Take a message back from me

And, in direct contrast with the gravity-defying nature of the previous post, figured I'd ground everyone with a little taste of reality.

Happy Wednesday!

So if you can't find me...

In an open act of defiance against our jointly established Christmas present budget, The Hub bought tickets to the Salt Lake performance of Wicked at Capitol Theater. Last night was the big outing.

(I'll admit it: I wore my green jacket. But also, I really like my green jacket and I bought it because of Meredith Vieira, not for Idina Menzel. Don't judge me.)

Anyway, we had a delightful time. We made good use of a gift card at The Cheesecake Factory --an establishment designed, I'm certain, with the express purpose of adding inches to my waist and hips-- and wished each other 'Merry Christmas' all evening long. Wicked even beat out the Thai Peanut Pasta I munched on, and what with my intense love for peanuts in my pasta, that's saying something. (Also helping the cause, I didn't throw up Wicked later, but that's neither here nor there.)

In what's shaping up to be an all-around decent week, I'm also not on call tonight. Makes me wish I could do a cartwheel. 'Cept I might wrinkle the fancy get-up I'm currently sporting. Don't mess with a girl in a robe and her husband's sweat pants.

Unless you're the hidden cameras from What Not To Wear. Because, honestly.

Why, hello there!

I've seen nice things before. Daffodils, sunsets, Paddy in his underwear- that type of thing. I'm a pretty lucky girl, really.

But, wow. Floyd is easily the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Even at a blurry and somewhat skeletal 12 weeks, 3 days.

And that's all I can think to say.

Trusty Purple Mixing Bowl

It is not my intention now, nor has it ever been, to find my blog morphing into a daily log of the various places, times, and situations in which I find myself yuking into my trusty purple mixing bowl. (Pregnancy Decree Numero Uno: Trusty Purple Mixing Bowl is hereby relegated to a lifetime of servitude in this capacity only, and at no time in the future shall be permitted to enter into any different profession.) Clearly, this blog is a masterpiece of creativity, subtlety, and intellectual discussion of the fine things in life. However, I must admit this blog is also to serve as the journal and history of me and my people, and therefore I would be remiss in neglecting to mention such a pervasive and all-encompassing aspect of my current life. So as to not offend my naturally delicate sensibilities, I shall be brief. Note the classic simplicity of the final phrase in what would be the entry for March 6, 2009 in my yuking log blog, were I crude enough to have such a thing.

"And that is how I found myself at both the start and finish of my day: in a moving vehicle, emptying the sparse contents of my stomach into my trusty purple mixing bowl."

Ding! Round 1, or, How I Came to a Reluctant Appreciation of the Art of Cookie Tossing.

In the suddenly on-going war between me and my digestive tract, it's not like I didn't put up a good fight. My trusty iron-clad stomach-- which has long been an ally in trauma bays and in dealing with all things gooey, slimy, or bloody-- held tightly to my Cheerios for the first couple of weeks. Together, Floyd, Digestive Tract, and I trudged through tsunamis of nausea with naught but a grimace and some caffeine-free soda on ice. I sort of thought we had a good thing going, really.

The night of March 3rd, Digestive Tract defected, and I lost the battle (upheaval?) with barely a moment's notice.

Don't worry, I made it through like a champ (and, for those of you practical thinkers, to the toilet in time. Praises be.) Lupe seemed more upset by the whole episode than anyone else in the house (though it's admittedly difficult to assess Floyd's reaction what with him being the size of a blueberry and all. Plus, I was puking at the time, so probably not as tuned in as usual.)

In what must be a consolation gift from Digestive Tract (traitor), Floyd and I actually felt stable enough afterwards to give a few of Hubbie's cologne samples the ol' nasal once-over without any serious repercussions, and snuggled in for a good night's sleep.

Since that time, the intensity of the battles has waxed and waned. Officially, Digestive Tract and I have entered into negotiations, but that hasn't stopped the outbreak of violence from local insurgents from time to time. I'd like to say that I foresee a treaty and return to times of peace in the not so distant future, but at this point I'm far too busy establishing diplomatic relations with the inside of my toilet bowl to really commit to anything.

Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes

Honesty is the best policy, I always say. And that's why, from time to time, I make reference on ye ol' blog to strange or unfortunate little quirks about me. The goal is to elicit a laugh or two from the casual reader, and it turns out that clumsiness and other such qualities are funnier than the art of carrying oneself with inherent grace.

You might remember that I can't fold a fitted sheet, for example. Or know that I am the eternal judge of Hands-Up Stands-Up because I can't do a handstand, even for the briefest instant. Good friends will recognize my eternal plague of nervous neck rash. I got car sick as a child. And migraines. Both made me throw up. I'm not good at sports. I sunburn. I don't dance well. I can only draw stick figures. I fall on the ice. Regularly.

But honesty is, in fact, the best policy, and I know I am guilty of omission. I am so very lucky to be healthy and strong. Every single day, I work with people who have broken bodies. Sick bodies. Weak, tired, fragile bodies. And always, always, it seems, bodies that hurt.

Some of them will get better. Others will not.

And I am humbled. I am blessed. I am well.

I can run 13.1 miles. I can make delicious homemade pizza. I have nice feet and also green eyes. My neck doesn't do that horrible popping thing if I push my chin to the side. My leg hair is blonde = less noticeable (right?). I don't get migraines anymore, and I don't throw up when in cars or planes. I've never broken a bone and I'm not allergic to food. I can walk in heels and run in flip flops. I can listen. I can speak. I can see and taste and smell. I can touch. You get the idea. I have much to be thankful for.

"Happiness comes from accepting the bodies we have been
given as divine gifts and enhancing our natural attributes, not from remaking our bodies after the image of the world." --Susan W. Tanner, Young Women General President, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Oh, and one other thing. It seems my tummy can grow a baby.

If wishes were fishes

I should feel accomplished, but I feel deflated.

Here's the deal. Everyone has a list of a couple of things they really want to do before kicking the bucket. You're familiar with this concept. The list commonly includes things like 'stand on the top of the Eiffel Tower' or 'skydive' or 'learn the words to all 14 minutes of Rapper's Delight'.

Mine begins like this:

1. Ride an elephant.

I've thought a lot about this. I mean, riding an elephant at all is a pretty big deal, but there are a few specific details that would really cement the experience for me. Not that I'm picky, but for example, I'd really like it if the elephant had some sort of flashy head covering- preferrably with a tassle right down the center of it's nose. Ideally, the person leading the elephant would be wearing a pink sparkly leotard, big pink headpiece, a ridiculous amount of makeup on and move with exaggerated flourishes. A little like this,

only a little more feminine. If that's not available, a smallish sort of Thai boy shouting "tutt, tutt" all the time would suffice. I also think the elephant should have a large beach ball at his/her disposal. You know, just in case.

So basically, nothing fancy. Just the usual elephant riding sort of stuff.

Anywho, last night MJ and I were hanging out on my mom's bed picking out all the stuff on the tv show ER that wouldn’t happen in real life. (Answer: 95% of everything they do.) Naturally, the conversation turned to elephant rides, and as we dreamed about it, my expectations grew grander. Then,

Mom: (sighs while folding laundry) "You've both already ridden an elephant."
K & K: (in shocked unison) "Nu-uh!"
Mom: "Yes, you did. At Golden Gate Bridge Park."

Excuse me, but I think I would remember something like that. HELLO?! An elephant? This is the sort of thing dreams are made of! Now I feel obligated to scratch that and come up with a new Number 1 on the list. This, and I can't even remember if the elephant had on a hat at all- let alone whether it was tassled or tassle free.

I went home, indignantly. Paddy was watching basketball, tiredly. I began to tell him the whole horrible truth, rapidly.

K, hurriedly: "Love? Guess what? 'Member how I really want to ride an elephant with a tassle and it's on my list and you'll never guess what because momsaidIalreadydid andjustdon'trememberit!"

P, Nyquil-ly: "Mo? Is this a dream?"