Word to Your Mother. Love Your Sisters and Brothers. And Love Each Other . . . .

Over the years I've had a few Christmas rituals. Just me, no family involved.
Here they are in no particular order other than this is the order they came into my head.

• Since about 2002, when I got it as a gift, I've been reading Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris at least once every holiday season. It makes me laugh out loud every single time.
• When I'm driving in the car alone* I play the Holdiay CD from the Barenaked Ladies on volume 11 and belt out every song at the top of my lungs. *I also do this when my baby is in the car. She can't talk yet. She's won't tell. Also, when she's in the car I don't turn up the volume. Wouldn't want to hurt her little ears.
• Every time I hear the song Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses I sing along as well. Every year I tell myself I'm going to learn how to play it on my ukulele and it'll be my "go-to" song when I'm at holiday parties. People would say "C'mon, Andrea. Sing us a song and play your ukulele" and I'd whip out my uke and sing a great rendition of the song. (clip from youtube below. it isn't an actual video from the song but in my 3 minute search it's the only one I found without a stupid commercial before it)




• When I worked for The Food Whole a long time ago in another life we used to get $25 gift cards as a Christmas gift. With my gift card I would buy a big block of Torrone and a bottle of super meaty cab. I would enjoy both all by myself, in front of a movie that Hubby would probably hate, something weepy and romantic comedy-ish. I don't do this one anymore. Not super bummed about it, though. Life evolves. Things change.
• One tradition I totally miss, I fear is gone forever. I had this cassette tape. On this tape was "Feel the Warmth of Kevin and Bean's World of Christmas." Kevin and Bean were (and are) DJs from a SoCal radio station KROQ. When I was 20 I listened to them. When I was 20 they had a little Christmas special and made an LP during the special. I had a tape of it. I loved it. It  had the cast of Twin Peaks singing The 12 Days of Christmas.  I can't listen to the recording anymore. I blame progress. You can't stop progress. Cars no longer come standard with a cassette tape deck. Also I blame myself. I lost the tape somewhere between moving out of the flat I shared with roommates and moving in with my boyfriend (now Hubby). I miss it. I wish I still had a copy.




Time goes on, however. just as Toyota no longer makes a car that comes with a cassette tape deck.
I have to create new traditions and rituals.
It's OK though.


Merry Christmas.

Adminning - Book Review

Last week or so I was having a conversation with someone about the profession of Administrative Assistant. I started walking out of the room when she said that she knew all about how to be someone's assistant because she spent a summer answering phones, then wished I were walking faster when she ended with stating that career admins have no ambition to be or do anything else. Clearly I was speaking to someone who didn't know what she was talking about.

I'm an Executive Assistant. I know it's hard work. I know it takes the ability to be resourceful, adaptable, helpful, crafty, diplomatic, secretive and efficient. I also know that sometimes it's a thankless job. An Assistant's job is to make the Executive look good. Think of a duck. A duck looks peaceful and at ease above the water, but under the water its legs are moving furiously to get from  point A to point B. The Executive is the duck on top of the water. The Assistant is the duck under the water.

The person I was talking to was only seeing the top part of the duck and had no interest in learning about what was under the water.

Continuing with my theme of reading books that were turned into popular movies, I just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger. I enjoyed it. Unlike the last book I read (Forrest Gump), I liked the book a lot better than the movie.

The book is about a young woman named Andrea who recently graduated from college. She wants to be a writer. She takes an admin job at a fashion magazine in the hopes that working as an EA for the editor in chief of the magazine will be the most excellent resume fodder in the world and will be her ticket to her getting any writing job she wants.

The job is a soul-sucking job that she hates. Her boss asks her to do all sorts of crazy things like finding a recipe for that one dessert at a restaurant she really liked last week or researching how many ears of corn grow on a stalk intended for commercial sales, or locating a lost laptop left behind with the TSA at airport security, or get a table for 7 at French Laundry for the day after tomorrow (wait, those last 3 things are things I've done in my current job, the answer for the corn is "one" by the way). The difference between her and me is that I work for pretty nice people, the woman in the book worked for a mean mean person.

In the end she quit her job by telling off her boss, and yes, working for this woman made for fantastic resume fodder and it opened tons of doors.

I can't imagine working for someone as mean as the boss in the book but I did sympathize with the character Andrea. I totally rooted for her and I cheered her on the whole way through.

I didn't like her friends in the book. I thought the movie characters were better.

Overall, I liked it.

Fifty Shades of . . . I'm such a sucker. - Book Review

I'm such a sucker. I know I said I wasn't going to do it, but I did. I read the second and third books in the "Fifty Shades" trilogy. So frikkin' stupid. 

I wasn't looking for good literature. I wasn't looking for good sex scenes. I was looking for a fun, mindless story. I didn't get any of that. All I got was pissed off. Not that I'm the big expert on the Pacific Northwest or on kink, but I think the author got her information about the area and the subject matter from a combination of Wikipedia and Craigslist.

In my review of the first book I wrote that I wasn't going to read the second and third books because I knew what they'd be about. Turns out I was mostly wrong and the second book did have more of a story than the first, but it was still stupid and it irritated me. Where the second book irritated me, the third book downright pissed me off.

Here's this guy who can't let go of his past so he beats every woman who looks like his crack-whore mom, then he marries this young woman and controls every aspect of her life. She walks around in total fear that she's going to piss him off because he's got a fragile soul.

I think what pissed me off the most is that the lead female character lets the lead male character control her and boss her around and she doesn't have the balls to make decisions for herself. Sure, there are a few times where she shows some independent thought but it's always with the price tag of  "I wonder if  I'll get in trouble for this." I'm not addressing the sex stuff in the book. Whatever makes them happy in that area, well, who am I to argue? I'm not going to judge them there. I'm addressing the regular life stuff.

The girl totally lived her life in fear of pissing off her boyfriend-turned-husband. Sometimes, I'll admit, she lived her life in the hopes of pissing the guy off, but it still made me mad. What kind of life is that? That's no fun. Doesn't say a whole lot about the girl. 

Overall, all the characters in the book were people I didn't like and I'm glad they are not real people.

I Just Couldn't Embrace the Ape - A Book Review

 

Congratulate me. I finally made the switch. I got rid of my Blackberry and joined the real world and got myself an Android phone. I feel much smarter. Now what with my new smartness and all, I have two things. One is a budding addiction to Temple Run and the other is access to The Girl's Nook on my phone. Yes, I know I have Nook access on my computer, but I don't like reading books on my computer. And yes, I know that I could have had Nook access on my Blackberry but I didn't like how the program worked on that phone.

