So does anyone know why my report left out a heading? Anyone? The Perfect Day Job still has a few nerdy bits floating about.

I am thinking about this while eating peanut butter straight from the jar. The extra-crunchy kind.

Subject matter for a Serious Post has presented itself and though I'm tempted to write it, I must acknowledge that there are serious-er people than me on the Internet, all of whom could say what I want to say in a much better way and if I only bothered to check through their archives, I'm sure I'd find the relevant topic and I could just link and be done with it.

Apparently peanut butter makes you write long-ass sentences.

I started reading one of my books last night, The Thin Place. I would like to report that I am in love with this fantastical meandery thought-provoking novel, but I couldn't get into it. I think I used up all my appreciation for fantastical weirdness when I read Jeanette Winterson's entire bibliography. I had to put it down and start on Joe College instead, which is full of potty-mouth characters and dorm scenes twenty-something ennui, which means I am loving it and fell asleep reading a book instead of watching the news. Go me. I'll try The Thin Place again in a while, maybe on a Saturday morning when I am thinking clearer. I'll take it to the Starbucks on the lake and make sure to slouch back with my nonfat latte so everyone can see I'm reading Literature.

I went to Barnes & Noble again, by the way, hanging around while Phillip got a haircut from the Korean lady down the street, the only person in the world allowed to touch the Coif. I spent most of my time looking at cookbooks, decided not to spend thirty bucks on the couple of recipes I want from Giada and went into the coffee shop to get a snack. I had to crawl through backpacks and laptop cases and saw I was surrounded by college students. Ah, I said to myself. To be a student again! To haul my 40-pound textbooks down to the cafes in the trendy outdoor shopping center and immerse myself in my studies! But then I realized I was the furthest thing from jealous. I liked school, I was fairly good at school but I certainly don't miss it. I like earning money, even my $5 a week, and I don't have homework. Ever! Or have to deal with self-absorbed post-modernist trying-to-compensate-for-something MFA students masquerading as writing teachers.

I like the 'thin place' idea though. That website looks a bit hokey, yes, but I would like to be someone who "notices the thinness". I think I will like that book after I read a few more pages. It has smartypants sixth grade girls in it, always a selling point with me. I blame my lack of interest on the fact that I haven't read anything decent in months- John Grisham, Wired and InStyle don't count. The InStyle I blame on my sister-in-law, who is always setting me up with magazine subscriptions, the newest one being Us Weekly because apparently trashy magazines go hand in hand with sitting on a couch all day feeding a baby. Us WEEKLY. I fear for my intellect.

How gross is it that I am eating peanut butter out of a jar? With a spoon? Honestly?

My morning, with a lot of tangents

So apparently the baby does not like oatmeal raisin cookies. Tragic, no? I love oatmeal raisin cookies. But I suddenly woke up at 3:30 am in Dire Horrible Pain, even though Phillip convinced me a foam eggcrate thing on the mattress would make me feel better. (It did. Goodbye sore old-person hips!) After a while I decided to get out of bed and try Phillip's Universal Cure All: downing a giant glass of water. Instead I, uh, lost the small mountain of oatmeal raisin cookies I'd eaten right before I went to bed.

Fortunately I had the day off.

Unfortunately, my presence was demanded via massive guilt-tripping requested at a meeting, a meeting that usually takes place downtown, but because it was rescheduled due to the the horrendous weather, was now taking place on freaking Harbor Island. Do you know where Harbor Island is? Not even people who LIVE here know where Harbor Island is. Harbor Island is the godforsaken chunk of grimy industrial land underneath the West Seattle bridge. And I had to be there by 7:30 in the morning, when it is still dark, when it is still ICY and SNOWY when I had yet to crawl out of my one-mile snowed in radius. (See, when I said it didn't snow in Seattle, I meant it didn't snow like it did everywhere else. We got, like, an inch, maybe two, and it still hasn't melted and the roads are evil slip 'n slides of terror. So if I'm this wussy in the city, think of how pathetic and immobile I'd be in the suburbs! Which reminds me, last night we had dinner with some friends and one of their dads, and he was all asking questions about something nature-ish and did we ever notice this naturally occuring phenomenon and when he seemed to direct this question at me I was all, "Dude. I live in the city."

