Any forgetting day now.

Last Monday was Leiah's due date. And now it's Sunday, and Lillian seems to have no desire to come meet us. Perhaps we should make brownies.

Poor Leiah has been sick as a dog for the last week, alternating between stuffed up and oozing, so maybe Lilly is being good to her momma and letting her recover a bit before going through the trauma of childbirth. And having a newborn. And being sleep deprived. And I'll stop there.

I can't wait for Lilly to get here. I've gone so far as to stimulate Leiah's left breast (the right one is sore) to try to induce labor, something that is probably totally annoying but that Leiah, in her sick and tired state, isn't motivated enough to fend off. Betsy and I tried to invent a have-the-baby dance that involved a lot of awkward squatting, but then company came over and we acted right.

I've been keeping my phone on me (MIRACLE), limiting my beer intake, and making sure I put an asterisk on commitments so I can leave at a moment's notice and go fill my role on the Welcoming Committee whenever I get the call. I've never been with one of my sisters when they've given birth to a baby, and I can't wait to support Leiah and share this overwhelming experience with her.

Also, I love babies.

Snow Day

I spent the day with the cutest boy alive today. We played in the snow, drank hot cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream, did some fingerpainting, and went swimming. He told me he loved me about 50 times and that my boobs were gross. I knocked him down a lot and fake tried to drown him. We had a blast.

 

 

During our painting session we got to chatting, and out of the blue he said, "I had a boyfriend named God once. He was square with a round head." Turns out God had lots of guns and nets and "he also had the largest gun that could kill good people." Isn't he the best?

One Night Stand

That New Year's Resolution is off to a good start. Or at least an ambitious one.

What happens when you don't pay your bills.

This morningish (we got up around 11) started out like most mornings de winter, with both of us in bed trying to invent reasons we should get out of bed even though it's like 11 degrees out there.

I'm not lazy; it's just cold.

Eventually the responsibilities of social networking got me up and Mack, with no one left to endorse this bad behavior, decided to get on with his day too. I hopped on the computer, he hopped in the shower.

Squeak, bang, creak, squeak, thunk.

"Is the water guy outside?" yells a frantic bathroom voice.

"Wha?" I say as I get up and go to the window to look out. "Yeah."

"Catch him!"

Without thinking, I burst through the front door, down the steps and started yelling after the KAWC truck. "HEY! HEY! HEY! WAIT!!!"

As The Man Who Ruined Today rounded the corner and out of sight, I returned to the moment and realized I'm in public, on a busy street, in semi-transparent blue polka dotted pajama pants, a stretched out grey t-shirt sans bra, and electric pink furry boot slippers that should only be worn by 13 year olds. Aka too sexy.

I went inside to preserve my dignity and explain to Mack that The Man Who Ruined Today got away, and you know that scene in A Christmas Story where the dad's cusses are all mumbles and grrrs? Yeah, that became my life for about 15 minutes.

Since we'd been gone for most of December, the mail had gotten out of control. We went through it when we got home, and I remembered seeing a KAWC bill and putting in on Mack's desk to be paid. There was nothing else from them, just a bill, and it was due Jan. 12. No problem, except that they turn off your water within the month if you don't pay the bill for that month before your next bill is due, a policy that, along with the fact that they don't knock to give you one last chance to pay, qualifies them as Asshole Cuntbag Dickfaces.

I immediately called them to pay the past due bill, the current bill, the $26 Because We Haven't Fucked You Enough Charge and the $1.80 Rape Charge for Paying Over the Phone. With a confirmation number in hand and a promise to have the water back on today in place, the next issue to deal with was Mr. Grumbles.

The Man Who Ruined Today came just after Mack's shower, which was good, but right in the middle of Mack's manscaping, which is oh-so bad. Mack is a hairy gorilla, and because he shaves probably once a month, when he finally does it, it is a project. A project that requires water.

When he opened the door to show me "what I'm dealing with," it was too much. There he stood, his entire torso and face splotchy with shaving cream and newly cut hairs, a mess of man flesh that needed nothing but rinsed.

Unfortunately, our options were scarce. There was a vase that was soaking after I rinsed out a bunch of cigarettes and melted snow left by our mail-getter Scotty and a pot of water that I'd boiled eggs in yesterday.

