Shh! It's a secret.

Yesterday, I consumed 24% of my recommended daily fat intake with this treat alone.
Only in chocolate.

I have no idea what prompted this. Historically, I'm not even really a Zinger fan. Nevertheless, what's done is done.

P.S. I also did not purchase a package for El Hub. And it was his actual birthday.

And that's how I contracted pneumonia*

Our furnace is broken. To be honest, I didn't even notice at first because to me, our house always feels like the frozen tundras of Antarctica (thus the aforementioned robe and sweat pants). Then the Schmoopsie-bear came home and casually announced, "it's chilly in here." Uh oh.

{Yes, that says 55 degrees. And this thermostat is upstairs-- far from where I lay incubating a child on our Lovesac in the basement as if there aren't loads of laundry to fold. And very near the oven which Paddy has turned to 450 degrees and left open. Which he learned from his mother, which partially endears her to me and partially makes me feel bad. And no, we did not allow Lupe in the house for this part. Dangerous.}

After a great deal of huffing and puffing by mi padre and El Pookie-face-- still not sure what that business with the sucking and blowing into the wires was all about-- it was decided that a part and an expert were called for.

Since, it has been decided that said part will not be available for several more days. Sweet. Still, it is better than the alternative as a new furnace is not in the current budget.

So, long story short(er), it is cold at our casa. We're all feeling it, except for Floyd, thanks to my handy layers of tummy flab. (What? I'm a Mormon. We're prepared for emergencies. Plus, we like cheese.) I thought Lupe would be downright frigid what with all the hair she's stuck to everything she's even looked at in the last two weeks, but she was horrified by the warm beach towel we put in her bed the other night, so I guess she's fine.

*Note: I do not have pneumonia. Yet.

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.