When I still hadn't fallen back asleep by six, I decided that I may as well show up. (I'd spent the previous two hours figuring out how to email all the necessary documents to the meeting via mad rad remote desktop, interspersed with wondering how I should decorate the baby's room.) So I made it to the meeting, albeit without my naturally cheerful disposition, and I couldn't even take advantage of the big box of doughnuts, because my stomach still felt blah and I didn't want to risk a scene, if you will, in the middle of the meeting. (Although I would have aimed for the guilt-tripper's shoes.)

(Hello, what is up with the random Sickness? Do you think it just comes and goes? Or does the baby really not like oatmeal raisin cookies? Because that is making me very sad.)


THEN I went shopping. I should have probably gone home, and the original plan was to go hang out with my sister an hour away, but whatEVER, it's icy and snowy and I've been up since THREE THIRTY IN THE MORNING.

So I went shopping at this little outdoor shopping center that is much less "strip mall" and much more "outrageously expensive trendy gathering of stores that don't want my washing machine-d money." Which means: tons of cute stuff! I was specifically looking for baby room things, even though I have absolutely no idea WHAT. By the way, here is what we have done with the baby's room so far:

  1. Moved the futon downstairs
  2. Bought a changing pad (because there is only one kind of changing pad, there are no changing pad forums, there aren't any books about how to buy a changing pad, no one is going to make me feel guilty for buying a certain kind of changing pad etc. etc.)
  3. Took down the butterfly curtains.
  4. Stuffed the too-girly toys, including Hello Kitty and Strawberry Shortcake, into the closet.
  5. Thought about vacuuming.

In other words, not much.

Oh, and speaking of no butterflies or Hello Kitty, I think I am having the only boy in the greater Seattle area. Of all my friends who have babies, only one of them has a boy, and of the spring baby boom currently in the works at my church, I am having the only boy. But I suppose this isn't such a bad thing, as our boy is liable to be a chubby band nerd who participates in role-playing games on the internet and will need all the help he can get in the acquiring a prom date department, even if it comes from simple demographics. 

I ended up buying a super cute window valance at the Overpriced Children's Things Store That Shall Not Be Named because it was (gasp!) on sale. And so cute. So not girly! I wandered through some other stores, but I realized that four hours of sleep doesn't really work for me, and I drove (skated!) home. I went straight upstairs to put up the valance and AHA! It is about four inches too short. LOVELY.

So now I'm going to do what I always do, which is watch TV and fall asleep. Thank you Martin Luther King, Jr., for providing me with this beautiful sunny 24 degree day and the opportunity to watch everything on my TiVo. Oh, and guess what. It's supposed to snow tomorrow morning. The apocalypse is upon us. I am moving to New Zealand.

Six weirdish things

I have spent most of the day draped across one of my two red couches, looking at the television through half-closed eyes and strewing used Kleenexes about my living room. I got a sore throat sometime last week and it wasn't too bad. I really love the 94-year-old smoker lady voice I have when I get a little sick. But honestly, I don't remember the last time I had a cold. I live with a man who swears he is dying the minute he gets the sniffles (or is this all men?), but I am never sick. I even rolled my eyes when my doctor "strongly recommended" I get a flu shot. Because, come on. The FLU?

But last night I woke up and yes, I was dying. Eventually I dragged myself downstairs because I didn't think Phillip needed to hear me hack up every last piece of diseased lung. Then I drove to work, dropped off the cheesecake I made for my boss's birthday (can you say "suck up"?) and packed a few projects to work on at home, where I proceeded to watch all five episodes on the Entourage Season 2 Disc 1 DVD Netflix so kindly sent to me the other day, and bake sugar cookies out of dough I bought at the grocery store. That is all I have accomplished today. The rest of the time I was either asleep, staring at the work I brought home, or thinking about how I should write some Christmas cards. Oh, and I also ate some ice cream.

All of that is to say: I am achey and mopey and tired and stuffed up and totally going to phone in this post by doing a MEME, foisted up on me by Jenny. Damn Jenny.


(Isn't this entire website about weird things?)


1. I can count to ten in Tagalog. Is that weird? I bet you know lots of people who can count to ten in Spanish, but not many who can count to ten in Tagalog. Unless they are Filipino, in which case they don't count.

