Norovirus? No Problem!

I had a lovely little Saturday planned to celebrate J's 33rd: New Hope, PA, for some Christmas shopping; then expensive beers, college football, and dinner at a nice sushi restaurant.

Only, the weather? She did not cooperate. And so we stayed home. I studied for those unholy GMATs, and laid around a bit. J cleaned the bathroom. By 4 PM, we were sorely in need of a new plan, and we opted to trek down to Main Street in the snow and have beers (Lord: I wish) and sushi (Man: this sucks) at the Manayunk Brew Pub.

We splurged on some greasy appetizers; then we toasted our good fortune, and J's rapidly advancing age. For our main course, I ordered some veggie rolls, and my husband had the Alaska and Boston rolls (shrimp and salmon, yummmm).

About 12 hour later, the norovirus just about killed him.

Okay, he didn't die. But it wasn't pretty. He was in pain. His stomach was wrecked. He couldn't make it downstairs, so he laid in bed all day (in between trips to the bathroom) and I attempted to keep him hydrated. His back was in spasms, and he had a low-grade fever.

"You'd tell me if you thought you needed to go to the hospital, right?" I asked.

Later, I fed him multigrain English muffins and rubbed his head. I performed a soothing verse of "Soft Kitty" until he croaked: "I love you; but please don't sing."

Later that night I diagnosed him with norovirus. I blame the shrimp. And to think, J offered me many bites of his maki, even coaxing me: "It's just shrimp; you can eat this." (Ninja says: Not on my watch.) Praise Jesus I did not indulge; I am sure norovirus has no business swimming around N's placenta.

Oh, but my man survived, thankfully. And it's a blessing, because yesterday was Nana's funeral.

It was a lovely service. J's mom spoke about Nana's quiet strength; and a recurring theme seemed to be the circle of life: as we grieve Joyce's passing, Ninja is growing stronger, and J's sister E has just gotten engaged! It's a baffling and beautiful juxtaposition of life and death. I am just glad that Joyce had 91 years to enjoy this life. I hope J and I get at least 100, though I tend to be a little greedy.

Finally, thigh highs on pregnant gams, in blustery Columbus, Ohio?

So effing sexy I can't stand it.

The Most EVIL Decade in American History = My Twenties.

Have y'all seen this Time article?

So Time magazine has called the 2000s out as a chump. "Decade from hell," they cry.

I was perusing the article the other day, and I wondered if history would judge these last ten years the same. Then I pictured myself as a refreshingly young-looking octogenerian, at which time my grown grandkids would inquire: "Mom-Mom: what was it like to come of age in that hellacious period in America? Lo, how did you ever survive the plummeting home values?!?"

And I will sign wearily, sit back in my rocker, and tell them a story.

*Cue sunny bustling city scene, upbeat chipper score*

The decade began with an air of impending doom. All of the computers were going to explode, kids, as the date was moving from 9s? To zeroes. We seriously thought the world would end.

But then? It didn't. And I rang in the new year with wonderful friends at a dilapidated West Philly university house that was infested with mice, yet still was one of my favorite places to be in those days. It was magical, kiddies, with Steel Reserve bottles adorning the walls and a pool table. Snoop Dogg was often playing in the background. Just glorious.

Of course, your grandmother was also living in the most fabulous city in the world in those days. Did you know that? Still, there is no place like New York City. I was doing well in college; had a great job, and also an upcoming internship at a news station. Yes, kids, things were looking up.

But then of course, there was that day in September. You've studied it in your history classes. It shocked America to its core. Your old grandmother also had a hard time coming to terms with what she witnessed that morning. But the attacks also united Americans in a way that I'd never known before. We learned many lessons, from that day. In some ways, I think we're still learning, and perhaps always will be. Such is life.

And then, after that? Well, the economy dipped, just a bit, just in time for me to find my first job out of college. I made very little, but I still managed to rent my own apartment, and buy a charming little Hyundai named Emma. Of course, by this time, I'd moved back to Pennsylvania. I wasn't completely happy there. I had some unfinished business in a town 90 miles north of Philadelphia.

So I moved to Queens. And I can tell you, loves, it was one of the happiest times of my life. It's where your grandma's blog was started! You know, the one I still maintain today? Sure, I've still got only eight Google followers, but writing gives me great pleasure. Well, you know. You were there when I accepted that fourth Pulitzer. You heard my speech.

Oops - I digress! Where was I? Ah, Queens. Kids, have I told you about the Bohemian Beer Hall? I don't know how any decade can be described as hell when you've got Czech beers and brats in a European-style garden. But why I am telling you? You were at Grandpa's and my 50th anniversary celebration. It is a magical place, no?

It was when I was living in Queens that I feel in love with your grandfather. We'd only been dating a few weeks when he jetted off to Spain and Portugal. He was away when Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. It certainly was an awful natural disaster. Thankfully, we've not experienced anything like it since.

