My skills have been compromised.

There are certain basic skills which, once mastered, a girl likes to assume she'll get to enjoy for years to come. Bladder control, for example, even when faced with the unexpected sneeze. Ability to put on pants from a standing position, or to roll over in bed without the physical equivalent of an act of Congress. Reaching her toenails. That type of thing. I'm sure you understand.

Without subjecting you to grimace-inducing details, allow me to mention that none of the above are accomplished with any amount of grace these days. Just sayin'.

There is one slightly more complex skill of which I've always been rather proud. I am a champion, A-1, 5-star professional barfer. If you have to have someone puking their brains out in your car/home/close proximity, I’m not an altogether bad pick. (The opposite of my status on potential dodgeball teams, just for reference.) For one, I rarely do it. When the unpleasant opportunity presents itself (read: first 20 weeks of pregnancy) my abilities really shine. I never give false alarms, and never miss the vomit container of choice. I'm pretty quiet about the whole event, and relatively clean about it, too. I'll even hold my own hair back and prep my own toothbrush afterwards. As I mentioned to my little brother in his weekly email, I'm like the vomiting Bizarro-Tommy. In his entire 20 years of existence he's never made it to the Verbal Warning Of Other People Who Might Be In the Splash Zone/Identify The Target stage, let alone the more advanced Contain and Dispose stages. Amateur.

Now I plan on subjecting you to grimace-inducing details. Proceed with caution. (Side note: Dane Campbell, when you read this in 3-6 months, you should probably skip the next part.)

On our way home from a riveting Childbirth Education class last week, I was suddenly struck with the unfortunate and untimely urge to rapidly empty the entire contents of my stomach. Knowing we were not in possession of suitable containment apparatus (deduct 1 point) I immediately closed my eyes, tipped my seat back, and slipped into Plan B, aka Breathe Slowly And Swallow Frequently While Trying To Convince Yourself It's Just Heartburn.

Plan B failed in a big way.

I managed to recoup a tiny part of Plan C (Heave Into Partially Empty Paper KFC Bag, of course) for rounds 2-5 only. In extraordinarily uncharacteristic fashion, round 1 left me splattered, baffled, and emotional. And, according to Sweetie Pie, fragrant.

P executed the Nearest Gas Station Exit Strategy to perfection, and hustled inside to badger the attendant for some paper towels and a plastic bag. I attempted to initiate the aforementioned Contain and Dispose stages.

Operative word: attempted.

My award winning, multi-layered Puke Plan sadly did not contain a contingency plan of action for what happens when the soaked bottom of a paper KFC bag falls out and dumps rounds 2-5 all over my feet.

A brilliant plan

The tag on one of my recently acquired items of baby clothing:

Thanks. We new moms need all the help we can get.

One reason my unborn child is going to ROCK.

(Pun intended.)

I love Queen. Nah. I ADORE Queen. If I had to choose one outrageously theatrical and musically fabulous flamboyant group to listen to for the rest of my life, I'd choose Queen.

Let's face it. I'd likely choose Queen even without all those descriptive limitations.

I mean, seriously. Queen's Greatest Hits isn't just a permanent staple in my house cleaning sound track. It pretty much compromises my house cleaning sound track. Bless that Freddie Mercury, may he rest in spandex-clad peace.

Mary. Dude. What a freakin' rad baby shower gift. Thank you. A girl who gifts me the xylophone version of Killer Queen is a friend indeed.

The lullaby covers on this cd don't have words. Perhaps it's for the best. Maybe
"just killed a man.
Put a gun against his head- pulled the trigger-
now he's dead"
is best saved for later instruction.

And maybe it makes me a bad mom, but the day Floyd sings along to Bohemian Rhapsody in the car with me is a day my eyes fill with tender maternal tears of joy.

Weekend happy things

Happy things that happened this long weekend:

My Aggies did a stand up job in their 2009 football debut. Well played, gentlemen!
My husband's Cougars played a magical game in their 2009 football debut. What fun!
Tomato Extravaganza 2009 resulted in some beautiful jars of tasty things. Updated post to come.
I'm setting up a baby crib today. And not just any baby crib, but the baby crib for my very own baby. Wow.