I've read two books so far. One is Princess Bride, but we all know that I read it before and disgraced myself at Powell's Bookstore in Portland. You can refresh your memory on the incident here.

The other book I read was Forrest Gump. I can't decide if I liked it. I know that books and movies often differ. Sometimes characters are combined and scenes, descriptions and back stories or omitted adapt a story for the big screen, but most of the time, the spirit of the book is still in tact.

The book Forrest Gump and the movie Forrest Gump were almost exactly, but not quite, entirely unlike each other.
In the book, Jenny marries someone else, Forrest's mama never sleeps with the school principal to get her son into school and she doesn't die. Forrest doesn't wear leg braces as a kid or run across country multiple times as an adult. He does get shot in the buttocks, though, and he does meet a few different Presidents. He also plays football starts a shrimping business.
Also, in the book, but not in the movie, Forrest becomes a professional wrestler, plays chess for money, lives with cannibals and goes into outer space with a male orangutan named Sue, who becomes his closest friend and confidant, which is probably why he has to drop out of the race for the Senate.

While the movie was a heart warming story with cute little catch phrases, the book has none of that. I found it hard to finish the book because it just kept getting more and more hard to believe, and not in a fun way.  Plus it was written first person in the voice of Forrest. That took a little bit of getting used to.

I didn't like it very much.

Peter Dinklage - 1, Regina George - 0 - a dream

I have more dreams than what I write about. Some aren't interesting. Some I can't remember enough to piece together a story, and some have subject matter that I don't want to put out on the internet. I have to have some secrets, don't I? I don't know if it was the pregnancy and baby hormones that had to work their way through my body or what, but my dream life kinda took a nap of its own the last few months. It's just now starting to come back.

 I had a part in some kind of play. Something Christmas-y and Dickens-ish. I was in a dance number with Regina George (not the Rachel McAdams who played RG, but RG herself) and some other girl I don't remember but she kind of looked like Stephanie Tanner (but not Jodie Sweetin). The day of the dance I asked the two girls to go over the dance with me. I had forgotten it and just needed a little reminder. Regina George told me she wouldn't go over the dance with me and that I was a loser and if I didn't know the dance I was just going to have to take my lumps and make a fool out of myself on stage instead. Then the other girl started yelling at me telling me that I was right on the cusp of either being cool or not. If I knew the dance and performed it well I would be cool, but because I didn't, I had made my choice. I wasn't cool, or pretty.

I knew I was cool, though, because right before all that happened, I was sitting in a large room surrounded by all the people trying out for the play. Peter Dinklage came up to me and sat down. In my dream we knew each other a little bit. I can't say we were friends, but I knew if he walked into a room and needed someone to make chit-chat with, he would usually come up to me, and I would usually come up to him. We were sitting at a table drinking beer out of fancy steins and some guy came up and sat down with us. He and Peter Dinklage knew each other, but I didn't know the guy. The guy started telling a story and during the story he started swearing up a storm. Peter Dinklage gave him the most evil eyes I've ever seen, then looked at me with super apologetic eyes. He told the guy not to swear in front of me because it was disrespectful. I was about to tell Peter Dinklage that I was a big girl and although I didn't like the swearing, I could handle myself. I decided not to say anything because I thought it would be disrespectful to Peter Dinklage. He was, after all, standing up for me.

Having Peter Dinklage as a casual acquaintance gives me way more street cred than being in a Dickens-type dance number with Regina George and Stephanie Tanner ever will.

Maternity Leave

I've been on maternity leave for a few months. I go back to work in a few short weeks. I'm looking forward to going back to work. I'm almost done being at home every day. I will miss my sweet little bundle like nobody's business, but think that getting back to work, having a regular paycheck and using my mind for things other than remembering the last time the baby ate or was changed is a welcome thought.

Before the baby was born I had visions what I would do with my time; fixing up the house, cleaning under things that haven't been lifted since we moved in almost 15 years ago, cleaning out that one cabinet that I've been meaning to clean out for the longest time, getting rid of the tons of clothes I don't wear anymore, cleaning out the garage.

Boy were those big dreams. The only thing that I've really done is the getting rid of clothes. The house is a mess. I can't keep up with the dishes. Laundry has been mocking me as it piles up and up and up and up.

It's hard to do all this stuff when every hour I have to stop what I'm doing to change a diaper, fill a belly, soothe some fussiness, and for the older kids, help with homework, fill out applications for Kindergarten and High School, make dinner, give baths, etc. I don't know how moms who have museum-clean houses do it. They must never ever sit down. They must never ever take time for themselves. They must never ever shower, never eat a hot meal, even if they cooked it themselves.They must never ever get to spend any time with their spouses.

I can't complain a whole lot though. Look at the mugs I get to take care of. I certainly do make cute babies.

Really, if you have any tips on how to get stuff done without losing my sanity, please pass them along to me.

Conversation at the California Science Center

Today I went to the California Science Center with my 3 sisters, my niece, Hubby and The Kiddies. We saw the space shuttle Endeavour. It was pretty cool.

Except for the Astronaut ice cream I was disappointed in the food, though. In looking for a bite to eat before going to see an imax movie about the Hubble telescope, I had the following conversation with an employee at the museum.
Me - Excuse me, I see a McDonalds over there. Do you have any other food here besides fast food?
Employee - There's a Taco Bell and Pizza Hut in the Rose Court.
Me - Do you have any food that's not fast food?
Employee - There's a Quizno's around the corner.
Me - So you don't have any food in this museum that isn't fast food?
Employee - No.

Milk Truck Ma'am

My birthday is in October, and through no fault of my own, it's also Breast Cancer Awareness Month. For the last two years I've written about getting my annual mammogram. The one from when I turned 40 is here. The one from when I turned 41 is here.

I'm skipping my annual October mammogram this year. See, this year I have an excuse. My boobs are filled with fluid that I'm using to nourish my 5 week old baby. Here she is. She has a real live name that we call her, but on the internet we call her Bean.

 According to the Susan G Komen website, breastfeeding women shouldn't get mammograms because the breastfeeding tissue appears dense making it hard to get an accurate reading. The American Cancer Society says pretty much the same thing; one isn't discouraged from getting a mammogram, but they agree with SGK that the findings are harder to interpret.