And what else happened that decade? Why, Grandpa and I saw the world. We visited places we'd only ever dreamed of: the Acropolis in Athens; the Eiffel Tower in Paris. We rode in tuk-tuks in Chiang Mai, and we explored ancient temples in Siem Reap. We beheld the pyramids at Giza, and the ancient city of Petra in Jordan. We snorkled in the Red Sea, and paid homage at Eva Peron's tomb at the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires. We tried never to lose sight of how lucky we were in those days. We loved traveling so much, we never stopped. Why, when your mom was still very young, we took her to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. And when your father was just a boy, we climbed Kilimanjaro. People thought we were mad, but we know these trips are what helped your parents become the people they are today: Supreme Court justice and world-renowned archaeologist, respectively.

Amidst all of the traveling, your grandfather and I wed on a gorgeous beach in Punta Cana. Sure, we didn't speak Spanish, or understand the translator very well, but we laughed through the whole endeavor. And we honestly believe our marriage was legal. We've got the Spanish docs to prove it.

We spent time with wonderful friends and family in the 2000s. We were truly blessed to have so many people around who loved us, and whom we loved. Many traveled all the way to the Dominican to attend our wedding! It really was a lovely time.

Unfortunately, by the end of the decade, the economy tanked again. Health care reform was badly needed, and your granddad and I decided there was only one man for the job. The night President Barack Obama was elected was one of the happiest of my life. I had never felt so proud to be an American. Oh, to be sure, there was much work to be done, but your grandma is nothing if not optimistic. That man gave us hope: hope that we didn't need to accept the status quo; hope that we could effect change. I am proud to say, I never lost that feeling. Even the littlest acts can make a huge difference in this world. Remember that.

Oh! And then, in the twilight of my twenties, I learned I was pregnant. And that was equal parts horrendous, humbling, and awe-inspiring. But, you know how that turned out...

To sum up: suck it, Time. It's all about perspective.

Things I Covet.

Okay, so I totally want this tee-shirt. Only because at a girls' dinner eons ago, our waiter told us he owned it. And I was drunk, and thought it was HI-larious.

I also love the way they are selling these bad boys. How about this guy? He's unkempt. His tee is wrinkled. The lesson? These babies sell themselves.


(This reminds me: I hate those new Windows 7 commercials. Have you seen them? They're fairly ubiquitous, and each one features an average-looking person having an epiphany about some feature of the new operating system. But each time they have this brainstorm, they envision themselves as much thinner and better-looking. And that makes me sad. What kind of commentary are you making here, Gates?)


(By the by, Windows 7 was my idea.)


P.S. Are you following me yet, chickens? I love you so much, and yet you do not follow. It's so easy! Try it! You'll see. Perhaps if I get 30 new followers by Christmas, I will auction this tee-shirt! Imagine how awesome you would look in that bad boy. Perhaps as awesome as the model?

I love you all, so very much.

Ninja Will Destroy Us All!

OK, so things are getting serious.

I was a GIGANTIC baby.

Couldn't even fit in an incubator ginormous. Comparisons to linebacker large.

For reals? My nickname was Melissa Monster. (It's cute; let's bring it back!)

And last week? I was all, wah, not showing, where is my belly?

You guys?

Be afraid. The Ninja will not be ignored, y'all.

(Aside: I bought the dress. Did you know Banana made maternity clothes? Yeah, they don't. But I am going to work it!)

33 Reasons to Love on J!

1. Just the other day, I was sitting on the couch, starved, and I mumbled rhetorically, "And where are the candy bars, babe? People need the candy bars." And J quickly got up, went to the kitchen, and pulled a Watchamacallit out of the cupboard. It was a chocolate bar sent straight from the heavens (or one he picked up at the grocery store and hid in case of emergency).
2. He is going to have an MBA in just 6 months. Respect.
3. He often says, "Hey, you want a back massage?" And he's not even kidding.
4. He gets all of his Christmas shopping done early, and really thinks about what to buy every person on his list.
5. He cleans the bathroom.
6. He does the laundry.
7. He vacuums.
8. And he even doesn't yell when he says: "Babe, vacuuming is not a once-a-month job." (He's right.)
9. He cooks the salmon filets for dinner when I have my face stuck in a GMAT prep book.
10. And he doesn't even get that upset when he realizes I paid 22 bucks for the filets at Whole Foods.
11. Oh, and FYI: his salmon is delicious.
12. He takes me to breakfast on Sunday mornings.
13. He will make a late-night McDonald's run. For the baby.
14. He humors me.
15. He can fix things. He's very handy.
16. He's decisive.
17. He lets me make most of the decisions.
18. He plans the vacations.
19. This year alone, he took me to Egpyt, Jordan, Uruguay, and Argentina.
20. He didn't even balk when I mentioned I probably should try to get to England too.
21. He appeases me every time I cry desperately: "Having a baby doesn't mean the travel stops, right? I mean, we are going to travel with this baby. Right?"
22. He tells me it's just my hormones, and yes, it's okay to cry if I need to.
23. He loves his grandfather.
24. He tells "dad" jokes. And then cracks up at himself.
25. He is ambitious.
26. He finishes what he starts.
27. Last weekend, he grew a mustache, just because. It was great fun.
28. He takes me on dates.
29. He didn't divorce me when I (inadvertently) ordered a $19 martini at a bar this summer.
30. He's a great dad, already.
31. The other day, I was singing "Purple Rain" in the car (spontaneously, as you do), and he started singing it with me, and then did this really nerdy orchestra conducter thing with his hand.
32. I am not describing it well, but it seriously made us laugh for 20 years. I kept saying, "Do it again! Do it again!" while trying to catch my breath.
33. He's got excellent taste in women, if I do say so myself.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HIMS! I think you're the bee's knees.