I passed them into Mack as options and silently affirmed my belief that showers are overrated. I also found my water bottle from yesterday's gym trip and another one that Leigh left here a few days ago (I think), two sources that gave us about 2 cups of clean water. We decided those should be saved for brushing teeth.

Mack closed himself into the bathroom and did his best to solve a problem we haven't had to deal with since the bucket showers of Ghana days. He emerged smelling an extra lot like shaving cream.

"What'd you go for?" I asked him. "The egg water or the cigarette water?"

I can't imagine a more disgusting choice to make. He went for the eggs.

Enjoy 2011. Because the world is supposed to end next year.

The First 48 Hours

Congrats to Will and Kristin for having one of the most delicious babies ever.

Why I Got Fatter in California that I Do in Kentucky.

I'm sort of on an eating tour, going to my favorite diners and restaurants in LA while I have the chance. At the top of the list was Real Food Daily, a vegan restaurant that is so good it blows my mind. Here's where I binged on Not-chos, enchiladas with tomatillo sauce and plantains, and a peanut butter chocolate cupcake. It is also where I gained my first five pounds.

Mmmmmm. Oink, oink.

Yesterday.

I'm on a plane.

Blogging. Yes, that is happening right now. Delta is giving free wifi for the holidays so while I'm en route to LA, I am internetting.

I love being alive in this day and age.

For Jen.

You will be laughing your ass off.

Secret Lives

Heather sent me a little discovery she made into Mack's secret life.

And to think, all this time I thought his secret life involved a half-naked blonde, stoned musicians and some Remy Martin.

An aside, I'm not really sure what frontiersmen and Indians getting along has to do with Jesus being happy? Someone explain this to me.

A is for Amber.

Why yes, that is an A on my report card. And yes, that nursing class does qualify me to stick a thermometer up your pooper and give you a shot.

Diagnosis Nebraska Mouth

During the 7th season of the Ultimate Fighter, a reality show featuring some incredibly fit and sexy guys aspiring mixed martial artists, there was this guy named C.B. Dollaway. He was an alright fighter to watch, but there was something annoying about him. Something about his mouth specifically.

It was more like a butt hole than a mouth, which is so gross, I know, but that's what I thought every time I saw it and that's why I hated C.B. Dollaway. I was expressing this admittedly superficial and unfounded distaste for this particular fighter based on his mouth to Mack one day, and Mack, demonstrating his special way with words, described it as Nebraska Mouth.

Since then, we've been on the lookout for Nebraska Mouth. To help you diagnose people, here's a visual compilation of Nebraska Mouthed people.

A Few of the Afflicted: Ryan Bader, Stephan Bonnar, Spencer Pratt, and, of course, C.B. Dollaway

We recently also spotted Mississippi Mouth, but we haven't quite designated it as a condition yet. Research pending...

Naked. Pragnet. Lady.

Leiah has a better body 8 months pregnant than I had in my teens. Although in my teens I had one boob that was a C-cup and one that was a no-cup-necessary and my tenth year screwed my teens by lacquering some stretchmarks across my lower back, so that's not saying much.

Here she is at 7 months pregnant, looking more Baywatch in a bikini than I have on my best day. You know, if Baywatch had pregnant lifeguards.

As part of Leiah's shower (and because I like to take pictures), we did a little photo shoot and turned it into a slideshow to up the excitement surrounding the arrival of Lillian Blake. I think the photos we got were stunning, Leiah as gorgeous and serene as I've seen her in the past decade. It almost made me want to be pregnant... except that I'd get all fat and stretched and nauseous and angry and it would be awful. Plus, who would take care of that baby?

We're just a couple of days away from the end of Leiah's 8th month, which means little Lillian will be here in 36ish days! And I'll get all the joys of a new baby without all the sleep deprivation. I love my sisters.

Dulywed: Year 4

Dear Mack,

If not for the utterance of the words Happy and Anniversary, the celebration of our fourth year of marriage would have been just like any other day. You and me, on the couch, medical books in our laps, waiting for the guy to show up with the Chinese food.

There was no fancy dinner, no gifts, not even the exchange of cards. We both had tests looming, Thanksgivings to recover from, and slight hangovers from those $3 Kamikazes you forced on me and Shannon the night before. Instead of the typical things like fruits or flowers, we gave each other time and understanding.