2. One time during a basketball game I attempted to catch a pass with the tips of my fingers instead of, you know, the part that would actually catch a ball, and I broke my left pinky finger. I didn't know it at the time, I thought I just jammed it, and I didn't have much time to think about it as my evil three-headed fire-breathing coach was screaming at me to, "SHAKE IT OFF, YOU CRYBABY! SHAKE IT OFF!" Then a couple days later at my piano lesson, my piano teacher was all, "Sweetheart, I think you need to get that x-rayed" and offered to have her military doctor husband do it the next day. Which is when I found out I had shattered my left pinky knuckle and had to have my pinky and ring finger taped together in a splint for all of eternity. It healed, eventually, but when I am holding a cold pint of ice cream, sometimes I have to work it a little to bend the joint. Or when I stretch to reach an octave on the piano- it doesn't always bend back. This is where you say, "Ew."

3. I hate being in the middle of nowhere. HATE. IT. I hated that one road trip where my family drove from our house to Texas, which meant driving through DESERTS and long stretches of NOTHINGNESS and what if we ran out of gas and no one found our bodies? People, I hate driving to SPOKANE. That one time we drove to Montana for a wedding nearly killed me.

4. I probably own as many feather boas as I do pairs of shoes. And whether I own 50 pairs of shoes or 5, that is still weird.

5. I had a private audience with the author of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever when I was six or seven years old. This is not weird so much as KICKASS and AWESOME. She came to my school to talk to the big kids, but my parents worked at that school and I was terribly spoiled and all the teachers knew I'd just made my debut performance in a community theater rendition of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever (I believe I was Baby Angel #3) and now I have a signed paperback, just for me. Also, this is an excellent time of year to reread that book. Don't tell me you haven't read it.

6. I have been writing on this stupid website for TWO AND A HALF YEARS. That is weird. It is also a little bit pathetic, which I'm reminded of every time my dad asks me about "that blogging thing" and wonders aloud how people have the time to DO that.

Okay, now I have to go put on real clothes for the first time today, brush my hair and look presentable because my friend is coming by to pick me up and coerce me into visiting the local mall for a couple hours of Christmas shopping, and I say "couple hours" because it will take at least one hour to find a parking space. Joy!

Soon the bells will start

You have no idea how heartened I am to find that other people know the Joseph songs backwards and forwards. The world suddenly became a more friendly place for nerds like me.

Also, my mother wants you to know that she does not want her future grandchild referred to as a "sweet potato."

I brought a bunch of Christmas gifts with me today because I planned to mail them on my lunch break. I do not, however, have all the addresses in my email like I thought I did. Lame! Now people who already think I suck are going to have to add a whole day to the suckiness. Getting these packages ready to mail was a heroic feat in itself. I am really pathetic this year. Well, I was pathetic last year too. Last year I was very on top of the gift purchasing, but not so much with the gift giving and the card sending. I don't even remember if I sent cards last year. And I didn't give my best friend from college her Christmas gift until I saw her over the summer. At which point I gave her her Christmas gift and her birthday gift all at once. LAME!

I'd like to change my slothful ways this year, but it's not looking so good. Yesterday we came home and had a dozen Christmas cards in the mail, some from people I even forgot to put on my list. What is wrong with me?! On one hand, my card-laden mantle makes me feel very popular. On the other, it's a daily reminder of my suckitude. My sad and shameful suckitude.

My other big plan is to make truffles. Yes, truffles. In previous years I've boxed up a choice selection of the Christmas cookies I've slaved over since Thanksgiving, tied them up with ribbon and left them on my neighbors' doorsteps and brought them to work and basically handed them out as "Sorry, I forgot to send you a Christmas card" penance. But there are no cookies in my house this year and I have no idea what I'm going to give my neighbors, let alone what I'm going to feed the guests at my party. But I picked up a copy of Bon Appetit the other day (because I occasionally entertain the idea that I know how to cook, shut up) and there was a not-terribly-difficult-looking article with step by step instructions for truffle making. And people, I can melt chocolate and roll it into a ball as well as anyone else. And truffles! Those are snazzy! I can put a handful of those in a tiny box and tie it with a fancy ribbon and not feel like I'm cheating people out of a big tin of cookies because these are truffles and truffles are luxury items. Right? RIGHT?

My other plan is to get the Pharmacist to give me all her leftovers and serve those at the party. Whaddaya say, Pharmacist?!

At least my house is decorated, I can say that much. So what if our tree is crooked and droopy and will likely turn brown by the end of the week? One of my favorite things to do this time of year is go downstairs in the morning, turn on the tree and eat my Special K by twinkling Christmas tree lights. It's usually still pretty dark (if only because the weather is crap and pouring down rain) and the grim morning news always sounds better by treelight. I made Phillip rearrange our entire living room so we could fit the tree in the front window and even though we now have a sofa hanging out in the middle of the room and it's harder to play Guitar Hero when you're cramped between the couch and the coffee table, I love having the tree in the window. This way I can toast my toes in front of the fireplace and snoop around the presents at the same time.