And Now, A Very Special Episode of QITNM.

Gentlemen, I am going to ask you to leave the room. I need to speak to the ladies. In private. We'll wait.

*waiting*

Girls, I want to talk about bikini waxes.

Or, more specifically, French/Brazilian hybrid waxes. Like the one I had today.

I have little patience for many things lately. I long to simplify my life. So I make lists. And I cross of to-do items. And I take care of my business. I also firmly believe that anything I can do, I can hire someone to do better. Like just the other night, I was talking about hiring a doula, to help me with my drug-free, natural childbirth. And J rolled his eyes and said, "Sure. Sounds good. Maybe you can just hire someone to go through the labor for you."

Oh, J. If only that were a real possibility. I am sure there is someone out there in God's green goodness that could labor way better than moi.

So, a few weeks ago, I decided I was done with shaving my lady bits. That's it, I cried to my razor. This is over! Shaving sucks. It's overrated. It's tedious. And the hair? It grows right back. And honestly, if I can't be bothered to shower regularly, how can I be expected to maintain my nether regions?

Surely, I thought, surely someone out there can do this better than me.

And so I hung up the razor for more weeks than I care to admit a few days. And I called the local salon. And yesterday I scoured the Internet for info on waxing etiquette. (I have only ever had one bikini wax ever, right before my wedding.) And I decided on the French Wax, which really is the Brazilian Light. I shan't elaborate. I am a lady.

I was up in the middle of the night, dreading the ordeal.

Dreading a wax, when just a few days ago I decided I was going to have a natural delivery.

(Am. Crazy.)

In lieu of a glass of wine, I resolved to pop a few Tylenol before the appointment. Only, I got a business call just a few minutes before I needed to leave, and I rushed out the door without my pain meds.

And so it seemed, I would have to have this wax naturally. Without drugs.

So it was my fate.

You can do this, I assured myself. You are strong. Breathe. You have taken two prenatal yoga classes; you are a zen goddess. Visualize the end result.

It was: unpleasant. To put it mildly. I did okay at managing the pain at first, but towards the end I got a little squirmy. I might have exclaimed: "Kelly Clarkson!" I dont know. I think I blacked out.

But I survived it. I was exuberant. You see? If I can do natural waxing, I can absolutely handle natural childbirth.

Right?

15 Weeks and Mah Back is Achin'

Ah, fifteen weeks. At the beginning of my pregnancy, when Ninja was just a gleam in my freaked out, neurotic eye, I wasn't sure I'd get here.

At five weeks, at Yankee Stadium (oh, like I needed another reason to hate that stupid fake team), I started spotting. It was innocent at first, then gradually became more insidious. I blew up the nurse phone line, insisting that I needed some help. Like, oh, how about you test my hCG levels, dudes? How about you do something - anything - to alleviate my nerves, instead of telling me for the floppity-jillionith time that it's those damn pregnancy tests. In the olden days, women didn't know they were miscarrying. Ah, ignorant bliss.

I somehow managed to weasel my way into the office for a simple blood test. (Something my practice does not offer initially. Basically, when you learn you are prego, you call and schedule an appointment for 8 weeks, which is four week in the future, a one-month period I like to call "Developing Horrible Neuroses and Waiting to Miscarry." It is SUPER FUN.)

Where were we? The spotting. It didn't stop. It increased. And so I had a blood test, and the next day received a call from the nurse: "Your hCG levels are extremely high. Are you sure you are only 5 weeks?"

Ninj. You little overachiever! But yes, I informed the nurse, I am sure I am only five weeks. I have it all charted, like some sort of extremely rigid, uptight conception nazi.

Because my levels were so high, I was brought in for an ultrasound. I secretly hoped that we were having twins. (Because in case you are new here: I am crazy.)

Lo, only one baby. Well, one yolk sac, if you wanna get technical. But what an adorable little egg. Go, Ninja. Get on with your embryonic self.

I was told that the ultrasound was promising; but that I needed to come back in a week to ensure that all was still well. I was elated leaving the office; by the time I got to my car, the doubts returned.