I'll get a mammogram soon after I'm done using my body and my boobs as a milk truck. And don't worry, I'll be sure to tell you all about it.

50 Shades of Lame - Book Review

 

On a recent trip to Target last week I made an impulse buy. I bought the first book of the trilogy 50 Shades of Grey. I should control my impulses a bit better. What a crapsterpiece this book was. 

50 Shades of Grey is about this whiny college graduate who meets this rich guy who has certain . . . um . . . . tastes. She decides she likes him and she decides to um . . . taste back.

The guy is super rich and buys her lots of expensive things. She whines about how expensive everything is, but accepts all the gifts anyways. She's got some daddy issues and lets him boss her around. 

The guy is supposed to be from Seattle and drinks lots of wine, but there's no mention of him drinking Washington wines. Stupid oversight or conceit by the English author of the book, I think.

In the end of Book 1 she decides that this guy isn't for her, so his chauffeur drives her home.

Overall, I think the book was pretty stupid and I had to push through it to finish it. I don't plan on reading Books 2 or 3 in the series, but I'm sure they're just as lame. I imagine that in Book 2 they get back together, but take the whole book to do so, then in Book 3, some old flame shows up and threatens their relationship, but in the end, it all works out.

So, y'know, kudos to the author for making a ton of dough by finding an audience for her housewife porn. For me though, her storytelling is boring.

 

Looks Like I Got That Pedicure Just In Time - The Birth Story

A little over a week ago my feet were fat, my toenails were ugly and I was going a little bit stir crazy having not left the house, save for my doctor's appointments. I called a friend of mine and we got ourselves some pedicures and took my mind off of things baby for a little while.

Good timing, too, because the next day I was admitted into the hospital.

My little Chicken Pie was born a week ago.

She arrived four weeks earlier than she was due to arrive, but only a few weeks earlier than I expected her to come. See, I had preeclampsia. I was being carefully monitored from about 28 weeks, and while I wanted to keep her inside until about 38 weeks, I am thankful I got to keep her inside of me as long as I did.

On Sunday 9/2, I was experiencing some of the things my doctor told me to watch out for. It was decided I needed to go to Labor and Delivery to get checked out. Part of me knew that I was going to be at the hospital until the baby was born. I didn't know I would be having her so soon, however.

My intuition was correct. The doctors decided to keep me. They decided to induce me the next morning. I labored in a relatively uneventful and painless state from Monday morning until Tuesday afternoon. I ate. I listened to music. I watched TV. I saw on the monitors I was hooked up to that I was having contractions, but I didn't really feel anything. About 4pm on Tuesday that all changed when they decided to break my water. At that moment all hell broke loose. I went from 4cm to 10cm in about an hour. The epidural I received right after they broke my water had to be turned off shortly after it was turned on. I pushed for about 5 contractions and like the pop of a champagne cork, my little Chicken Pie made her entrance.

She was 4 pounds, 15 ounces and 18 inches long. She screamed like a velociraptor.  As little as she was, she was healthy, and stayed with me the whole time we were in the hospital. She did have to stay a day longer than I did so the doctors could watch her a little bit, but it wasn't unexpected or surprising given her gestational age.

While in the hospital her daddy, sister and brother visited us every day.

 Today we're all at home. Hubby and I are tired, taking turns on feeding shifts, waking her up every two hours to feed her, making sure she keeps her weight on, keeping her happy, fed, warm and dry.

She's a very sweet baby and we're so happy she's a part of our family.

Birthday Boobs and Living Without Regret

There's a blog traffic viewer I use that records the key words and search terms people use to  find my blog. I have to admit I don't get very much stranger-traffic this blog. I don't really get much traffic at all. I have a few faithful readers, but for the most part, I know who they are. The stranger-traffic I do get is usually accidental hits from people looking for other people's pictures I've stolen from my own picture searches.

There are some search terms that people use really puzzle me. One such term is "Birthday Boobs."
I can figure out why one might land on my blog by searching this term. Being over 40, I have yearly mammograms. My birthday is in October. October is breast cancer awareness month, and for the past few years I've written about getting mammograms. Makes sense that if someone does a google search about "Birthday Boobs," "Happy Birthday Tits," "Mom Boobs," and the like they would come across my blog. What I'm puzzled about is WHAT THE HECK ARE BIRTHDAY BOOBS?

I did a search on the Urban Dictionary and found that Birthday Boobs are the act of sending pictures of boobies, naked or clothed, to a birthday boy or girl.

Huh.

That's not the crowd I was targeting, but whatever.

On the total flipside of the spectrum, but equally puzzling, there's this poem. I don't know who wrote it or what the title is, but when people type in the phrase "life is too short to wake up with regrets" they sometimes end up on my blog looking at a summary of August 2010. I can't figure out why. There's no tie-in like there is with the Birthday Boobs thing.
Anyway, here's the poem in its entirety.

Life is too short to wake up with regrets.
Love the people who treat you right.
Forget about the ones who don’t.
Believe everything happens for a reason.
If you get a second chance, grab it with both hands.
If it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said life would be easy.
They just promised it would be worth it.

 Nice poem.

On the Risk of Paying for it Later

 

One of the many fun things pregnant women deal with during the later stages of pregnancy is heartburn. The growing baby inside of me, to make room for herself and all her things (fluid, placenta, cord, etc.) has to push my guts and organs either up or down. My stomach is now located, or it feels like it's located right at the base of throat. Most, if not all meals and snacks give me varying degrees of heartburn. I have tums stashed in every room in the house in case I need quick relief. I have to evaluate each meal before consuming it. What's the risk of heartburn with this meal? Is the heartburn I will get for this meal acceptable? Sometimes what constitutes "acceptable" is the degree of heartburn something will cause, but most of the time, like tonight, what constitutes acceptable is a combination of how much I'm craving the meal in front of me and how hungry I am.

A bunch of years ago I worked at an awful restaurant. OK, it was a good restaurant with an awful work environment. The place was owned by two men. One ran the front of the house, one ran the back. The staff at the front of the house had been there for quite some time. They were a loyal staff and most of them were happy. The staff at the back of the house didn't fare as well. After being hired at this place I learned that the position I was hired for was open because in one day, right before opening, seven members of the kitchen staff walked out. That should have been my first clue that I hadn't made the best career decision in taking a job there. When I finally did quit, I walked out in a super big huff, making a big scene. I got home in tears. When I told my boyfriend (known today as Hubby) that I had quit, he took me in his arms and said "Thank God, I hated that job."

