one more little "F-you" from the universe waiting for me. This oil change joint didn't take American Express. Guess who only had her driver's license, AmEx and $18 in cash with her for a $28 bill? Of course. Because the world hates me.

The manager stared daggers into my tires, willing them to deflate by the power of his mind while I asked nicely if I could leave my license and come back to pay later after my husband got home with a suitable Visa card. They said that would be fine and I was on my merry way.

I returned later in the afternoon with Visa in hand and the guy seemed surprised to see me. I asked him if he really thought I would skip out on the bill and he laughed and said no, but that he would not blame me. He then lowered his voice and said he was sorry about the whole thing. I remarked that his boss was a wee bit crabby and he said he was like that all morning. He rang up the order and asked me for $27. I asked why it was cheaper than what they billed me for in the morning and he shrugged. "They must have forgotten to give you the Ladies Day discount," he said, gesturing to the huge banner hanging outside.

So not only did the bastard ruin my day, he tried to screw me as well. In the end, I saved $3 over what I would have forked over at Walmart but gained some outstanding blog material. It was a wash, I guess.

Now that THAT's out of the way...

Thank you all for the well-wishes. I am actually pretty excited about the whole thing, not the least of which is because I get to milk another high-risk pregnancy for the next seven months. (Also, one of the great parts about finding out you are nine weeks along is you just magically skip the first two months. Poof! They're gone.)

While this was a surprise, it was not unwanted. I had said since the night I delivered Emmie that I wanted one more baby. Josh was on the fence, but wasn't shutting the door on the issue. We decided if it happened, it happened. Apparently, it happened. Just as I was starting to think about wanting another. So it worked out spectacularly well for me. And yes, I know how lucky I am. I know there are plenty of women out there, including some everyday readers of this very blog, who would give anything to have a child. And I hope this same exact thing happens for them.

I didn't really get into the details of what's to come in my last post. I will go for a detailed ultrasound and genetic testing on June 4. Because I am the dreaded "Advanced Maternal Age" now at 35 years old, I get to undergo even more tests than normal. Which is fun. Because I don't have enough people poking their nose around my uterus during under-35 pregnancies.

Immediately after the ultrasound, I will meet with my Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist. This is the man I owe for bringing me my Jackie, safe and sound. And for making sure my Emily arrived without problems. I wouldn't dream of having anyone else perform my cerclage this time around either. Imagine my surprise to learn he had been elevated to the head of the department since I last pushed a child out of my body. Makes me feel even better, if that's possible.

My cerclage will be placed sometime the week after that. I have a wedding to attend, however, so I am angling to have it done the week of June 15, when I will be 14 weeks. I had it done with Emmie at 15 weeks, so right about the same time.

I have no idea what that means in terms of restrictions. I know last time I was prohibited from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk, vaccuming/scrubbing the floors, swimming and exercising. I imagine things will be much the same this time. They better be. Because since Josh won't let me hire a cleaning lady, I get to boss him around about how the housework should be done. I also hear sleeping in until 10 a.m. is mandatory for all women with preventative cerclages.

And for all of you who expressed concern about lumping the birthday in with Christmas, let me assure you it will not be an issue. While my birthday is a full month after Christmas, it was close enough that I would say, "Well, if I don't get (insert insanely popular gift from 1980s here) for Christmas, I want it for my birthday." My mom even instituted a rule that I could not talk about my birthday until Christmas was over. Emmie's is even closer, at just three weeks afterward. Knowing my body like I do, this baby will be born no later than the first week of December. I think we can safely say that is out of the "lumping in" timeframe.

Oh! Also. I am sick. Sick as a dog. And just like with both my kids, I get sick in the afternoon and it stretches to the evening. I am averse to sweets, crave salty and can't get enough macaroni and cheese and fish sticks. Just like the first two pregnancies. No puking, just constant nausea. Josh has been forced to work at home for the last two weeks because of some insane quarantine, which has been immensely helpful when I need to lie down and not hear about food for an hour or two before dinner time.

So there you have it. All the details you ever needed. You need to know more -- leave a comment with your question and I will address it for you.

Three times the blog material

I sat down to compose the first line of this post and after a few dozen deletes, decided to just come out with it.

I am pregnant. As in, having a third child.

(I hear crickets chirping, I can wait until you all pick yourselves up off the floor to go on.)

Ahh, you're back with me now. Trust me when I tell you, that was about the reaction I had when I found myself staring two pink lines in the face one morning. That, coupled with some "holy shits" and a few F-bombs.