I assure you, I was really easy to live with that week. You know, spotting? And mentally preparing for the worst? And sobbing a lot?

By the time J and I found ourselves in the doc's office late Friday afternoon, I was shaking. This was it. I was having a baby, or a miscarriage. Moment of truth.

(Have I mentioned how awesome transvaginal ultrasounds are? They're awesome.)

But there, on the screen, was our Ninja. OK, there actually was a "fetal pole" but man, what an adorable pole. And a heart! A tiny flicker of light that was our baby's beating heart.

We were having a baby. And I never doubted it for another second.

OK, that's a lie. I longed to be a zen-earth-mother-goddess, but I was crushed under the weight of my fears. I still didn't trust it. I was still spotting.

But in a week, the spotting stopped.

A week after that, we had our first official prenatal visit. We got another ultrasound.

And there again: a baby. Well, actually an embryo that resembled Tweety Bird, but still. A beautiful developing embryo with a strong heart.

And four weeks after that, Ninja's heart, the audio track.

And now? At 15 weeks? I have a belly. It is small, but it's real. And my back aches. All the time. And I can't sleep well, because I'm too hot, then too cold. I miss sleeping on my stomach. My nose is stuffed. My gums are bleeding. My skin is a mess.

But we never thought we'd get this far. So good on you, Ninj. Keep the symptoms coming, and I swear I will convince your pops that a brand new car at age 16 is a wise choice.

Nana.

A belated Happy Thanksgiving to you all. How was your holiday?

Ours was... a different sort. J's grandmother passed away on Thanksgiving night. Joyce had been struggling for the past seven months in a nursing and rehab facility. She was 91.

J's grandfather and mother spent most of the holiday shuffling back and forth to the home. We did manage to sit down for a delicious meal in the early evening (cooked mostly by J's multi-talented sister, although I did peel the most magnificent potatoes you have ever seen). J ate about a billion pounds of stuffing, and we headed out around 8:30, ready to retreat to our respective couches, bellies full and distended.

About five minutes into our drive, we got the call.

It wasn't a surprise; in some ways, the family has been preparing for Nana's passing for the better part of this year. But when death does come, no matter how prepared you are, it always hits like a hard wallop to the face.

Joyce lived a very long life, most of them with Dominick, her husband of 67 years. J and I stopped at the nursing home earlier in the day to say goodbye and comfort his bereaved grandfather.

When we were back in the car, J said, "He said something to me that was so great. I told myself I have to remember it, and of course now I can't."

"You'll think of it soon," I told him.

The next morning, J found me in the bathroom.

"I remembered what it was," he said. "He told me, 'You know, I think I loved her from the first moment I laid eyes on her.'"

Sixty-seven years, and two beautiful role models for love, loyalty, affection, and devotion. I think, even in sadness, we can all be grateful for that.

Fourteen weeks and slowly rejoining the human race.

I think it is high time for a pregnancy update, eh? Besides, I have just come from studying Sentence Corrections. I am shockingly abysmal at sentence correcting. I blame blogging entirely.

So what's up with Ninja? S/he is 14 weeks and 2 days presently. I am finally starting to feel a bit like myself again, and less like an alien with ridiculously sore boobs who can't tolerate basil or peanut butter. (Though my boobs are still sore, and I will cut you if you come near me with either basil or PB. Wait. What was I saying?)

Right, feeling better! I have been gradually easing back into exercise. I've even jogged a bit, but mostly I mom-walk around the track to the iPod on shuffle. Tonight I am trying prenatal yoga for the first time. If I enjoy it, I am going to attempt to go at least once per week. Fingers crossed.

I'm not really showing yet. At all. Of course, I notice the girth; my belly is less shapely than it was in my svelte, youthful days. And a lot of times, I have to unbutton my pants after a meal, or by the end of the evening. I also have this bizarre habit of announcing that I am going to unbutton my pants, or that soon, I might unbutton my pants. I am sure everyone around me is just to delighted to hear it.

J commented yesterday that everyday, he gets me back more and more. And then, when he arrived home from class, I promptly burst into tears. Why? Who knows? Maybe because I really wanted Sweettarts? These hormones are tricky bastards, but it's all for the good of the cause.

But oh, mah precious face. Pregnancy doesn't agree with my skin, and once again I find myself breaking out. It's at least somewhat manageable at this point, but I am mulling a trip to the dermatologist.

J and I went to visit my aunt and uncle last Saturday, and they sent us home with loads of baby gear. I walked in the house on Saturday night carrying a car seat. "Whoa," I said to J. "Does this just make this all feel real? What the hell is a car seat doing in our house?"

Yesterday J asked me something about something. "I didn't get that part of the email," he said. "Why would he say that is what we have to look forward to when we have kids?"

"I don't know," I replied wearily. "I don't know anything about children."