Not that I would ever snoop around the presents. As if.

Meanwhile, if anyone has gift suggestions for the devastatingly handsome computer geek who has everything except the newer flashier pricier versions of what is already sitting on his desk, could you let me know?

Ms. Bad Attitude strikes again

Last night's training session (if you're wondering about what I'm being 'trained' for, go here) wasn't so much a training session as yet another introductory, please help us do this, it's going to be awesome, just wait and see get together. Apparently the real training will begin next Wednesday night, when there will be discussion of phone calls and how to answer hard questions and (shudder) role playing.

I am still on board. WAY on board. In fact, I agreed and resonated with every single word our priest uttered during his somewhat out-of-character pep talk (the man used to be a monk, and like our resident nun often says, you can take the monk out of the monastery, but you can't take the monastery out of the monk.) However! This whole experience has only confirmed that I am not a peppy kind of girl. You'd think I'd be all over the enthusiasm and group cheers and motivational talks and (shudder) role playing, but no. Noooo. I can't think of speakers I've enjoyed more, a project that I believe in so sincerely, and still, the whole We Are Family! Go Us! Pep Rally aspect of it makes me cringe. I mean, this is a grown man up at the front having a bunch of other grown people clap their hands for the Bonzai Cheer.

What's the Bonzai Cheer you ask?

clap clap clap!   clap clap clap!   clap clap clap!   clap!
clap clap clap!   clap clap clap!   clap clap clap!  clap!
clap clap clap!   clap clap clap!   clap clap clap!  clap!

[in unison, with arms raised] "BONZAI, ST. URBAN WEALTHY NEIGHBORHOOD!"

We only had to do this once last night, and I still wanted to hide under the table. I may have a negative amount of pep.

It makes me think of when my brother the Lieutenant was in high school and working at the BX. I think I was in college at this point, but he would tell us these stories about getting there before the store opened and the managers having all the employees get in a big huddle to pump each other up and get excited about their day. I believe they even had their own cheer, the Let's Get The Enlisted Guys To Drop All Their Cash On Electronic Equipment Cheer. I only wonder if my brother had to wear flair.

Interesting that I just compared our church project to retail, no? Totally without thinking. Although last night our priest said that this is not about money, he doesn't care if we add one more penny to our coffers each week, he only wants to be forced to add another weekend Mass, to expand the school, to build out the parish center, all because the people who registered as parishioners are actually participating. I believe him.

Anyway. Speaking of the Lieutenant, he's about to have another baby in a matter of weeks. If your world suddenly explodes sometime around the new year, that's just the universe reacting to twice the amount of freakishly adorable sainted grandchild.


For your information

I'm home, back to the land of high speed internet and 400 TV channels and knowing what is going on in the world. Also? It snowed. All over my yard. Phillip is distraught- DISTRAUGHT!- that he missed the big snowstorm and I am all, "It better be gone by the time I wake up tomorrow."

I threw up twice on the plane and once in the car on the way home. I can't remember the last time I threw up. (No, wait. There was that One Time in which I may have drunk an entire bottle of delicious red wine on an empty stomach, but before that, I honestly cannot remember the last time I threw up and that is what will count this time around.) So. The flight was bumpy, but not as bumpy as the flight we took to get to London. (Ho ho, you will be terribly excited to read my Dear British Airways post, I'm SURE.) Either the morning sickness is finally kicking in at 17 weeks or English food IS that bad. Phillip and his dad are out finding me something that might stay in my stomach, and I am home admiring my suitcase full of loot. About half of it is kitschy Christmas stuff and the other half is chocolate.

Ugh. You will find this unbelievable, but just writing 'chocolate' makes me queasy. My entire world is UPSIDE DOWN. Must go lay down and reconnect with my beloved TiVo.

Thursday- watch the walls instead

So what shall we talk about today?

How fraudulent one feels to enter a maternity clothing store when one is most definitely not yet showing?

How I've filtered my anxiety triggers down to the lowest common denominator, only to find that I am one of those boringly trite people who should probably discuss her traumatic teenage years in therapy? And while I'm actually quite thrilled to feel like I know From Whence It Came, I am so terribly disappointed in my ordinary averageness.