Looking back on the past year, I think time and understanding is just about the best thing I could have asked for.

This was the year I went on overnight trips to Memphis, Lake Charles, Indiana, Memphis, Indiana, Louisville, Louisville, Louisville and left you at home to fend for yourself. Of course, I ordered you pizza from a distance a couple of times, and I premade some meals and put them in the freezer for you, but even as much as I know you love (and need) food, I know you love (and need) me around more. You're probably starting to twitch with the urge to deny that, but it's a fact. After four years of marriage, I am the one person you neeeeeeeeed in your life.

And, to be fair, I neeeeeeeed you in mine.

I need to ask you where you're going when you leave the room, even if your answer is always a smart-ass, "France." I need to call you when my day is done and see how yours is going. I need to feel that mix of annoyed and humored when I hear you turn on the shower to rinse down your pee or when you grope me while I'm sorting laundry. I need to pass you my plate to when I've had enough and ask you questions that I'd normally save for Google. I need you to fill our house with music, to help me get a thicker skin, to challenge me to dream bigger than I've ever dreamed before.

I don't need you to drive me anywhere because you are a panicky old man driver with road rage who can't remember where he's going.

When we went to DC this past March and got in that huge fight over coffee or something as equally stupid and you stormed off and left me and I was roaming the city without a way to get in touch with you, I can't begin to describe the panic I felt. Not because I was worried something would happen to me or to you but because you are my person and even when I hate you, I need you to be there.

You have become the yin to my yang, the highs to my lows, the dish-puter-awayer to my dish-washer. We have in our fourth year found balance, a balance that can only come from succumbing to reliance, from settling into need. As much as we are still two distinct individuals, it feels like we're finally family.

Thank you for giving me these past four years to work my way into this depth of trust, this degree of love, and thank you for understanding my needs and tolerating them, even when they make your head want to explode. Like, I need a cat.

I love you, Thomas. Happy Anniversary.

Needy Bitches

The Lil' Lady

I hosted a baby shower for Leiah and Lillian (in utero) last weekend, and since I didn't have a Halloween party this year, I channeled all my ideas into her shower. I love to plan a party and this was just the fix I needed.

When my mom was pregnant with Leiah, she thought she looked like a little bug running around the screen during an ultrasound. That sort of stuck, and we've called Leiah all sorts of things associated with bug... Buggy, BugWug, Leiah Bug. It was only right to have a lady bug themed party for Leiah's little baby girl.

I started planning like I usually do... with a google image search. There were a lot of red and black party things, but I wanted pink and green for some reason. A few evenings spent perusing the web, a few trips to Target and Michael's, and a few VIP helpers later, and we had a bonafide baby shower!

We decided to make it kid friendly since Ben and Renee were gonna be there, which meant that Kate and Caroline got to come in matching outfits, Iris discovered a hankering for icing, and Leiah's brand new baby niece got to give us a little bit of baby fever.

 

For the game I decided to play Baby Pictionary. It was so funny to watch Ruble try to draw a baby carrier. I think she also had to draw placenta. Ha!

And now we wait until January!

Basically.

I don't like the military. I don't like guns and shooting and killing, and I feel like we should be able to settle our differences with words after all these years of civilization. I know that's totally unrealistic, but, hey, aim high, right?

When Bubba announced that he was joining the Army last spring, I was a little concerned. I was worried he might regret his decision when the order to go to Afghanistan came through. I was selfish and smart and didn't want anything to happen to him. But more than that, I wanted Bubba to be happy. So I decided that if he's happy joining the Army, then I'd support him. Not our troops per se, but Bubba's decision.

A couple of weeks ago he finished basic training and we got to go to Ft. Knox to watch him graduate. Ft. Knox freaks me out. You can feel the rules and the parameters and the protocol and the regimen everywhere you go. It was absolutely one of the most uncomfortable places I've ever been, on par with that one bazaar in Iran when I thought they were leading me to a dungeon to cut my head off.

It wasn't until after the graduation ceremony that I started to settle down. Not settle in, but settle down. It probably helped that I wandered into a crowd of 200+ of the best dressed male specimens I've ever seen.

Those uniforms are magical, even with berets.