Or gerunds. Or present-perfect tense. But who's keeping score?

When I set the bar low, I actually accomplish things!

I may be my own worst enemy.

It pretty much follows that each time I make a bold proclamation, within 24 hours I am watching old Jon and Kate episodes on TLC.

I usually aim too high; my brain is always telling me it must be all or nothing, all or nothing. Don't take the GMATs, the brain commands, until you can make sure you score a 750.

You've already watched an hour and 2 minutes of television today, it says insidiously, so what's two more hours?

My book? The one about procrastination? Well, it actually confirms something I have long suspected: some procrastinators are actually perfectionists; we must wait until we can execute something properly, or else that something is not worth doing. Yet. We'll just curl up on the couch with a good book, thankyouverymuch, and wait until our brains are perfectly clear and focused and we feel physically, emotionally, and mentally prepared to accomplish that task. Good day.

Take this post, for instance. I almost waited until I could write something coherent, but then I forced myself to sit down and type. (You're welcome, Internet.)

And those mothereffing GMATs, always looming over me.

Then last week I realized: I am never going to wake up one day and understand geometry. That day is never coming.

The best I can do is study. Study like I have never studied before. And also? TAKE THE GODDAMN GMATS ALREADY, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE.

Finally - finally!- I have scheduled the test. I will be taking the GMATs on December 17th. I have a lot to cram into my brain before then; but then, after the 17th, I can finally relax. I can watch Oprah without feeling guilty. I can read books again without that nagging sensation that I should be studying. And that alone is worth turning off the television - and the Facebook - until then.

And of course, you know, I will have actually accomplished something. Not quite as monumental as showering daily, but it's a start.

You Know What I Just Realized?

So I finally went to the DMV and updated my license. Like, with my new last name. And even the DMV man was like, Wow! You sure did wait awhile on this one!

I also forgot my checkbook. And a money order. Because that is all they accept at the DMV. Like it is 1974 or something. So I had to drag my super-made-up ass out to find a money order. When I returned, DMV Man exclaimed, Hey! You know your license expires in 3 months right?

No, sir. I did not know that.

This is why you shouldn't procrastinate. And why you should know when your license expires. Lest you be like moi, who is going to be SIX MONTHS pregnant in my next driver's license photo. Which I will then be forced to keep for four years. For shame!

Am awesome. And also: slightly chubby. I am going to figure out Photoshop so I can share with you the latest pic. I believe I look quite round, but jaunty!

ALSO: FOLLOW ME, purty please? You see that little icon on the right sidebar? Something to do with Google? Please follow me. I am funny sometimes. And I shower more these days. And mah baby needs food. Thank you.

With a Heavy Heart...

...I must bring you this news, Internets.

Grace and I already have a plan to show proper reverence on that sad, sad day in September 2011. And as I helpfully pointed out, my baby will be walking by then.

Flash Mob Dance, anyone?

For Shame, Roseanne Connor.

*Blogger whines to husband about GOALS! She is driven! She is coming out of the first trimester wretchedness! She will accomplish a floppity-jillion things before Ninja comes!*

"OK. So what did you do today?"

"Well, I got downstairs around 7:30. And then I poured myself a hearty bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios. And then I sat on the couch and flipped on the TV. Started watching Roseanne, but it was an episode from the final season... And so I turned it off and booted up the computer to find out what the fuck was going on with the final season? The Connors won the lottery? And then I learned that - wait, are you ready for this? This is fucking unbelievable, J. Here, the entire show was all Roseanne's 'writing.' Jackie was gay! Dan DIED of a HEART ATTACK. They never won the lottery! Becky was with David! DARLENE WAS WITH MARK! Is that the most fucked-up thing you have ever heard?!?"

Beat.

"So, that was pretty productive."

"Quite."

*Husband's head explodes*

On Blogging.

In hindsight, I made some terrible blogging decisions out of the gate.

When I started QITNM in 2006, I didn't understand the blog community. I had read a few blogs. I thought I had the chops. And so I started writing. And then I'd stop. And then I'd write some more. And so it went.

I rarely commented on other blogs, despite reading many religiously. I wasn't standoffish; I was an incredibly self-conscious commenter. Plus, I hated being redundant. So if 40 people had said it before me, I'd just as soon not be the 41st person to repeat it. And so it went.

More and more these days, I realize the error of my ways. How foolish, I was! I was timid - afraid of rejection - and so I existed in a blogging bubble. Who needs those guys? I thought. I can do this all on my own.

Yeah. Not so much.

This year, I've learned about the incredible camraderie that is the blogosphere. I've learned it from following Heather, Mike, and Maddie's story; I've learned it keeping up with Matt. And just today, I am humbled by the overwhelming support for Anissa Mayhew, who just yesterday suffered a second, massive stroke. It only takes a few clicks of the mouse to discover how special she is; and how amazing this community is that is rallying around her and her family amidst these devastating circumstances.