How I'm supposed to have outsourced my entire job by Friday, yet no one returns my frantic emails asking if it is really so?

How deeply irrationally terrified I am of getting on an airplane and flying into London, aka where the terrorists are figuring out how to use Clinique moisturizer to blow up planes?

How much I love Friday Night Lights? How good the past two episodes of Veronica Mars have been? How I haven't been able to catch up on my television shows because Phillip always wants to play Guitar Hero?

I know. DULL AS DIRT. You'd think that if someone was going to write about her life on the internet, the least she could do is make it interesting. Sorry.

Anyway. I'll be 15 weeks tomorrow. Which seems... I don't know. Important? Kind of like: Aha! I have conquered the first trimester! I'm pregnant enough to know that the parasite that has hijacked my body actually looks like a baby now, if only a jumbo shrimp-sized baby, but not pregnant enough to have some nice man give up his seat for me on the bus, or to walk into a maternity clothing store and not have the salesgirls wonder what I'm doing there. And to be perfectly clear, I wasn't there to buy clothes, I was there to buy black tights that might not make me feel like I'm being lasered in half by David Copperfield. I even felt compelled to make excuses for myself when I was at the register. "I'm not really showing quite yet," I laughed nonchalantly, "but my other tights are just so uncomfortable! Ha! Ha!" (FYI: there is no discernible difference between regular tights and maternity tights. Except seventeen nonrefundable dollars.) Mostly I am just FAT. I bought a pair of maternity jeans (because even though most of my jeans still fit, I can't stand anything that feels binding around my stomach) and because they are dirt cheap and crappy maternity jeans, I can't wear them unless they're held up by my bella band. (God bless the bella band.) People in the know have told me to invest in a pricey pair of maternity jeans, because I will live in them and it will be worth it, but I just don't feel like I can do that before I'm even SHOWING. Gah. I did not realize the how-to-dress-myself part would be so difficult.

Also, how come all the pants are too big, but the tops are so tight and low? My already ample waistline may be expanding, but that doesn't mean I want to start drawing all the attention to my cleavage, thank you very much.

And instead of concentrating on any number of tasks I actually have to get done before we leave (in three days! On Sunday! Whee!) I am stressing about our Christmas party, of all things. The party to which we invite pretty much everyone we know, even though our house can hold four and a half people, and the party that will most likely coincide with everyone's work party and other cooler people's parties and only four and a half people will end up coming anyway. Which should be fine, I guess, since I have neither the energy nor the time nor the mental capacity to make the gazillion Christmas cookies I usually kill myself baking every year, just so I can lay them out at the party and wonder why people aren't eating them. Besides, if I can't drink wine, no one should be drinking wine.

Someone obviously need to chill herself the heck out and go shopping with her mother at the German Christmas markets already, don't you think? THREE MORE DAYS.

A bit of Tuesday random

Guess who bought tickets to 'Wicked' this morning? Eleventh row, orchestra stalls, and those seats better be diamond-studded. Also, I better be sitting next to a movie star, preferably someone tall and English, like Colin Firth. That would do nicely.

Phillip worked late last night so instead of doing laundry and making dinner and figuring out what we need to pack, I parked myself in front of the computer and attempted to find a hotel in the West End. O Dear Readers it is nigh impossible to find a hotel in the West End. Well, let me amend that. If you happen to be Colin Firth, it's probably no problem. But if you are the sort of person who would rather spend her extraneous income on theater tickets, your choices are few and far between. And the lifts probably stopped working in 1977.

This is unfortunate, because I've sort of become accustomed to Rather Nice Accomodations. This is the fault of my husband, who tends to be a little whiny if the rooms are small and the views are unimpressive and there is no complimentary breakfast. Phillip would probably have fainted at the sight of half the places I stayed on my backpacking trip, most especially the turquoise-colored rat-infested hovel in Budapest. I like to think of myself as an experienced gritty traveler type, but the truth is, once you've stayed at the Fairmont Orchid, it is terribly hard to go back. London, however, will be, by FAR, the most expensive place we've visited together (take that, Waikiki) and I am not budging on my theater tickets. ELEVENTH ROW, PEOPLE!