Considering I had NO IDEA I was pregnant, and just taking the test because it was lying around and I was being stupid, my reaction was rather laid back. Josh's was similar, except with the bonus of me being able to see every last drop of blood drain from his face. Fact: Josh gets very pale when the entire contents of his bloodstream is pooled in his legs.

So we spent a few weeks getting used to the idea while I waited for a doctor's appointment. When the big day finally arrived last Friday, they said they would do a quick ultrasound in the office to date the pregnancy and after the standard bloodwork and paperwork, I would be on my merry way.

My quick ultrasound ended with the doctor telling me "I don't want to alarm you, but I definitely see two of something in there and I wouldn't go telling people you're having twins, but I think you need a real ultrasound as soon as possible next week." And she added that I was about seven weeks along.

I'm sorry, what? That's not possible. I mean sure, I am seven weeks along with ONE FREAKING BABY. Lalalalala, that's me covering my ears and not listening to this talk of "two" or "twins." I mean, have you met my cervix? It's a freaking Shrinky Dink. There is no way it could ever, not even a little bit, keep two children inside of me.

I am not sure how I had the strength to get up off the table and leave, but I did. I tried to schedule an ultrasound for Monday, but the scheduler had called in sick. Sorry, call on Monday. Oh my holy hell, I might be committed to a mental ward before Monday. And then wouldn't they feel bad? No? Oh, OK.

So I came home to tell Josh, who promptly died. I had to resuscitate him right in the living room -- good thing I know CPR -- and after I brought him back to life, he entered a catatonic state.

We spent the weekend properly freaking the eff out, but I kept insisting it was only one. I wasn't twice as sick. I wasn't twice as tired. And besides, I hadn't really pissed any diety or fate off that much lately, so there was no way they were trying to get back at me for something.

Monday morning, I called the nice ultrasound department at 9 a.m. That would be the office I have probably visited 50 times over the last four years. The one with the entire wing named after me, paid for by my insurance company. The nice receptionist said they could not even schedule an ultrasound until they had my chart for this pregnancy from my OB. Which is located one floor directly above them. And had been requested three days prior. Someone will call you back, she said.

An hour later, my panic levels rising, I called back to see if they had the records. Nope. I called my OB's office myself at that point and hysterically asked them to PLEASE. SEND. THE. DAMN. RECORDS.

Three hours after that, I had to go get my bloodwork done (I had forgotten my insurance card the week before) and I figured if I staged a sit-in at the ultrasound department, they couldn't ignore me. So I stopped by the office and alle-freaking-luia, they had the paperwork. I turned it on thick, explaining how I was freaking out and I brought a book -- look! a 700-page book! -- and was ready to wait as long as it took. The poor nurse took one look at my face and saw my desperation and said she could get me in an hour later.

When the tech called my name, I leaped out of my chair and made it to the door in a single step. Even in my pregnant state I'm like a gazelle. It's a gift. She said we were going to do this abdominally and I was sad for second, wishing for the dildocam. But whatever, she's the boss. There will plenty of those in a few weeks time anyway, I am not missing out.

Within two seconds of seeing my uterus on the screen, it was determined there was ONE embryo. One nine-week-old embryo wiggling it's arms and legs, with it's heart beating away at a solid 175 bpm. Yep, two weeks further along than we guessed, but very much all alone. (Due date: December 15)

I almost kissed the technician. I think she might have been taken aback, especially since I was thinking about using tongue. But come on, this woman just saved me from certain doom. I walked out of there on air.

When I arrived home and told Josh the joyous news, he looked relieved, but not entirely giddy, as I was. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, saying, "Josh, get on board! It could be so much worse."

And that my friends, is the mantra for this third pregnancy, "It could have been so much worse." The embryo will feel so special someday when it reads this blog.


A study in contrasts: Emmie is thrilled, Jack not so much.

Don't take a picture, it won't last longer

Let me make a public service announcement about a pandemic that's sweeping the nation. And no, it's not the damn swine flu. It's people taking pictures at concerts with camera phones.

PEOPLE. Your camera phone is not going to take a decent shot of anything, much less a teeny-tiny figure up on the stage 20 yards away. All you are going to see is a blurry figure in front of colored lights.

Ditto with pictures of the crowd.

Don't even get me started with the pictures of your friends. It's really annoying when you take 47 pictures of your friends, 30 of which you are self-portraiting with them from an arm's length away. Those pictures won't turn out either, just FYI. You'll inevitably cut your head off or have your eyes closed.