This blogging community? It's the real deal. I am proud to be a part of it; and I hope to really get to know some of these brilliant men and women in the months and years to come, and not just when tragedy strikes, and I'm reminded just why these connections are so damn important in the first place.

Get well soon, Anissa.

Ninja and His Incredible Beating Heart!

So.

Pregnant.

Where were we?

The headaches have started, and they are inhibiting my ability to write coherently. I will soldier on for you, Internet, if you will please forgive me my poorly-worded phrases and grammatical errors.

Today I heard the mighty Ninja's heartbeat.

I even videotaped it, but I am talking pretty loudly throughout, so it's incredibly hard to make out with all of my shouting.

But it was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

You are a baby, Ninj! With a little heart and everything. I can't quite wrap my head around that.

And yes, you are making your mama queasy and lethargic and achy and weepy: but still? I think you're all right, kid.

(Last night I lay in bed crying as J rubbed my head, attempting to ease the pressure in my skull. "Maybe," I sighed, "the tougher the pregnancy, the easier the baby." "Yeah," he said softly. "Probably." He lies because he cares.)

A Shit Ton of Stuff Going On.

Oh man, I totally meant to write about my weekend. It was pretty awesome, except for one major tragedy that WE MUST NEVER SPEAK OF. Other than that tiny minor CATASTROPHE THAT YOU WILL NEVER MENTION TO ME, I did many blissful things:

• I went out for a meal with some beloved ladies. An Italian meal. With portions large enough to feed whole family. Glorious.
• I went to the mall, and finally threw caution to the wind and bought a damn bag already. It is Michael Kors. It is gunmetal. It is bad-ass. And then, having bought one bag, I wandered into the Kate Spade store and marveled that I really, really needed another bag. For work. I am a professional.
• No, I didn't buy it. Yet.
• I went to Neiman Marcus, for the first time in my life. Oh, and likely the last. I can afford Michael Kors; I can't afford you, Oscar de la Renta. But a gal can dream.
• I wandered into the children's department, and picked up the most darling Christmas dress and thought, wow, wouldn't this be nice for a darling baby girl? And then I looked at the price tag and choked on my own saliva. $240? For a tiny baby gown? Ha. Don't babies puke all the time? Unless my future child gets invited to the Oscars, I shall never again venture into the children's department at Neiman Marcus.
• I went to Sephora. Oh hell YES I did. I did it up right, and I felt like a trillion dollars walking out of there. I love you, Sephora! But only twice a year.
• I went to the book store. And I sat in the coffee shop. Reading books. Honestly, does life get better than that?
• I ordered a pizza.
• I ate cold pizza for breakfast.
• I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and I LOVED it. I totally get why people hate it, by the way. But to me, the whole story was magical. And you know, I was in an emotional place. And plus, Brad Pitt is really hot. Even when he is like 60 or so. So there you go. (That was an amazing review, by the by. So incisive.)
• J and I saw The Swell Season in concert on Sunday night. It was one of the most incredible live performances evah. Glan Hansard is a true gentleman; ebullient and so damn grateful to have people sitting in the audience listening to his band play. There were even many, many sing-alongs! If you ever get the chance to see SS, by all means, run.
• I announced to the Internet that I was pregnant.
• Wait, no, I meant to do that, but I was all weepy from Benjamin Button and the GREAT TRAGEDY that no one must ever ask me about.
• But yeah, like Tiffani Thiessen, I've got a shit ton of stuff going on. And, er, most of that stuff has to do with gestating a human.
• And trying to stay sane.
• And not crying all the time at everything.
• And not sleeping 12 hours a night.
• And actually living life despite a grueling first trimester.

So that's it! Your blog-mistress is not just a lazy whore; nay, she is a pregnant person, though still vaguely lazy and whorish, I suppose.

Ninja - as s/he shall henceforth be known - is due in late May. I am 12 weeks and 5 days today, which either means I am done with my first trimester, or I have one more week of my first trimester, depending on which pregnancy book you are reading.

Also? S/he is a rock star. But more on that later.

Day 2 - Success!

Well, I didn't so much get to the hair-washing this morning, but that's because I know I'll have to shower again before dinner with the ladies tonight, and come on. Like any rational woman WANTS to blow-dry twice in one day. The mere thought exhausts me.

And J is home from work today, but I still dragged myself from bed at 7 to be prepared for an 8 AM conference call. Twas glorious. Though admittedly, I am not completely sold on all of this grooming. Sure, I can run errands without looking like a hideous beast, but am tired. So very, very tired. We still have three more days of proper grooming before I make a final judgment call. Can better habits be maintained? Stay tuned.

In other news, whilst J is living the crazy life in Manhattan this weekend, I am going to brave my least favorite place on earth: the King Of Prussia mall. Lo, this mall is massive and unyielding. It strikes fear in my very soul, but I know I've got to get some Christmas shopping done now. I want to enjoy the process this year, not merely scramble around at the last minute buying J all of the socks and underwear and humidifiers I can get my hands on. (Seriously? Last year? Banner year for J and Christmas gifts. This year has got to be GOOD.)