I've picked out a couple places in Bloomsbury (see, I'm desperate to stay as close to the theaters as possible, so deep is my subconscious longing to morph into a brunette Kristin Chenoweth and win a Tony.) And while I would prefer to spend all of my free time in theaters, it's unlikely there's a show going on at nine in the morning, so I'm listing a few other possibilities. London is the one European city Phillip visited before meeting me, so there's potential to do Totally! New! Things! But I may have to leave him in the hotel so I can go look at Art without interruption. He's not so much for Art.

Anyway, that's a lot of jabbering for someone who will be in London a whole two days. Shut up, Maggie.

In other news, yesterday I had the When Do I Tell The Work People About The Baby conversation. My two bosses and five coworkers are already in the know, but I happen to work with a whole bunch of folks outside my company and I'm getting a little antsy. It's entirely possible I may be showing next time I see them. It wouldn't be such a big deal, but I am planning on never seeing these people again once I actually have this baby, they are going to have to get used to someone new, perish the thought, so there is that whole situation to consider. And I just don't want to deal. Questions, comments, all that. My boss, who is ten kinds of cool, even when he says "Access" when he really means "Excel", volunteered to do the telling for me. Isn't that nice? He said he should anyway, as the Boss In Charge Of Me. And he was all, "Maggie, I know you don't like to be in the public eye, but they probably will want to say congratulations or something." Which is funny, because while my boss is right on, he also doesn't know I have an extremely public website. Hee.

Of course, every time I write about him I make that fact potentially less and less true...

I have to go to the dentist this morning, did I mention that? I had two crowns put on in September and ever since then I haven't been able to chew on the right side of my mouth. Which is sort of not the point, you know? Did I really even need these crowns? I haven't been moved to do anything about it though, because I hate the dentist and I also have a whole other side with which to chew, but now I'm getting a toothache. And THAT is definitely not supposed to happen when you have a crown, right? Last night I woke up in the middle of the night because my TOOTH HURT. And once something starts messing with my precious precious sleep, wars shall be fought until the thing in question is vanquished. I don't have a lot of hope, though, because they spent close to an hour trying to get my bite right the first time. Stupid dentist. She was recommended by the guy who drugged me up and yanked all my wisdom teeth out, but now when I think of how he said, "She's the best dentist in Seattle," I think what he really meant was, "She's new and could totally use some more clients."

Anyway, it's time to go listen to the hygienists yap about their boyfriends. Gah. Happy Tuesday!

Could I have the pizza now, please?

So! There was an election yesterday, I'm sure you heard about it, and I'm sure you did your civic duty. Yay you! I must say, I do love elections. I rarely feel strongly enough one way or the other to have a favorite dog in any particular fight, but I do love my cable news anchors and my political blogs and there is nothing like geeking out in front of your television, the laptop open in front of you, switching back and forth between the national and the local news and watching half the country trample the aspirations and goals of the other half. God bless America!

As for me, I am much more knowledgeable about the pundits than I am about the candidates. I just get a huge kick out of pundits. I have my favorites and I try to get an equal dose of all the pontificating. I love those election night panels, with the token Democrats and the token Republicans and the predictions and the opinions and the fancy pants on-air gallantry that totally does not cover up the fact that they'd like to poke each other's eyes out with their laser pointers.

So election night was a fun one, complete with drama and intrigue and suspense and news tickers reminding us that Britney finally got some self-respect. In fact, the only thing it was lacking was ice cream, but that's probably because I ate the entire gallon of raspberry swirl chip the night before.

I don't have much to say today ("or any day!" -Dwight K. Schrute). We're having a bit of a break in the Incessant Flooding and I'm tempted to ditch my desk and head out for some Vitamin D, especially as all the forecasters say it's going to start up again tomorrow and finish up around the time I turn forty. We have our second doctor appointment tomorrow and I'm pretty nervous. I've been feeling crampy and twingy and maybe some other things you don't necessarily want to write about on a public-access website. Phillip is firmly in the Everything Is Fine camp and even Google is sort of letting me down in the "it could be nothing, but let me share this awful horror story with you" department. I am actually succeeding in the whole 'worry about it when there is something to actually worry about' thing, but still. I am going to feel sick to my stomach when my doctor busts out the doppler. I'll be fourteen weeks on Friday- that alternately feels like a huge accomplishment, and nothingness itself.

(And I hear the worry only gets worse. Like, when the kid is actually outside of your body and walking around and riding in cars with boys.)

It's nothing, right? It's nothing.

I have a boring 2 hour long church meeting tonight and a unfathomably early work meeting tomorrow morning. Boo. I have a four hour meeting on Sunday. Why is everyone trying to kill me? And still, eleven days till I go on vacation and gorge myself on pizza margherita.