We went to the Franz Ferdinand concert tonight. It was awesome. Except for the girl in front of me who I was about to punch in the face because she wouldn't stop with the damn camera phone. And it had a flash -- now with twice as much annoyance!

So please, just say no to concert pictures. We're all depending on you.

Getting on with it

Over the past several months, there have been a few events that made me pause and think about how lucky I am. I have two beautiful, healthy children. I have a wonderful husband who makes me laugh and makes it possible for us to have the life we have. I have a supportive family and awesome friends. I have it all.

And in an instant, that could change. I know that. And it's always when you hear about something awful -- the death of a child, a little girl choking, a young father losing his wife the day after their baby is born -- that you take stock in your life.

After my friend Jenny nearly lost her adorable little CiCi to choking, I vowed I would appreciate each and every minute with my kids. And for a while, I did. I was serenity personified. Jack flung a bowl of peas and carrots at my head the next night and I thought to myself, "It's fine. It's just vegetables. He's 3. And I am lucky to have him." I just smiled and asked if he wanted dessert.

But then the minutes turned to hours and I wasn't as mindful of how lucky I was. Emmie was waking up in the middle of the night screaming and I was annoyed. Jack would kick me and I would send him to timeout. And real life descended on me once again.

I have to admit: I am kind of obsessed with Matt Logelin's blog. Josh jokes that I have a dad crush on him. But I just love reading about his Maddy and his experiences with single fatherhood as a widow. And I always think to myself, "That could have been Josh." And it makes me so sad to think about. How on earth would Josh have raised Jack on his own while grieving the loss of his wife?

Again, for a day or two after reading his blog for the first time, I really thought about how lucky I was. I was thoughtful with Josh, bought him his favorite licorice from Trader Joe's for no reason. Let him sleep in. Encouraged him to go out with his friends. But then a few days passed and I was back to bitching about him being on the computer all the time and nagging him to pick the freaking sock lint up off the floor. What the hell is the deal with his sock lint anyway? It appears only on his side of the bed, always from his black socks and it drives me BATSHIT CRAZY that he doesn't see it or doesn't care. But this is a perfect of example of what I am talking about: really, sock lint? I am bitching about sock lint? Matt Logelin would probably give anything to have his wife leave sock lint next to the bed.

A few days ago, I learned that a little girl, Maddie Spohr, had died. And it was horrifying. Again, I vowed to hug my kids a little tighter. And then Emmie was head-butting me during a tantrum and Jack was peeing on the toilet seat on purpose and I was yelling at Josh that he was talking on the phone instead of playing with the kids when he got home from work.

Shitty things happen to good people. It sucks. And I wish I was a better person who took these lessons and actually made life changes based on them. Or even that I could lie and tell you that I did. I am trying, and I guess that's a start.

It hit me this morning; that is life. Life is not sunshine and rainbows and unicorns. Life is being exasperated with your kids. It's being annoyed with your husband. It's sending your calls to voicemail because you don't feel like talking. It's taking five extra minutes after your shower to just be alone in the bathroom. It's looking forward to naptime.

But just because you do those things, doesn't mean you don't love your kids or your husband or your family or your friends. To me, real life is tragic and wonderful and fun and scary and boring and unpredictable all at the same time. And real life means sometimes you are going to lose your shit and yell but then turn around and pick up your kids and tickle them until they laugh themselves into the hiccups.

The fine line between those emotions is what makes me a parent. It's what makes me a wife. And it's what makes me real. Those moms who never yell, never sleep in past 5 a.m. and never complain about having to clean up pee off the floor are not real moms. They're not even real people.

Missing: one snarky mommy

I was looking back at my archives last week and I have come to the realization that I have lost the funny. I can't pinpoint it and say, "Well damn, on July 13 I was hilarious and by July 15, I just didn't have it anymore." It's just I feel a little, well, off.

Sure, high-risk pregnancy is money when it comes to comedic blog posts. I mean who isn't catching their breath after laughing themselves into an asthma attack over the description of a dildocam session documenting yet another shortening of the old cervix? Or trying to ignore the stitch in their side after reading more hilarious adventures in pregnancy hemorrhoids?

But then I wasn't pregnant anymore and I had two kids and I whined about being home alone with them and how haaaarrrrrrddddd it was to have to feed, bathe and put them to bed BY MYSELF. That's funny. No wait, it's not. It's just whiny.