As bad as the job was, I learned a lot about food preparation and fostered some rockin' knife skills. One of the dishes I had to make used tomatillos. At the time, I knew what tomatillos were, but I had never cooked with them before. I used to make a great soup there using pork and tomatillos. I don't remember the exact recipe, but I do remember the method used to make it. Over the years I've played with it and have come up with a yummy dinnertime tomatillo-laden treat.

Today I was craving some sort of manifestation of that dish. See, it's never the same thing twice, but that's OK. We're cooking, not baking.

Sometimes it's a soup. Sometimes it's a stew. Sometimes it's served over rice. Tonight it was served with potatoes. It's always served with tortillas, lime slices and either sour cream or plain yogurt and Cholula hot sauce (Tapatio is a good substitute, Valentino is not)

I knew right away, at the very birth of this craving that I would have wicked heartburn. My craving was so strong and I enjoy this dinner so much, I decided the level of heartburn was acceptable. I would be paying for it later, but I would just have to tough it out. This dish is too yummy.

Tonight's Tomatillo Stew
a bunch of tomatillos, outer husks removed, quartered
some smashed but not chopped cloves of garlic
some carrots cut into bite sized pieces
some onion halved and cut into slices
potatoes cut into bite sized pieces
salt and pepper
pork stew meat
flour
white wine
chicken stock

Sweat the tomatillos, other veggies and s/p together. Add a little bit of stock to the pot if it looks too dry.

While the veggies are sweating, get some pork in tiny bit sized pieces. I used stew meat. This dish does not call for yummy pork chops. It calls for stew meat or odd cuts of pork. There is no need to cut up your beautiful chops in to bite sized pieces for this dish. Go cheap. You need some connective tissue in this dish.
Coat the pork with some seasoned flour (for my GF friends, I've used rice flour for this instead of all purpose and it works great, but tonight I used AP flour). Fry up the pork in a single layer in a pan. When the fried up bits are a nice color, turn off heat and transfer contents to the sweating tomatillo pot. Add some white wine to the frying pan, turn the fire back on and get all the yummy fond off the bottom of the pan. When all the fond is removed and the wine is cooked, transfer it all to the sweating tomatillo pot. If you have more pork left to cook, repeat the deglazing process after each batch of pork frying. The white wine used here matters a bit. You don't want to use something you wouldn't normally drink and you don't want to use a super oaky chard. Oak will make the dish taste tinny. Tonight I used a mid-priced Reisling. It worked out pretty well. After all the ingredients are in the sweating pot, add some chicken stock (or veggie or whatever) until the ingredients are just covered. Cook the whole thing until all the ingredients are all happy together, the flour from the fond and the pork is cooked, the connective tissue has broken down and you have a nice yummy stew. Serve with tortillas, sliced radishes and sour cream (or crema or plain yogurt).

Super yummy. Tonight I made a big batch so I can freeze it and have handy comfort food at the ready for nights I don't feel like cooking after the baby comes.

The Termite Queen: Andrea's Rules for Bed Rest

I've sort of been on modified bedrest.

I had a bit of trouble with the idea of it, but am slowly coming around and I'm almost ready to admit to my doctor that she did the right thing by forcing me off work.  Hubby said I needed to embrace it and be like the termite queen and let him and The Kiddies do  my bidding while I cook Chicken Pie a bit longer.

I just finished up my first full week of being off work and taking it easy. Doc said I don't have to stay in bed, and I can sit up, hang out on the couch instead of in bed, get up and make myself a meal, live my life, but with a bit of caution. I have to monitor my blood pressure and if I see it's creeping up, I know I'm doing too much and I have to cut whatever activity that was raising my BP out of my routine. I've already eliminated some things. I'm not allowed to drive. I can go to, but I can't participate in hula class. I can't go to Target or walk down to the beach. I can do small things, though. I went to parent night at The Girl's school. I also went to a wedding. OK, the wedding was probably a bit much activity for me, but I wasn't going to miss it and when I got home, my BP was OK.

In being on quasi-bedrest, I've learned it's very easy to neglect one's personal hygiene when one does not have to be anywhere but the couch or the bed. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think egads! my family has to look at this? And what's that smell? Is that me?

So, in wanting to keep myself at least a little bit more attractive, keep me feeling good about myself and in wanting to not look like I've given up or have gone to seed, I've created a few rules I must follow everyday, just to keep myself a bit sane, and keep myself from becoming a stinky frumpy mess.

1. Shower - showering every day is important, not only so I don't stink, but sometimes the hot water on my back gives it a big relief from the big belly it's supporting right now. It also prompts or encourages me to follow some of the other rules listed below.
2. Hair - maintain a root-free existence. This isn't a daily task, but I don't want roots in my pictures at the hospital with the new baby. Also, I can't just throw it in a pony tail and call it a day. I have to take the time to brush it. As a side note, I've been going through this weird phase I want a haircut. There's this weird phenomenon where pregnant women want to cut their hair. I'm not sure if it's just a pick-me-up because we feel so big and yucky at this stage or if we convince ourselves that getting a haircut will make us look more normal and feel less pregnant. Whatever the case is, it is usually a bad idea to cut your hair at this stage. Just wait until after the baby is born.
3. Make up - I'm not a habitual make up wearer. I tell The Girl that make up is like jewelry. Some days you need none. Some days you need a little. Some days you need a lot, but you never ever need it to be beautiful  I have this uncle who is missing an arm and a bunch of teeth. The only time I ever saw him wearing his dentures or his prosthetic arm was at weddings and funerals. (maybe he wears them more often and it's just my perception that he only wears them on occasions that usually dictate having to wear a tie. I haven't seen him since I was junior high. I could be way off the mark) I'm not going to say I'm like him only wear make up to weddings and funerals, but I definitely don't put it on daily. The event has to sort of rate a certain level before I put on make up. I decided on the days I get to go out and do something, even if it's just to my doctor's office, I am going to put on some make up, even if it's just mascara and lip gloss.
4. Getting dressed - It's so easy to not get dressed. I can't go anywhere. I wake up wearing yoga pants and a t-shirt. Why not stay in it? Not wanting to encourage the frumpy-ness creep, I've decided I have to change every day out of the jammies. It's OK to change from one set of yoga pants and t-shirt to another, but a clear line has to be drawn as to what is pajamas and what is daytime clothing. Being comfortable is necessary but I can still maintain a level of comfort without compromising proper grooming.
5. Doing one thing a day - I'm not really allowed to do much, but I feel like such a slug not doing anything. I decided I have to do one thing  a day. Today I walked a block to the produce market, bought some veggies
and came home. I also did a half-ass Shery Bobbins type cleaning job on the kitchen. Tomorrow I plan on asking Hubby to bring up all the laundry that needs to be folded and I'll fold it while watching bad TV. Maybe I'll get lucky and Mother May I Sleep With Danger or The Disappearance of Vonnie will be on the Lifetime channel.