Look! I made a blogroll! Sort of! Did I forget you? Do you not want to be there? Are you all, "Oh, God, she linked to ME?" I figured that link to my Bloglines account just wasn't cutting it so... yeah. Ta-da!

Also, I really need to make a new banner because, as evidenced by the craptastic weather outside my windows, it is definitely not summer anymore. And yet, I am loathe to give up my flamingoes. How I love the flamingoes! I see that my footer is back- it went missing yesterday. I decided not to do anything about it and now it has returned. Lovely.

I don't have much to write about today. Unless you are just dying for another post about the evils of mail merge and the awfuller evils of people who say "can't you just whip it out?" because those people obviously have not tangled with desktop publishing using Microsoft Word, formatting pictures and mail merge all at the same time. Those people should consider themselves tremendously lucky I stopped carrying my dainty pearl-handled pistol.

Last night we attended Mass for the feast of All Saints. Last year's All Saints Mass was a poignant one for me, but this year I was just trying to stay warm. Ugh. I shall never be a saint. Afterwards we hung around the church looking at all the pictures of the deceased arranged on the window sills, along with icons and statues and candles. The eighth graders had drawn pencil sketches of their favorite saints. Some of them were quite good and I made sure to read each paragraph underneath the picture, synopsizing the saint's life. A lot of the pictures made me cry- the baby who was baptized last summer and died a few weeks later, the wedding picture of Lili, the most well-known old lady in our church, and her long-passed husband, the portrait of the first priest at our parish.

Lost. I'm over it. OVER. It's not about Eko (hello! spoiler!), really, I didn't care much about Eko, but this show has become so. incredibly. boring. BOR. ING. I was mildly interested in the whole Juliette saying one thing in person and quite another on videotape, but Jack Shepard was already starting to make my eyes bleed so I'm not sure Juliette can do much to change that. Every time I see "Nikki" I cry a little bit over that stupid soap opera-ish Related show, which I adored despite the stupid soap opera-ness. Why haven't they killed off Charlie? What happened to Penny? I'm booooored!

Anyone notice that Hiro on Heroes was Franklin on Scrubs? The lone Asian intern? This I know because we've been recording the Scrubs reruns on Comedy Central and Franklin got 5 seconds of screen time and we were all, "HEY! THAT'S HIRO!" I love Hiro, even though Phillip is all, "Yet again, the Asian guy is the nerd with no girlfriend," but whatever. Hiro! Call me!

Gilmore Girls gets lumped in with Lost. BORING.

(How did this turn into a TV show review site?)

I'm not loving Veronica this year. Is it me, or is she pricklier than ever? And Logan appears to be softening up and not so much with the quick and inappropriate quips. Sigh. This is still my favorite show, but I think I miss the 09er high school stuff and the evil Logan. Well, it's my favorite show as long as people are still talking about Friday Night Lights being cancelled, because there is nothing like the heartbreak of your favorite show going off the air.

Oh Everwood!

Speaking of, I heard Bright is going to be on The O.C. That means I may have to start watching The O.C. again. This can't be good. But it's Bright! Swoon!

I do do other things besides watch television. Honestly. They're just even more dull than TV. Want to hear about how we completely rearranged our furniture upstairs? How Phillip vacuumed the entire top floor? The laundry piling up on the landing? How I learned to keep my pants together with a hair tie? I DIDN'T THINK SO.

One item of interest: Phillip is sick. This illness arrives right after my conversation with the Youth Minister, in which she informed us that she was attending the party alone as her husband was "on his death bed" due to a small itch in his throat. While she went on and on about what a baby her husband is when he's the slightest bit sick, I stood slightly behind Phillip and made huge pointing gestures. And lo and behold, my husband has fallen ill. First it was a scratchy sore throat. Then it was fatigue. I took him seriously and scrounged up some cold medicine for him last night, and this morning he tells me he might not be working today as he had the worst headache in the world and couldn't sleep. POOR BABY. On the other hand, if I never went to work when I had a headache or if I never went to work because I had a hard time sleeping, I would have no job.

Well, I'm sorry this post is as interesting as television show starring Charlie and Rory. Let's all hope something fun happens, quick!

***update*** Here's something funny to read! Okay, maybe only if you live in Seattle, or once lived in Seattle, or you live in Portland or some other equally crunchy town, because this is not only funny but true.