I looked back at a few recent posts and realized I have been mailing it in. I am going to try harder, but it's going to take some effort on my part. I think I would like to actually make something of this blog someday. And it isn't going to happen with me posting three paragraphs about my kid pooping on the potty.

Blaming Twitter was my first instinct, as I usually bring the funny there and find it so much easier to snark it up in less than 140 characters. No plot, no seques -- just amusing one-offs. But blaming Twitter is wrong. I used to be a reporter for God's sake. People paid me to tell stories in long form. It's my creativity that needs a kick in the ass.

Emmie got her first pair of big-girl shoes today. Goodbye Robeez, hello Stride Rite. We put the tennis shoes on her feet in the store and she laid down on the floor and declined our requests to walk or even to crawl, refusing to lift her legs because she had 50-pound weights attached to her ankles. Oh, the horror of shoes.

But then she spotted Grandma's Coach purse on the table and she couldn't get up fast enough. She toddled over to grab it and chew on the strap and completely forgot about the awfulness of her feet being encased.

Lesson learned: sometimes, you have to make an effort to move beyond your comfort zone. A nice purse as a reward doesn't hurt, either.

So from now on, I am bringing the funny back. Or at least trying to. I imagine my stats will be the judge of that. Of course Jack is on spring break for two weeks and all I will want to write are posts that sound something like "OMFG I am going to lose my mind because I am with my 3-year-old 24 hours a day. Please someone find me a babysitter already."

The search is over. Maybe.

Over a year ago, I shared with all of you my quest for an eye cream that would make some sort of difference in the ridiculous dark circles under my eyes. I spent hundreds of dollars over the years on various products that never eradicated my issue.

Thanks to the one-two punch of genetics and fair skin, I have some pretty serious dark circles. I don't have wrinkles (again, thanks genetics, coupled with moisturizing routines starting in my teens) and I don't have bags. But oh my holy hell, I get one measly less hour of sleep one night and I look like a Twilight character.

After all my Googling and product samples last year, in the end, I stuck with Philosphy's Hope in a Tube. It didn't do much for the circles, but I wasn't getting any wrinkles either. So, bleh. A wash.

As any good dark-circle sufferer will tell you, it's not about the eye cream anyway. It's all about the concealer. That's what takes you from "night of the living dead" to "morning of the somewhat alive" in 20 seconds.

I had been using "Boi-ing" concealer from Benefit for the last year, on the recommendation of the fabulous Fluid Pudding. And yes, it does live up to its moniker of "industrial-strength concealer." It did a great job of concealing my circles, but they were never truly gone. But still, better than any product I had been using up to that point.

When I ran out last month before our trip, I ran over to the Benefit boutique down the block for a restock. Because it is the greatest makeup store ever, they insist on practically giving you a whole makeover for free every time you set foot in the store. The girl that day insisted I try their new eye product.

"Nah," I said. "I am running late and leaving for a vacation and ... oh, well, OK. But just the concealer. I really have to get home."

As she spun me toward the mirror, I gasped. You could not see my circles. I thought it was a trick of the lighting, but no. She laughed and said, "See! I told you that you would love it."

This little miracle in a jar goes by the name of Erase Paste. And it is my new best friend. It came with me on vacation and saved my jet-lagged ass from scaring anyone with my heroin-addict eyes. I look at it longingly every morning and thank it for coming into my life. Even Josh has remarked what a good job it does.

So if you suffer from this as I do (Supacoo, I kept meaning to tell you of this miracle product and wondering if you have access to it) you should give it a try. You only use the tiniest amount and you have to use the twee little scooper that comes with it to get it out and it's got some heat-activated component that works with your skin, but I promise, you will love it.

Great timing for once

Jack has pooped on the potty for the last three days, which, holy hell it's about time. There has been great excitement around these parts as a result. He keeps reminding me "Mommy so happy!" every time we talk about it. So that is great progress.

I, however, have spent the last 24 hours within arms reach of a bathroom because I have contracted a pitiful stomach bug. I didn't feel well all day yesterday, but soldiered on because I was going to Dooce's book signing. And Josh was feeding the kids dinner AND doing bath and bedtime by himself. Which always makes me secretly happy because I have to do it alone three days a week and him doing it once a month is a little taste of what my life is like when he's gone.

Whoa, sorry for the "my life is not fair because my husband travels for work" sidebar there. Back on task.

My illness was so bad I had to leave twice during the book signing/reading. Ick. Borders bookstore bathrooms, however, not so ick. So that's good. Could have been a gas station bathroom, so I have that going for me. Which is nice.