At this posting I'm 34w4d. So close yet so far away. Pray that I stay healthy and Chicken Pie gets to stay in the oven for at least another 3 weeks.

33 weeks, 5 days

So the other day the doctor put me on maternity leave. I'm so bummed about this and am working hard to convince myself that I'm not a failure for going on leave early.

The first 27 weeks of my pregnancy were pretty darn text book. I really thought this would be a piece of cake.

Then week 28 hit, literally. The Boy and I were watching the gymnastics Olympic trials. He got a little too excited and did a flip on the couch and landed square on my belly. As a precaution the L/D department at my medical practice suggested I come in and get checked out. While there, I mentioned the headache I'd been having and the medical team quickly switched gears and decided to admit me. I ended up spending the weekend in the hospital with one of the doctors telling me I'd have Chicken Pie by the end of the week, and another telling me that my situation wasn't as dire as the first doctor had said but I probably should stop working.

I told the doctor that as long as I had a choice, my choice was to keep working. I was going to work until I no longer had a choice.

I did all the right things. I stopped hula dancing. I stopped driving. I started monitoring my blood pressure and enduring nightly calls from a nurse who checked on me (ok "endure" is the wrong word because the call only takes 5 minutes and for the most part isn't a big deal, but there's this one nurse I can't stand and I'm always happy when I answer the phone and its not her). I told work that my departure was going to be sooner rather than later. That my plan to stay until 38 weeks was going to change and they should find a temp for me now. They did. The person they sent was definitely not the right fit. I started feeling better. I think work stopped seeing the urgency in getting me a temp faster and because I was feeling better, I think I stopped seeing the urgency as well. I finally got a new temp. This new temp is supposed to start tomorrow. Trouble is, I'm not going to be there tomorrow.

At my last appointment I saw a doctor I hadn't seen before as my doc wasn't available. This new doc put me of work. There was no changing her mind. I tried to explain to her that I get bad white coat fever and while my BP is high at the drs, it has been good at home. She said if my BP was good at home, I should stay home. I tried to tell her my temp was starting tomorrow and I wanted to be able to spend even a few days with him. She stood her ground and still insisted on taking me off work.

Now, I've never considered myself a workaholic, but I do consider myself loyal and I hate putting people in a bind. I know that the health of my baby is way more important than making sure a conference room is set up on time. By staying at home I'm keeping my baby and me healthy and safe. I just feel an extreme amount of guilt that I'm not living up to all my responsibilities.

I'm hoping tomorrow, when I wake up without an alarm buzzing at me at 5am, but instead by a 4yo telling me he's hungry or wants to watch Caillou I'll feel differently. And here's to hoping Chicken Pie stays in the oven for at least another month.

Not quite there yet: An Open Letter to Straus Creamery

Last Saturday I went a familiar journey for my family. We got burritos for dinner. This enterprise always seems to take more money out of my pocket than it should but such is life, eh?

Here's how it goes.

The Fam wants burritos for dinner, all except The Boy who would rather have pizza. No worries, there's a pizza place down the street from the burrito place where we go that sells by the slice. A slice of pizza that he will eat is way cheaper than the burrito he won't, right?

Here's the sequence of events that causes the trouble -

I drive to the street where the taqueria and pizza place are located and park the car.

I go into the pizza place and order The Boy his slice (single slice of pepperoni) plus, since I really like their salads and their bleu cheese dressing, I get one of those, but I can't just get a small salad, what if my family wants some of the salad, too. I have to buy a large because I'm not going to share a small salad. There's $15, (tax and tip included) out of my pocket. This place is super yummy, but a bit pokey. I have to order the pizza first to maximize my time.

While they are making my pizza and salad I walk over to the taqueria and order my burritos. I get The Fam's usual (Chile Relleno Burrito for me, Super Carnitas for Hubby and Bean/Cheese/Rice for The Girl). $18 out of my pocket, again, including tax and tip.

While my burritos are being made I go into the little market that separates the pizza store and the burrito store. This little market is a little pricey, but great. I'm not complaining about the prices, really. It's a little independent market that has a great produce department (they always seem to have a really great and diverse selection of apples), interesting candy, great sodas with interesting flavors, and really good ice cream. Their beer selection is a little lacking, but there's a liquor store on the corner so, no worries. I usually hand over a good $20 to this place each time I visit.

I go back and pick up my burritos, then walk over to the pizza place and pick up The Boy's dinner and my salad.

I go home.

All in all, it's about a $40 dinner, about $10 a head. Expensive dinner for just going out and getting burritos, but pretty yummy just the same.

OK, so here's my complaint / observation from last Saturday's adventure.

Being that I'm just about 32 weeks pregnant, and have gained less than 10 pounds total, I gave into a craving and got some ice cream for dessert. I toyed with getting standard Chocolate, and then something fruity like Strawberry, but then something caught my eye. Straus Family Creamery Organic Banana Ice Cream with Brown Sugar and Chocolate Chips. It sounded really interesting and really yummy.  The flavor brought me back to when I was a kid and we'd be at summer camp and make these things called "banana boats" where we'd carve out a canoe in a banana and stuff the canoe with chocolate chips and marshmallows, wrap the whole thing up with foil and throw under the camp fire's dying coals while we ate dinner. After dinner we would dig out our bananas and eat them while they were still too hot to eat, we'd all burn our mouths, but they were super yummy and we'd be mad we couldn't have more than just one.

My intention was to put The Boy to bed, then crawl under a blanket with The Girl, two spoons and a pint of ice-cream and watch "Say Yes to the Dress" or something like that.

What could go wrong?

As it turned out, nothing really went wrong, but it didn't really go right.