Also: Sephora!

I make a concerted effort to stay away from Sephora; given my aversion to malls this does not prove difficult. But oh, to shop at Sephora twice a year. That, my friends, is something real special. I'm talking lip glosses, Dior perfume, Fekkai hair products, and more. I will be excited until the moment I arrive at the store, and then all of the smells and teenage girls will make me want to die. But I shall persevere, for the product, y'all.

And once I'm done there, I plan on retreating to the book store for the better part of the afternoon. Just me, Edgar Sawtelle, and some sort of pumpkin-spice latte. Heaven.

Have a wonderful weekend, friends!

More Showering!

9:05 AM, bitches.

That's the time I was sitting at this here desk, all fresh and clean and just waiting to bring the productivity.

Productivity in the sense of checking Facebook and emailing Koos, but still. Look how pretty I look! And I am wearing jeans again! (My scheduled appointment this morning was canceled late yesterday afternoon. Hello, Day 1!)

And you know what? It's 12 PM now, and I have been more productive today. I went to Wawa for a breakfast sandwich, and didn't look like something that got caught in a drain. I even - on a whim - stopped into the cobbler's, and picked up the hot black shoes I left there in JULY. (And are now, sadly, out of season. Procrastination hurts, guys.)

I made phone calls. And returned old emails. And cleaned out my inbox. From 195 to 55, in just an hour! These are achievements. Baby steps. One thing at a time.

Throughout all of this, the television has remained largely off. Last night, feeling empowered, I dashed to the grocery store, determined to make my husband a surprise dinner. And he came home with surprise flowers for moi, because he is lovely. Coincidence? We are obviously psychically connected. (Also? I think he felt sorry for me. Yesterday I blogged about showering. And the monumental task it was. And he was probably all: Aww. Let's get it together, shall we?)

HomeValley Single-handedly Bringing Sexy Back

The scene: Home office. Noon time. Writer is clad in worn black velour sweatpants, gray tee-shirt, and blue Pace sweatshirt. Sans bra. Has not combed hair; has not brushed teeth. Single greatest accomplishment today, hygiene-wise? Swapping glasses for contacts. Even that took Herculean effort.

Writer ponders lack of motivation. Avoids mirrors and all human contact.

The moment: Epiphany, reading three-year old advice column.

Writer notes that she, in fact, has no children. Is just a lazy, stupid whore. With bad personal hygiene. If writer is to better her life, she need look no further than her wild, unruly blonde locks and unflossed gums. (For shame, it has been so long since her last floss!)

The challenge: Writer steps away from the computer, resolved. She will shower today. And it. Will. Be. Glorious.

Did you read the column? It spoke to me, as only the sage Amalah can:

I remember reading somewhere, a loooong time ago, that people who work from home should resist the "I'm working in my pyjamas!" temptation and continue to go through the complete motions of getting ready for work in the morning. Even if your commute is just down the hall, you should shower, get dressed, put on makeup, whatever -- and have it all done by the same time every morning. The theory being, of course, that if you look professional, you'll feel professional. And also: increased productivity, serious of purpose, self esteem and the ability to begin and end your workday instead of letting it morph into an "I'm at home, therefore I'm at work, so I guess I better check my email during dinner and before bed" kind of mentality, which naturally leads to a lot of stress and feeling like a slave to a day job that never ends.

Shit, you guys. Monumental fail.

See, work travel has slowed considerably, as budgets are shot (and I would like to state that room service at various Marriotts throughout the Northeast had little to do with that, k?). So I find myself, most days, working from home, battling a crippling lack of motivation. Perhaps I need look no further than the fact that, by the time J arrives home from work most days, I usually have not brushed my teeth. (Sexy little housewife, in your eight-year old velour pants!)

Anyway.

So I have extended another challenge to myself, something I am keen to do these days. I will groom myself. Each day. In the mornings. For five consecutive office days. And I will watch my productivity skyrocket and will thusly enjoy fame and money and book deals.

My mission began at 12:36 PM today, so we can't count this as Day 1. Nonetheless, here is what I pulled off today. (And no, you shouldn't be impressed. You should feel very, very sorry for me. And my long-suffering husband. And the velour pants.)