But I spent literally all night getting up and walking the 10 feet to the bathroom and back. Multiple times. Then Jack woke up screaming because he had wet through his pajamas and then I was sick a few more times and on and on ad naseum throughout the day.

But after eating some chicken soup for lunch and chugging a lot of Gatorade, I was feeling a lot better. We had dinner plans at an Italian place in the neighborhood and I lost my damn mind and thought it would be a good idea to order fettuccini alfredo. Because a cream sauce -- that sounds nice and light. Definitely on the bland BRAT diet.

Jack had his favorite meal -- pizza -- and we thought nothing of it. Until it was time for bed and he told us he had to poop on the potty and that his tummy hurt. And then he proceeded to poop 10 times the next hour.

During Bathroom Sit-in No. 9, Josh said, "Well, at least this is getting him over his fear of the potty."

From his lips to God's ears. So if you're looking for a quick way to get your kid pooping in the potty, just infect him with the stomach flu. He'll be a champ in no time.

The long-awaited trip report

I know, I know. I promised a full trip report. But somehow I can't seem to get past "We went on a lot of planes, did some stuff in Dubai, lolled around in the Maldives and came home. The end." Somehow, I think that's not what people are really looking for.

We started with a seven-hour flight to London, followed by a five-hour layover in the new Terminal 5 at Heathrow. It is brand-spanking new and pretty cool. We found a big couch and slept for a few hours while we waited for our flight to Dubai. Then we flew another seven hours to Dubai, arriving close to 11 p.m., which put us in our hotel room 22 hours after we left home. We slept and woke up early the next morning, all out of sorts because of the time difference (10 hours from Chicago).





We spent the morning doing a bus tour of Dubai, which was really cool. Saw a bunch of mosques and souks (markets) and learned a lot about the history of the country, one of the richest per capita in the world. After the bus tour, we grabbed some lunch then headed back to our hotel to pick up our bags and meet our driver for the desert safari. We drove out to the desert in a Land Rover with two other people (an Italian dude and a Polish chick) and met up with a larger posse of 4x4 vehicles. After snapping some pictures in the dunes, we took off in the trucks on the dunes.



To tell you I was carsick was an understatement. I was in a cold sweat, my nails digging into the palms of my hands while I kept my eyes focused squarely on the truck in front of us at all times. It was like being on a roller coaster, but not. It was truly the worst experience of my life. When we stopped halfway through, I looked at Josh and told him I would never, ever do anything like this again and the only reason I even agreed to it in the first place was because a friend recommended the tour to him and I didn't want to ruin his trip.

Then the Italian guy, who spoke barely any English, decided he wanted to sit in the front seat so he could take pictures. Backseat and carsickness do not mix and I had to restrain myself from screaming in his face that NO I WOULD NOT SIT IN THE BACK. Josh tried explaing I was sick, but the dude had no clue and jumped into the front seat. Alllllrighty then. I somehow managed to keep the contents of my stomach inside my body and we made it to the camp. But before we did anything else, we tried our hands at sandboarding (just like snowboarding, but 100 times slower) and riding camels before we had a traditional dinner and show.



We ate a bunch of great food -- the lamb was to die for -- and watched a belly dancer and then left. The driver had agreed to drop us at the airport, so we waited a few hours for our 12:35 a.m. flight to Qatar. Our flight to Doha was an hour and then we had a 35-minute layover before our four-hour flight to Male, the capital of the Maldives. We arrived at 9 a.m. local time and were met at the arrivals gate by Conrad hotel reps who whisked us away to their private lounge to wait for our seaplane flight to the hotel.

The lounge was air-conditioned (the airport was not, it was open-air) and they offered us pastries, fruit and juice as well as massages -- all complimentary. After we had relaxed a bit, they told us our flight was ready and they drove us over to the seaplane terminal on the other side of the airport. Our seaplane was ready and waiting, as was the pilot, who flew barefoot. No cockpit door either -- apparently there's no fear of terrorism in paradise.




The flight was amazing -- we flew low over the water and the many coral atolls and islands that make up the Maldives. I can't even do it justice, except to say the water was more turquoise than I had imagined and the beauty of seeing it from the air was stunning. After a 25-minute flight, the two islands that make up the Conrad came into view and we were landing with nary a bump. I wouldn't have even realized we were in the water if I hadn't seen the splashing outside the window.