I liked the ice cream better than The Girl did, but I didn't go crazy for it. It definately didn't bring me back to my "banana boat" days. I could see where they were going, but they weren't quite there yet. The bananas tasted like Banana Flavor and not enough like Bananas, much like Laffy Taffy flavor, the Brown Sugar wasn't subtle enough and the Chocolate Chips tasted a bit waxy (although I find that most chocolate chips in any kind of ice cream, in any brand has this texture / flavor - it's a problem that plagues every creamery, not just Straus).

This ice cream was definately a winner in the making, but not quite blue ribbon yet (or Gold Medal yet - we are in the middle of the 2012 olympics, afterall).

I suggest they take it off the market, do a little bit more R/D and bring it out again later. Maybe lighten up on the Brown Sugar, add more bananas (and banana chunks?) and remove the chocolate chips in favor of adding a chocolate ribbon. Ribbons seem to be better crowd pleasers than chips.

In the meantime, I like the Straus brand and trust it to make yummy things. If I see another flavor that strikes my fancy, I will most certainly buy it without hesitation.

Third Time Around the Block

I was talking with someone about what I still needed to buy for the new baby. She assumed that because I have a 4 year old that I had everything I needed. My response was "I was 37 when The Boy was born. Why would I have another kid? I got rid of everything as soon as The Boy stopped using it (or he broke it)."

Here I am, 4 1/2 years later and 8ish weeks away from my due date with baby #3. 

With Baby #1 I was over the moon happy. I was 27, been married for almost a year when we found out about The Girl's pending arrival. I told everyone I knew as soon as the stick I peed on turned pink. Today The Girl is the most extraordinary person on the planet and I'm forever grateful she's mine.

With Baby #2 I was more than a little freaked out about having a baby at 37. It took me a few months to get over the shock. Once I hit the second trimester I was in full acceptance and happy about my little bundle-to-be. After a few little stumbling blocks resulting in some time in the NICU, The Boy is happy, healthy, creative, fun, loving and as energetic and stubborn as they come. I'm so happy God chose us to be his parents.

With Baby #3 I was calm when I found out. It was an unexpected surprise God gave us, to say the least. I was reserved, but happy.

I have to say I never thought there'd be a #3, I never considered a #3 and certainly never planned for a #3. I feel remarkably blessed to be able to do this again and welcome this new baby with open arms.

Yes, I know I'm older and will be just days away from my 42nd birthday when the little Chicken Pie is born. Yes, I know there are more complications involved. Yes, I know I'm not the hot little number I was when I was 27 so this event is harder on me physically (and mentally). Yes, I know I have no money, so how the heck am I going to provide for her. Yes my house is small. Yes, I know all this stuff. I'm not ignoring it. I know it's there. In fact, It's easy to get freaked out about all the negatives and sometimes I have to talk myself down off the water tower and remind myself that God is in control and I can handle this.

All that said, I am really grateful that I get to experience this at least one more time. Being pregnant is really kinda cool when you stop to think about it.

Sure there are the not so fun parts, like the morning sickness in the beginning, being dead tired for the first 16 weeks, hungry all the time, but unable to eat; having super-smell so everyone and everything makes you gag; then later having ankles the size of hams and not being able to fit into your shoes (although wearing flip flops all day is nice); getting carpal tunnel in my hand / forearm; being monitored for pre-eclampsia every single day; the back pain; the fat fingers; the weight gain (thankfully, I've gained less than 10 pounds and I'm at 31w2d at this posting); peeing when I sneeze or laugh or cough; getting anemia then the constipation that comes with the iron supplements I have to take; other complications that made the doctor tell me I can't drive or hula dance until after the baby is born. It's not all cute little booties and foot rubs.

But get this - I get to grow another human inside of me, one that I made (with Hubby's help, of course). I get to feel her squirm around inside of me, watch my belly dance at night. I get to feel her cutie little hiccups. I'm responsible for making sure this little-bunch-of-cells-turned-human has a safe journey in her development. Then, I get to hold this little baby that I baked inside of me, smell her cute little head and call her mine. That's so cool.
The whole process, even including the discomforts, is pretty remarkable and I feel really blessed that I get to experience it again.

Breaking News Before Coffee

We can't bust heads like we used to. But we have our ways. One trick is to tell stories that don't go anywhere. Like the time I caught the ferry to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for m'shoe. So I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt. Which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. Gimme five bees for a quarter, you'd say. Now where was I... oh yeah. The important thing was that I had an onion tied to my belt, which was the style at the time. You couldn't get white onions, because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones...

--Grampa Simpson

Hubby and I had a stupid argument this morning about what the term "Breaking News" means. A topic too stupid to discuss at 6:30am, when one of us was just waking up and the other was just about to leave the house for the day; certainly a topic too stupid to discuss before either of us had any coffee. So up front, sorry Hubby for wearing an onion on my pants and taking the ferry to Shelbyville before coffee.

If you're like me, you see the TV screen flash "Breaking News" and you think you're going to hear something important. You stop and listen.

I've noticed that the breakfast TV news I watch in the morning has been having a lot of "Breaking News" lately. As usual, I stop to listen, only to find out that the "Breaking News" is just a regular news story, and not anything really important, or not important enough for me to miss my bus and be late to work for.

I brought this up to Hubby this morning. My complaint was that my preferred breakfast TV news source was using the term "Breaking News" too loosely and almost becoming a crying wolf situation where I wasn't going to stop and listen to them whenever they said some story was breaking.

Now I trust Hubby. I understand his position. I trust that his definition of "Breaking News" is the correct one. He's dedicated his professional life to journalism. If I were to trust any source regarding the definition of newsy-type terms taken at his word, without demanding any documentation, it would be Hubby.

His definition of "Breaking News" is news happening now; news that is happening and being reported or revealed at this moment. I completely understand the definition and agree with him.

My argument was that the general public doesn't view the term "Breaking News" the same way that a reasonable person would.

At 6am, before my coffee, I think of "Breaking News" the same way I think most of the general public does. I'm guessing that this is the way the general public thinks because I got my definition from about.com, the premier source for pedestrian definitions;  "Breaking news usually refers to events that are unexpected, such as a plane crash or building fire. Breaking news can also refer to news that occurs late in the day, close to a news outlet's usual deadline."

When I hear the term "Breaking News" on the news I expect to hear something that's going to affect my day; something like a big crash on Muni that will keep me from getting to work on time, some giant fire, a really famous or well-known person dying or getting badly hurt, a natural disaster like an earthquake over 7.0 or a 30 mile long cyclone brush fire filled with robots, killer bees and siafu ants making its way across the plains states. I don't want to hear about a policeman who shot a burglar in a small city 500 miles away from me, or that some former presidential candidate had some sun spots removed from his face and he's recovering nicely at his vacation home somewhere fancy, gated and exclusive. Save those stories for the regular news rotation and leave the "Breaking News" stories for things that will have an impact on my day, especially at 6am.