Bubba and his buddies (we took a couple extra out since they're way more handsome in groups) were hilarious. They wanted to go to the bookstore and passed around Mack's computer paying bills and checking email and eating up technological freedom.

Apparently they'd been using their leisure time to sit on the floor, so this was like a trip to France to them.

We probably spent two hours at Barnes and Noble. They read magazines and made phone calls... making sure to stand still while talking. Apparently that's an Army mandate: no walking and talking. There's also one that says you can only do it missionary style. 

Bubba and I had been writing letters while he was in basic, and he'd said all he wanted to do was watch a movie and eat wings and pizza. That plan got scrapped since they were given pizza the night before, so instead we went to Ruby Tuesday after coffee and pastries so they could eat steak and chicken. And chili cheese fries. And something called a brookie that made them want to vomit but that they couldn't stop eating.

Everywhere we went they'd put their beret on when we got out of the car, take it off inside the shop, put it back on to go outside, take it back off in the car. On and off, on and off, on and off, all the time. They also opened the doors every time we went somewhere and had actual manners. Which made them even more handsome in their little outfits.

 

Maybe the military's not such a bad thing after all. Not because I approve of wars, but because I'm a huge fan of consideration of others.

Must be basketball season.

Our house is not a nutty sports house (thank god). Yeah, I've watched way more judo videos than I ever really cared to, but I'll take that over segues into sleep starring Sports Center. But when it comes to UK Basketball, I've still got a soft spot.

It's one that was permanently imprinted on my right hand when I was 8 years old and would watch games with my dad who would get so excited and high five me so hard that I'd lose feeling.

With my learned devotion to UK also came a learned disdain for U of L. I used to have a t-shirt of a UK Wildcat pouring out a bowl of cereal made up of other basketball mascots, and the U of L Cardinal was standing at the opening of the box freaking out, knowing he was about to be devoured. I also used to chant, "UK, all the way... U of L, go to hell." Remember, I was 8 at the time, but cussing was allowed so long as it was used to disparage U of L.

During a visit to Heather's earlier today, I discovered that UK fandom still goes hand in hand with U of L hatred. Chase, who is 6, is mastering the art of handwriting with this:

Bonus

My mom and dad used to give me money for my report card, but for some reason, that stopped after I moved out. If I had to guess, I'd say it must have something to do with us making a career out of getting an education.

Those little bonuses were great motivation, so I've adopted a reward system based on the one my parents taught me. 

Last week we had our second exam of the semester. Studying for it was really hard, so I rewarded myself with this.

This week I got my grade... an A. Earning that A was really hard, so I'm rewarding myself with these.

Other rewards I'm considering include a facial, a kitten cat, and a scooter rack. If I've learned anything in my life, it's that being spoiled is freaking amazing.

Best News Ever

I just got the best news ever (hence the title of this post) and it's way too good to let it go by without making it a part of this little in-progress autobiography known as my blog.

This news is so good because a) it was a total surprise, b) it was sprung on me in the most delightful way, and c) everything about it is wonderful. No, Mack and I are not getting married again. Not yet anyway ;)

When I got this news, a smile stretched across my face and has not subsided even though it's been like an hour. In fact, it made me downright giddy, a state of emotional frenzy that alarms Mack but one that I imagine must be like heroin. This news is a miracle of news, it's a testament to the goodness of the universe, it's a karmic reward. It is the best news ever.

I would tell you what it is, but a) it's not my news to tell, b) I sort of like keeping it a secret, and c) what it is isn't the most important thing about this post. What is important is that life just got better, exponentially more perfect, even more full of joy, and it's moments like these that make the moments spent watching an old man's belly get drained of 10 liters of fluid fade away for ever.

Sure, trust me with people's lives.

Nursing school is going great. I got an A on my first exam, am getting Satisfactories on my care plans and assessments, and was allowed to shadow a nurse for the first time ever last week.

If only I didn't fail skills all. the. time.

So far I've had to go to remediation for two skills. Two out of four. Wanna know which two? Temperature taking (with a glass thermometer) and injections.

Wanna know why I failed? Well, I wanted to leave the thermometer in the pooper for 5 minutes when it only needs to be in there for two. And with injections, well, I forgot to put on gloves. Something about touching a blob of pretend flesh on a table top just didn't inspire me to glove up the way a human's greasy abdomen would.