Our island host, Jennifer, met us at the dock and escorted us to the reception area. She gave us the lowdown on the resort and then told us our room would be ready in about an hour, so we were welcome to relax at the pool while we waited. We grabbed a quick shower in the fitness center and had just sat down on some beach chairs when she summoned us to say the room was ready.

Our beach villa was ridiculous: private plunge pool under a thatched roof in the back, outdoor shower with rainfall showerhead amongst a bunch of lush green foliage next to the plunge pool, an outdoor bathroom overlooking a fountain and the huge bedroom with 20-foot ceilings and doors leading out to a private patio and the beach beyond. I was stunned by how big it was. It had definitely been remodeled recently with a flat-screen TV, iPod docking station and high-quality linens.



We spent the rest of the afternoon napping and hanging out at the beach before heading to the Wine Bar for a wine and chocolate tasting. We chatted with another couple from the UK and a girl visiting from Russia. The sommelier was really cool and we sat there and talked to him after the others had left for quite some time. He was a native of Maldives and has worked at the Conrad for three years and another resort before that. We got to talking about the tsunami and he told us there was no damage to that island because of the reef surrounding it, but that he was working at another hotel in the north at the time and a co-worker of his died afer saving a 3-year-old hotel guest. Very sad.

Because of the time change, we were exhausted, but up at the crack of dawn the next morning. In fact, we never slept later than 8 a.m. the entire time we were there, although there were a lot of naps logged.




Most of the days consisted of hanging out at the beach or the pool, reading and relaxing, or snorkeling. We ate breakfast at Vilu (the restaurant/bar on the other island where the overwater bungalows were located) all but one day. Vilu was the better of the two options as it was made-to-order food (the other option, Atoll, was buffet) and you could even have complimentary champagne every morning. Josh had steak and eggs a few times, while I enjoyed their eggs benedict. We usually ate a late enough breakfast that we skipped lunch, but then hit the Happy Hour from 5-6 p.m. Free drinks? Yes, please!



In keeping with the relaxation theme of the trip, I made three trips to the spa. It was amazing and I was glad I was able to spread out a few treatments. The second day on the island, we received a discount on an hourlong couples package consisting of a foot treatment, Thai massage, body scrub and scalp massage, so we both took advantage of that. Josh isn't crazy about spas, but I think he enjoyed it after I made him go. I also went back for a 60-minute Swedish massage later in the week and it came with a free mini-facial which I did the next day. The Swedish massage was easily the best I have ever had in my life, and I was sad I couldn't get another one before leaving.

We tried each of the restaurants and found the food to be good and not as outrageously priced as we though it would be. Dinner ran us about $100 per night for the two of us, including drinks. Most nights I was so exhausted I could barely make it through the entrees, but it was amazing to sit outside, overlooking the ocean for all of our meals. We also ordered room service one night and ate on our deck at sunset. Unbelievable.




The snorkeling was unbelievable. The guy working at the dive center told us to head to the other side of the island, look for the sign for Room 225 on the beach and then head out to the pink buoy for the best snorkeling. It didn't disappoint. Because I am a big baby and don't really know how to swim, I wore a life jacket and felt quiet comfortable. We saw reef sharks and Nemo fish and about 30 different varities of colorful fish and coral.



We were able to see all those same things when we went to Ithaa, the world's only undersea restaurant. At 4 meters under the ocean, it affords a view of the fish and coral that is amazing. One of the staff members told us that when Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes were honeymooning there, they wanted to book a private dinner at the restaurant, but because it was fully booked, they offered to let them have it to themselves at 11 p.m. That wasn't good enough for Mr. Movie Star and he stomped off the island and didn't come back. So now I've eaten somewhere TomKat hasn't.



Halfway through the trip, we were upgraded to an overwater villa and we were really excited about that. The staff moved all of our stuff for us and when we walked into the bungalow, I almost fell over. The floor-to-ceiling windows covered two walls and looked right out over the ocean. The bathroom was the size of our living room at home. But the ridiculousness went to a whole other level when you saw the private jacuzzi sunk into the deck and the stairs leading down to the ocean. We swam and snorkeled right off our steps and hung out in the hot tub at night, looking at the stars and listening to music. Definitely the most amazing hotel experience I have ever had.



There was wireless available in all the rooms, so Josh was never disconnected from his precious Internet for a moment, which also made it easy to use Skype to talk to the kids every day. That made it a lot easier for me to be away for 10 days. I definitely missed them, but never so much that I felt like I wanted to come home. But at the end of the trip, I was definitely anxious to see them again.