As annoying as it is, it seems that my preferred breakfast TV news source honors the true definition of "Breaking News" and not that of the general public. I'll have to remember that and not hurry to the TV every time I hear the musical cue followed by the phrase "Breaking News."

Hope I don't miss anything important. I really don't like siafu ants.

On Overlooking the "h" - An Open Letter to Noosa Yoghurt

There's a little market across the street from my office. I don't go there very often because it's super expensive. I usually only go there when my boss sends me out to go get him lunch. I hardly ever go there when I have to do the paying. At first, I didn't go there on my own because the manager was always standing around and he had a perfect manicure and he seemed to be channeling his inner Gavin Newsom because his hair was always perfect, just like The Gav's always is, but his employees were always rushing about working super hard. The manager seemed like he didn't want to be there, like his father in law gave him the job to keep him busy and the workers didn't seem very happy. Then I got over it when I discovered the BLAST sandwich (bacon, lettuce, avocado, swiss cheese and tomato, people!). I'm sure I just made up everything about the former manager of that store. I didn't know him personally. I'm only guessing based on observation that he didn't work. Maybe he was just really great at keeping clean. I wasn't making up the part about his hair, though. I think he really did like to model his hair on the former SF Mayor turned Lieutenant Governor of California. Call The Gav what you want, he does take care of his personal hygene.

Anyhow, even with the BLAST sandwich, the store is pretty expensive. I'm guessing it's because it is the only market around. I could walk to Safeway but that's about 1/2 a mile away from my office. Not a far walk, but not conducive to grabbing a quick bite.

So anyways, not wanting to eat at the cafeteria in my office complex and because there wasn't enough food to pirate from the meeting that was going on in the office today, I walked over to the little market for some lunch.
I should note, that even though the store is needlessly expensive, the quality of the products are really yummy. They have a fairly comprehensive selection of specialty items and are always getting in new things. And, because it's worth mentioning again, they sell a BLAST.


Today I noticed a new yogurt. Noosa Yoghurt. While the "h" in the word "Yoghurt" bugs me just as much as the backwards "R" in Toys "R" Us, I decided to give it a try.
Two things stopped me at first from doing so (three if you count the "h"). First, this market only carried fruity varieties of the yogurt. I love yogurt, but I'm a plain yogurt kind of girl. I like my plain yogurt. Most of the time fruity yogurts are too sweet and it's like eating candy. Second was the price. This little market was charging $3.49 for the yogurt (maybe it was $3.99, I forget. My point is that the 8oz tub of yogurt was over $3).
Two things made me pick up the yogurt and buy it anyways. First, the flavor. One of the flavors was Strawberry Rhubarb. I like Rhubarb, but hadn't had any in a while. It sounded good. I used to work at a bakery and I had to make Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp every single day. I never got sick of it. It was so delicious. Second, and what really got me to purchase the yogurt was that the little market had an introductory price of $1.99. Sold. $1.99 is a totally reasonable price for yogurt in the FiDi in San Francisco.

So here's what I liked.
1. The packaging. I liked that the container has a lid and not just a foil top. I understand why some yogurt makers did away with the top (less plastic) but without the top, the yogurt container is renered useless. This one has a top. I'm able to use the container again and again. Also, it's packaged in a flat 8oz container, not the standard yogurt cup that stands 3.5 inches high.
2. While I stated a few lines above that I'm a plain girl. I like my plain yogurt and will choose that over flavored 87% of the time, I did like the Strawberry Rhubarb flavor. It wasn't to sweet. I like the tangyness of yogurt and am always disappointed when that flavor is masked with sugar.

What I didn't like
1. The "h" in the word "yoghurt"
2. The price of the yogurt at this little market. Over $3 is too much for 8oz of yogurt. Even the Old Chatham isn't over $3, and Old Chatham plain yogurt is so yummy, and there's no "h."

Overall impression
1. I would definately eat this again, but once the introductory price goes away at this little market, I'll only get it if someone else is paying.
2. I wish they had plain. Plain might get me to pay full price.

Conclusion
Good enough yogurt for me to overlook the "h."

Justin Timberlake; A Dream

This morning I had a dream about Justin Timberlake. Again, no, not that kind of dream, although Justin Timberlake..... might have been nice.

Anyhow - I was at some function that was filled with work people plus a few people from hula class and lots of strangers that in my dream I knew but I can't remember now. I was talking to this girl and told her that I needed to get a hold of "Jason." Jason was actually Justin Timberlake, but he kept switching back and forth from being Justin Timberlake and Justin Taylor Thomas from that Tool Time Show that was on a long time ago.  Justin liked to be called Jason on his off time. I told her that J and I were seeing each other, kinda dating. We went back to this dorm-type room and did a few shots of tequila together. Once I took the 2nd shot I felt bad about it. I'm almost 7 months pregnant. I should have only done one shot, not had two. I told the girl from work that I thought it was necessary to drunk dial Justin Timberlake. Trouble was, the only way we communicated when not together was to DM each other on Twitter. I wanted to DM him, but the two shots of tequila was keeping me from figuring out how to do it. I went to go find The Hubby. I found him in the kitchen next door to where I was  staying, hiding behind the refrigerator, grinning from ear to ear and  eating 3/4 of a lemon meringue pie.

How Are You Feeling?

People ask me a lot of questions and make a lot of comments. I guess it comes with the territory of being pregnant.

Questions I've gotten -
-You're pregnant again???
-Don't you ever want to have time to yourself?
-Were you trying?
-Are you going to use drugs during labor? (followed by judgemental and unwanted advice on the pros and cons of pain medication during labor)
-Aren't you too old to be having babies?
-Was this baby planned?

Comments I've gotten
-I thought you were done having babies. (I wasn't done having sex, so . . ..)
-You got so much bigger than when I saw you last month (because pregnant women love to be told how fat they're getting)

Depending on the person asking or depending on the question dictates how I respond.

If I like you, if we're friends, if we're family, I'm going to give you an honest response. I know that 99% of the time your questions and comments are well meaning and you deserve a thoughtful answer.