1. I brushed my teeth. I totally would have flossed, too, had I not forgotten to pick up floss this week. But I used Listerine. Minty fresh!
2. Showered. Way to go, champ! Turning on the hot water is half the battle, you know.
3. But wait! In shower, I shaved. Mah legs.
4. And exfoliated, with the greatest smelling body scrub you ever did smell.
5. And I shampooed!
6. And conditioned! (And bless you, Pureology. Though my hair is fine, it is surprisingly unmanageable. I can't go a day between washings, and I also can't use some less expensive, drugstore products. They leave my hair extremely soft and listless. ) (That explanation was for the fellas.)
7. I also washed my face! First with my Aveeno Ultra-Calming Cleanser, then with my St. Ive's Apricot Scrub, a staple since puberty. Then! Then I topped off this banner shower with my new Neutrogena Clear Pore Cleanser/Mask. (I am trying a new cleansing system using benzoyl peroxide, as my fair, Scandinavian skin is acting up lately. So far, the BP has been very drying, with some visible results. Hoping for better days ahead.)
8. Then, out of the shower. I moisturized. I slathered up my face with Aveeno Ultra-Calming Moisturizer with SPF, then regular old Lubriderm for my delicate bits. Yes, this is noteworthy. I skip the Lubriderm more days than I care to admit.
9. Stay with me, we're still grooming. I blew-dry my hair, even used a little product.
10. Next, I evened out my splotchy-ness with actual make-up. Which my face has not seen since Sunday, when I last truly ventured out of the house. (Oh, I went to the grocery store on Monday. I won't even describe the horror. Let's just say, it's like playing Russian Roulette. If I ever run into anyone I know looking like I did on Monday, I will melt into the floor and die.)
11. I applied powder, and blush. And mascara! And some lip gloss, to soothe my poor, cracked lips.
12. You know those celebs who say that the only make-up they use is just a bit of mascara and lip gloss, and they're out the door? I hate those rotten liars.
13. I dressed, somewhere in the midst of all this. I threw on a gray tee-shirt and jeans, but hell, at least I'm wearing a bra. And pants!
14. Oh, I even threw a load of laundry in for good measure. (The other night I asked J why our bedroom smelled funny. "Oh I don't know," he replied, "maybe it's that huge pile of dirty laundry in the corner." I know; I'm a domestic goddess.)

So, along with the limited television-watching, more reading challenge of 2009, we are now going to pay more attention to our personal hygiene over here at QITNM. Tomorrow I have to get up at 4:30 (kill me) to get out the door by 5:30 (ew), so we won't count tomorrow either. Five consecutive days of working-from-home grooming, y'all.

Challenge accepted.

No Use Crying...

Today, I spilled the milk.

Well, more like dropped the fat-free organic goodness (slippery little sucker) and then it was sort of busted open, just laying there on the floor, seeping out of its cardboard container. And then I just sighed, and picked it up quickly, and thought, very seriously: There's no use crying over spilt milk. And that little platitude made me chuckle and convinced me to go on living.

And then, in an attempt to salvage the remaining milk, I poured some into two to-go coffee cups. Then I used a chip clip to reattach the top of the container, and then I stuffed it in the fridge.

Oh also? This is my way of explaining all of this to J. Sorry, babe. Your milk is chip-clipped in the fridge. Tasty!

In other news, I finished this book early this morn, and LOVED it. Please do read.

Other exciting things? J is heading to NYC this weekend without his beloved, and that means some Netflix HomeValley-lovin' angsty film-viewing! The kind I am never allowed to do when J is in the vicinity! (To be fair, he allowed me to watch about half of Evita after we returned from Buenos Aires, before he ever so kindly stated we can turn this off now; for the love of GOD, shut up, Banderas.)

So what to watch? Leaning towards The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and Last Chance Harvey, but I am not completely thrilled about either. Any suggestions?**

Finally, the TV-viewing moratorium is going better this week. I'm proud to report that the tube has not been on AT ALL today, which is quite a feat, considering I like to wake up and start my day with some Apple-Cinnamon Cheerios and some TLC. Then, I typically work until noon, then head back to the living room for some lunch and perhaps some What Not To Wear. Anyway, I am trying to see exactly how long I can make it without actually turning on the set. A whole day? A whole two days? We're hour-by-hour here now. It's getting close to the Oprah witching time, and we all know I am powerless against O and her damn feel good stories about Journey frontmen and warrior moms.

But lately? It's my books that are stressing me out... I've got a whole stack of books that need to be read (loans from others, loans from the library), and they're glaring at me, taunting me: You used to fancy yourself an intellectual, they brat. And now you have the attention span of a gnat.

I have to be strong, and keep from reaching for that remote. It's getting serious, y'all. If I can't reel it in... dial it down... quit the incessant Jon and Kate in happier days-viewing... Well, let's just say there's been talk of down-grading.* To basic cable. And getting rid of the DVR.

And I won't let that happen. I can be strong for you, DVR.

*By the way, all of this talk is by me, the big-mouthed blogger with the highly questionable self-control. I usually just run my scatter-brained schemes past J rapid-fire, and he just acquiesces to pretty much anything knowing I will forget about it within the hour. Because look, J! House Hunters is in Lisbon!

Oy.

**Edited to add: The TV rule applies to actual TV. When J and I initially conceived this plan, we specifically stated that weekend movies and NFL football were free zones. Because, come on.