Our last night there, we took a sunset cocktail cruise on a huge sailboat. It was just us and one other couple. The champagne was free-flowing and the canapes were quite tasty. We saw dolphins and a great sunset -- the perfect ending to our trip.



We left very early the last morning, as our flight to Dubai, via Doha, was at 9:30 a.m. We were sad to put shoes back on -- you literally don't wear shoes anywhere at the resort, even the restaurants have sand floors -- and leave the good life behind. When you get used to someone offering to wipe your sunglasses and bringing you fruit at the pool, it's hard to go back to the reality of winter coats and wiping two butts every day. But back to reality we went.

On the way home, we again stopped in Dubai for a night. This time, we spent the evening at the Burj Al Arab, the world's only seven-star hotel. Oh my holy hell, was it cool. The opulance and grandeur were amazing and the drink prices reflected that. We walked out of the Sky View Bar $150 lighter, but with an amazing experience under our belts.



We left Dubai early in the morning and after a three-hour layover in London, returned home 24 hours later. I was tired, but so excited to see the kids, I almost ran the last four blocks home. I walked in the house and Jack stared at me in disbelief, and then with a huge smile ran and jumped on me, hugging me tightly. Emmie was a little more reserved, but seemed equally pleased to have us home. Jack didn't let me out of his sight for the next two hours before bed, and spent the next few days hugging me. Of course, then he was back to being 3 in no time at all.

So there you have it. I know I left a ton of details out, but this is about as good as it gets after being home alone with the kids for three straight days while Josh works in Bloomington.

Because we haven't traveled enough, we decided we needed a vacation with the kids, so we're departing for Florida tomorrow afternoon. We have a date with Mickey then a few days at the beach, including a Spring Training game featuring the Cardinals.

So more light posting this week and then back on track, finally.

Back, rested, yet exhausted

Jetlag is still kicking my ass, five full days after we arrived home from our trip. Combined with a mystery sore throat/life-sucking illness that has struck both Josh and me, I have had little time to do anything other than parent and sleep.

I swear to God I will have a trip report tomorrow, but for now, let this tide you over: It was awesome. We relaxed. We had cocktails. We got some sun. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Adios amigos

This has been a very trying week, to say the least. But it ended on a high note: both of the children were in bed, asleep, at 6:50 p.m. They have never in their lives gone to bed before 7 p.m., but because Jack took no nap and Emmie took only a morning nap and they both woke up before 7 this morning, this unprecedented step was necessary.

I thank everyone for their comments re: The Terrible Threes. Clearly, someone needs to get the word out that 3 sucks ass. It won't get better no matter what you do and you should just muddle through. Now we know why previous generations of stay-at-home moms were drinking at 4 in the afternoon.

So in honor of that, I plan to spend 10 days drinking during the day and not parenting my children. On Monday, Josh and I will jet off to the Maldives. We'll be staying here and to say I am excited would be an understatement. Seven days of relaxing, reading, lolling on beach chairs, snorkeling off our overwater bungalow and sleeping in.

We'll also do a two-day stop in Dubai on the way there and one day on the way back. I am pretending I'm just visiting a desert and not the Middle East. Because thinking about visiting the Middle East makes me a teeny bit nervous. I know, I know -- it's Dubai, not Gaza. But still. The white girl with the camera might look a little out of place.

So posting will be sporadic the next two weeks. I might feel compelled to post a picture of paradise, just because, but otherwise I am taking a vacation from blogging. I shall return March 6, rested and revitalized, which will be a big help for both my parenting and my creativity.

Pillow(top) talk

When we went to Ikea to buy Jack's big-boy bed this weekend, we went with a specific model in mind -- the Hemnes bed.


We liked the style, and we really liked the color. Josh and I like dark wood, and this fit our taste, so screw whatever the kid wants. There will be no racecar beds in this house.

But we didn't have a handle on what size bed we planned to buy. I was going in with the idea that we would buy the full-size bed, because he would grow into it and could keep it for many, many years. Also, Jack likes to sleep sideways in his crib, so I figured this would give him more room to do that without ending up on the floor every night. Josh was going in with the idea that a twin bed would fit better in his room and if we needed to buy him a bigger bed in 10 years, it was only an Ikea bed so we wouldn't break the bank buying another one later.

Unfortunately we didn't square either of our views with the other and debated the topic ad naseum in the bed section at Ikea while Jack ran around like a maniac, rolling on all the beds and throwing himself on the floor.