Remediation is pretty painless. The teacher looks at you like, why are you stupid and how is this possibly challenging to you, if you can't do this you shouldn't really be pursuing this career path. And then you redo the skill for her, paying extra attention to emphasize the part you got wrong the first time. You ought to see the way I put on gloves now.

I managed to pass medication administration and doing an all-over physical assessment on the first try, and I plan to redeem myself for being a 50% failure on the next check off. That's right, crutch walking. I'm making you my bitch.

Covered bridges. Yes, that is my idea of adventure.

After Kentucky, I've spent most of my life in Indiana. Weekend visits with my dad, summers spent at Aunt Tina's pool, that time we lived with my grandpa, vacations spent at Aunt Becky's, Fourth of July lawn mower races, that addiction I had to my grandma. Indiana is to be credited with taming my city kid and teaching me humility. It's where I got comfortable with being dirty and fell in love with the smell of basements, where a big wheel and a drainage ditch meant endless entertainment.

While it's got a special place in my heart, Indiana is not at the top of my list of Places to Visit. Unless Heather mentions photographing covered bridges for two years in a row and I finally agree to go with her to the Covered Bridge Festival in Rockville, Ind.

Let's paint a picture of Rockville, Ind., shall we?

Population 2,765, 98.16% of which is white.
Home of the late Morris K. Jessup, UFO conspiracy theorist.
Known as the Covered Bridge Capital of the World.

Rockville is the seat of Parke Co., which has 31 covered bridges. There used to be 52 1/2 (the 1/2 one crossed a county line, and since Indiana is nothing if not fair, they don't claim that whole bridge)... can you imagine the fame of Rockville if those other 21 1/2 were still around? Mayhem.

The "festival" has become pockets of flea markets/giant yard sales hosted by several of the "towns" in Parke Co. Heather and I weren't really interested in funnel cakes or Amish brooms, so we tried to avoid the traffic clusters around the towns and see as many bridges as we could in three hours. We raced along gravel roads, stirring up dust and taking breaks to pee in fields, and managed to explore five bridges in all. To keep it exciting, we took a different pose photo at each one. We are animals.

In case the bridges don't get your blood going, we also stumbled across this old timey cemetery with graves from the 1800s. I had as much fun taking photographs here as I did at the bridges, and if the sun hadn't been on its way down, we could've dilly dallied here for an hour.

After our whirlwind bridge tour, I was all ready to lay down some money and spend the night at the jail inn. But Heather was dead set on camping and there was no vacancy at the jail, so after dinner at the Thirty Six Saloon (one of two restaurants in Rockville), we went to Rockville Lake Park. Heather pitched the tent while I made the fire. I got kicked out of Brownies in the second grade and I don't think Heather's mom would have ever paid for Girls Scouts, but it turns out we are a couple of bonafide outdoorsy types.  We were drinking beer in our camping chairs by a toasty warm fire in under 30 minutes. We even had a little visit from a glowy eyed raccoon.

If I'm having this much fun at something as senior citizen as a Covered Bridge Festival, maybe I should start going to Bingo. Or take up Bridge.

Because it's 96 degrees outside.

Fall is one of the few things about Kentucky that I find redeeming. If there's a crisp breeze in the air, the smell of soggy earth sprouting from the ground, horses racing under a bright blue sky, and a zombie parade on the horizon, I can tolerate the rampant obesity, the slow motion twang, the threats to pedestrians and the Jesus campaigns in  front yards. But when I'm riding my scooter home and the bank says it's 96 fucking degrees outside on Oct. 11th, well, fuck Kentucky.

Luckily, McSweeney's is feeling my rage and I'm going to share this rant of f-bombs inspired by fall. And gourds. And bad attitudes like the one I'm having today.

It's Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers. By Colin Nissan.

I don't know about you, but I can't wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I'm about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it's gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There's a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.

I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I'm going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, "Aren't those gourds straining your neck?" And I'm just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, "It's fall, fuckfaces. You're either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you're not."

Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode of Diff'rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn't it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they're both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that's upsetting, but I'm not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.

The next thing I'm going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I'm going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it's not summer, it's not winter, and it's not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; it's fall, fuckers.

Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you're going to fucking love my house. Just look where you're walking or you'll get KO'd by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you're going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.

For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.

Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!