Best of all?
I'm still not back at work! Hip hip hooray!

Utah State! Hey! Aggies all the way!

(First of all, let's establish something. As Grease states so eloquently, just because I can't be an athlete doesn't mean I can't be an athletic supporter. Being a crazed fan is justified since I can barely walk and chew gum simultaneously in my real life.)

As a graduate of Utah State University and the University of Utah who is married to a rabid BYU fan, there may be some question about my in-state collegiate loyalties. I spent 4 years living in Logan, but racked up more debt in one stinking year at the U (thank you, whoever decided graduate students didn't need grants.) I do, of course, value marital harmony with my Cougar-gear clad spouse pretty highly, and 75% of my parental figures attended the Y. It gets confusing.

During basketball season, certainly, there should be no debate. My Aggies have won at least 23 games every season for the past decade, and are particularly dominant at home, where I spent lots of hours screaming myself hoarse. My sophomore year, I was outraged along with Aggie fans everywhere when USU became the first top 25 team to be excluded from the NCAA tournament. I followed my fabulous Aggies to Boise in 2005 for their NCAA performance, and look forward to both November 18 and December 2 with eager anticipation of crushing both in-state rivals on the hardwood.

Did I make myself clear?

On the football field, I am (understandably, I hope) less opinionated. The Aggies have been, shall we say, less than dominant on the field for, well, a while. And football games in Logan are cold.

Nevertheless, I'll face tonight's meeting of my two alma maters with a new coach on the field and new hope in my heart.

GO AGGIES!

Wherein I count one of my many blessings

Last night, Paddy and I went for a walk.

Mostly it was because I had an extraordinarily sucky day.

I claim 100% responsibility for the suckiness, and I will only blame a tiny part of it on the hormones. It was day for wallowing. Wallowing in unreasonable, inaccurate, unproductive streams of thought that I don’t actually subscribe to but which seem to be unfairly validated over and over again in real life. (Is that cryptic enough?) I knew that wallowing would only make me feel worse, but I did it anyway. So I wallowed all day, and then went home and cried into the shell pasta my good husband had made for me. It's amazing the man loves me, really, while I'm busy wallowing and crying into my shell pasta in the dark because I don’t want anyone to peer through my bamboo blinds and see that I am wallowing and crying into my shell pasta wearing only an extra large t-shirt and my underwear because I'm bound to dribble marinara and tears onto myself and let's face it, extra large t-shirts are pretty much the only thing I fit into these days. But he insists that he does, and I believe him.

So anyway, I put on some of his basketball shorts and we went for a walk to clear my head and to get Paddy a Diet Dr. Pepper.

But first we had a 25 minute conversation on our front lawn with our elderly neighbors. One by one, they listed every doctor they knew and asked if I knew them, too, because, of course, "you work over there at that big hospital." I didn't have the heart to explain how many doctors actually have privileges at that big hospital, so I just smiled and said "golly, no, I don't know that particular doctor but I'm sure he/she is great!" and was grateful that it was dark so they couldn't tell I had been crying into my shell pasta.

And in the end, the sweet German escorted the lovely lady with the walker and the fake flowers on her porch back to her house on the other side of my house, and I actually did feel better.

And Paddy held my hand and we finally started our walk. We wandered and passed the place where Paddy got a sunburn last week helping put on a new roof. We passed our neighbor who promised to share with him her authentic Italian recipes, and the neighbor who feeds him chocolate chip cookies and stories of her former life as a real estate agent. As we wandered, I admired the lawn he mowed yesterday for our neighbor who can't walk, even though our own grass was longer and he had studying to do instead.

And the point of this entire story is that as we walked back down the busy road past the apartments with the cigarette smell--me with my Zingers and he with his Diet Dr. Pepper--he switched places with me on the sidewalk. Because there are cars on the other side, of course.

And I thought of all the people in the world who don't have a Paddy to switch places with them on the sidewalk. And instead of crying (again) into my Zingers, I just gave him the last bite.