After the 30th incarnation of "Well I don't know, what do you think?" Josh threw down the gauntlet.

"If we get the full size, we're definitely not having another kid," he said.

I'm sorry, what? Did you just base our future reproductive decisions on an IKEA BED FRAME? I mean I like self-assembled Swedish furniture as much as the next person, but oh my holy hell, you must me kidding me.

His reasoning was that if we have a third child, then the same-sex children would share Jack's current room. Our fourth and fifth bedrooms are in the lowest level of the house, two floors away from our bedroom, and the distance makes us uneasy when it comes to kids sleeping down there. Two full-size beds and two dressers in his room would be quite cramped, but that's also a whole lot of years down the road.

In typical Amy fashion, I got a little huffy with him and said he was ridiculous and I couldn't believe that we were having that discussion in the Ikea bedroom department.

"And I am telling you right now, I AM SO BLOGGING ABOUT THIS," I announced.

That got a smirk out of him. But he stood his ground.

We came home with the twin bed, in case you were wondering.

Thanks, but no thanks

I have decided the milestone I am most looking forward to with these children is not going off to school or getting braces or driving a car. It's the ability to write their own thank-you notes.

I swore after we got married and had an engagement party, three showers and a wedding with a 475-person guest list that I would never write another thank-you note as long as I lived. Because Josh never wrote ONE. I wrote all of them. Myself. His excuse before the wedding: I had better handwriting than him. His excuse later was that he was working on the wedding website so I had to do the thank-yous.

But then we had babies. And lots of people send you gifts for that. Which is awesome. But I had to write them all again, by myself, because SOMEONE said I was the one on maternity leave with Jack and not working outside the home with Emmie and had all this time to get it done. Clearly he never tried to write with a small person latched on your boob for hours on end.

Now the kids have the birthday parties where they get lots of gifts and guess who's writing the thank-you notes again? That would be the stay-at-home mom. You know, the one with all the time on her hands.

Tonight when I dug Emmie's stationary out to send her birthday notes, only two weeks after her party, I found three thank-you notes in my bag that were from gifts she was given when she was born. Oh yes, shitty mom that I am, I wrote the notes but put them in my bag and never sent them. So those are going in the mail a year later. Better late than never, I suppose.

Next year, I might just give them both a pen and paper and let them scribble something and send them out like that. I will still have to address them, but at least I won't have to come up with the text.

35 and a three-step program

If I ever have another child, I will officially be considered "advanced maternal age." Holy crap, I turned 35 today.

I asked Josh how it feels to be married to an old lady. He laughed. An old lady in a bikini in a hot tub with a beer in her hand, but an old lady nevertheless.

This milestone birthday is coming to you live from Lake Tahoe, thanks to a birthday gift of plane tickets from my parents. We'll be hitting the slopes tomorrow and Friday while the kids stay with Grandma and Grandpa.

We celebrated with the children last night and Emmie rewarded me by taking her first steps -- three of them, which ended with her plopping down on her butt and all of us wildly cheering and clapping. She smiled but looked modest at her accomplishment. She then threw a hissy fit because she was starving and we were preventing her from eating.

I am so glad she decided to do it yesterday when I could see it and not this weekend when I would miss it. Because let me tell you how pissed I would be if I missed her first steps after spending 24 hours a day with this child for the last year.

Then again, I am so old I might forget she has taken her first steps because of the dementia that should be setting in any day now.

Hope springs eternal

With today's inauguration of Barack Obama, I have high hopes.

Hope that the financial troubles with lessen. Hope that the country can right the wrongs of the last eight years. Hope that we can make this country a better place for my children.

I watched his speech and came away wanting to take responsibility. Wanting to do my part. Wanting to step up and help. And for the first time in a long time, I have hope that our country is on the right path.

I have the plague

So I either have the good old intestinal flu or food poisoning. Either way, I feel like death. Josh has played the role of stay-at-home dad today with great gusto. He even did the preschool dropoff and pickup. Thank goodness he was home this week. I honestly don't know what I would have done.

In case you were wondering, so far no one else is showing symptoms. Which is great. Because the last thing we need is a bunch of stomach flu victims when we are having a party this weekend. Methinks food poisoning since no one else got sick and it happened about six hours after I ate a Chipotle veggie burrito bowl -- the only thing I ate differently from Josh all day yesterday. Perhaps getting Mexican fast food right before closing time might not be the best idea for the future.