If you're a stranger on the bus, a co-worker I don't talk to very often, the lady standing behind me in line at Walgreens or a barrista at Starbucks, I just might give you a response you're not expecting. Most of the time I'll respond with "Why do you need to know?" or just roll my eyes and ignore the asker. Sometimes I'll give a smartass answer like "well, I thought about it long and hard, and since the baby was conceived on a table top video game, I think we'll pay homage to that. What do you like better for a girl, Zaxon Galaga, or Q-bert Tempest. Hubby likes Missle Command Defender but I think it's a bit much. I mean, we're not freaks or anything."

There is one question that doesn't offend me, or isn't even really out of line or too personal. It puzzles me, if anything else.
Why do people always ask the pregnant lady "How are you feeling?" The bigger my belly gets the more this question is asked in place of "Hi" or "Good Morning." How did "how are you feeling?" become the standard greeting to a pregnant lady? I admit that sometimes it's handy because I can make an easy get-away by saying something non-commital like "fine." Sometimes though I respond with "fine, how are you feeling?" But overall, it just puzzles me. When my co-workers I usually only come across in the breakroom or aquaintances I have ask me this, do they really what to know the answer? Do they really care about the heartburn and the gas? Are they really that concerned for my well being? For some reason, that question really perplexes me. I know it's people just being nice and considerate, not knowing what else to say, but it's just strange to me that it has replaced 'hello.'  If you said 'hello' to me 27 weeks ago, why can't you still say it? Someone asked me "how are you feeling?" the other day. I told her fine, then asked her why people always ask that of pregnant women. Her response was "what else am I supposed to say?" like she didn't know how to address me now that I have an alien belly. Just say hello or whatever it is you said to me before.

40 minus 25 equals only 15 weeks to go

Here's me.
Entering my 25th week of pregnancy.

The Little Chicken Pie, according to the baby website I look at most, is about 9 inches long and weights about a pound and a half. This week she's (yes, it's a girl) working on producing healthy lungs. That's why I quit smoking this week. Just kidding. I don't smoke. I tried a clove once when I went to see Dread Zepplin and Gay Bikers on Acid at some nightclub in Cambridge, England in 1990. The clove, along with the Malibu Rum already in my system didn't complement each other and well ... let's just say I haven't had a craving for either since. I do crave wine, though. I miss wine. I have a nice bottle of something yummy and expensive tucked away in a drawer in my dresser. In October I'm going to drink it.

Anyways, I'm pretty sure I'm in my 25th week. At my doctor's office, they'd say I was 24w2d. In my head that puts me in my 25th week. I get confused on the whole numbering thing. Human gestation is 40 weeks long, but that 40 weeks starts 2 weeks before one actually does any, um . . . Baby Making. Gestation is 9 calendar months, but it's also 10 lunar months. It's all too confusing to me. I'm sure it's confusing to a lot of us. Maybe the confusion is part of the reason not very many babies are actually born on their due dates. In my half-hearted, 15 second search for accurate statistics using a the default search engine on my computer, I found that only about 5% of all recorded births occur on the given due dates. 80% of the babies are born either 2 weeks before or 2 weeks after the given due date. That's a huge window; a whole month of "any day now."

I'm looking forward to meeting the Little Chicken Pie.

May Wordle

The Boy's Brother - A Contest

This morning The Boy was telling me a story all about his brother.
The Boy's description of his brother was so detailed and fantastic that
1) it totally made my day to hear him describe it, and
2) I wish I could draw so I could have on paper what it looks like.

I know that there are plenty of you that can draw better than I can so I'm having a contest.

Here's the contest -
I'm going to describe what The Boy told me about his brother, and you are going to create an image of him.

Here's the Prize -
The prize for the best entry will be, ummm, something I have thought of yet, but mark my words,it'll be great (at least according to me.)  It'll be a physical object I will mail to you (or give to you if I know you and you live close) and only slightly more valuable than bragging rights. In other words, I might make something or give you something I have in my house but am not going to spend any of my own money on it, PLUS I'll announce the winner on my blog, thus ensuring your place in the pages of my blog, if not my heart.

How to Submit -
Submissions should be either given to me directly if you know me and see me often enough, mailed to me if you know my address (which I'm not posting so you'll just have to know it already) or emailed to hulasunset@gmail.com. Submissions should be received no later than my level of tolerance for receiving submissions. In other words, when I feel I'm done taking submissions, I'm done, and the contest is over. If you see that I've posted the winner's entry on my blog, you can take that as fact that the contest has ended. If I tell you the contest is over, it's over. If I decide it's over and don't tell you it's over, it's still over. Contest ends at my whim.

Submission Description -
You can submit a photo, a painting, a drawing, a collage, a sculpture, shoebox diarama or anything else along those lines.

The Description of The Boy's BrotherI'm not sure if it was his little brother or his big brother. The Boy wasn't too sure either. He also wasn't too sure if I was his brother's mother, but maybe I was. It didn't seem to matter to him. It was his brother nonetheless.
His Brother is a wolf.
He has a tail where his nose should be.
The Wolf is brown, like The Boy (which is super funny because The Boy is a blond-haired and blue-eyed. He's beige if anything, but I couldn't change his mind. His brother was brown like him.)
His butt is in the middle of his shoulder blades, so is his nose. His butt and his nose share the same hole and it's located on his back between his shoulder blades. To poop, he sneezes out his backhole. He poops on leaves that have fallen from trees. The Boy demonstrated this for me. It' looked a lot like "banana" from "Superman / Banana" from Tony Horton's P90x series. See pose below of some woman demonstrating"banana."

The Wolf eats what all wolves eat which is a steady diet of dead cats and spiders (either live or dead, The Wolf does not discriminate.)
He is very nice, and a very good brother and he's nice to our cat, but the cat has to move away and go live with The Boy's girlfriend named Summer (not sure if Summer is real or not.)
--End of Description.


Happy creating everybody. I can't wait to see what y'all come up with.

The Big Spider - a dream

This morning I told The Kiddies about a dream I had had that morning.

Hubby and I were in bed about to go to sleep. I noticed on the wall on Hubby's side of the room was a GIANT spider. Its body was oval and about 2 feet long and its legs were even longer. It was a weird tan color. I could hear the 'click click click' as it walked across the wall. I pointed it out to Hubby. He just shrugged and said "oh, it's back again" then turned over and went to sleep.

The Girl asked me what did I do? What happened to the spider? The Boy interjected and said that he entered my dream and killed the spider for me.