Thing to Do No. 13: Outsource Nesting

When you're all tired and pregnant, the idea of "nesting" is not particularly appealing. I don't enjoy housework in my regular life; why would I enjoy it while I'm all fat and awkward? Some people might, but I do not.

To that end, I have hired out the super-cleaning of our house. Meet George:


I'm sorry this is not a very good picture. It's bad, even for me. I didn't feel like explaining to George that I am a crazy person who keeps a blog of the very odd things that I do and that I needed a picture of him cleaning my rugs for me. So, I had to sneak it while he was working.

George is a super-nice guy from Larry Hughes' Carpet and Upholstery Cleaning Service. I am paying the company lots of money to clean all the rugs and upholstery in my house. My house now smells like a mid-grade hotel. All joking aside, George is wonderful. He is from Mexico and was just naturalized a few months ago. He had to agree not to return to Mexico for 2 years while being naturalized. He took his citizenship oath a few months ago. He has 7 brothers and sisters and 17 nieces and nephews all back at home. He's returning for the first time in two years in December.

On Friday nights, he tends bar at Hispanic clubs, and on weekends, he enjoys cooking. He told me he cooks from scratch because he was always more of a "Mama's Boy" and learned from his Mother, who I imagine is delightful.

He has no idea he's now featured on the internet.

Thing to Do No. 12: Have Pregnancy Brain

I have long avoided using this "pregnancy brain" excuse. I think it's lame. It's one of those things stupid pregnant people say to try and avoid responsibility and accountability. HOWEVER, I did something the other day that I simply cannot explain any other way, and I'm cashing in on the only viable excuse I can muster.

The Colonel had some sort of Marist-do last Wednesday evening. This usually means that I get to use the remote control for several hours and get to eat something he doesn't consider "supper" for supper.

An aside:
Among the things he doesn't consider "supper" (ie - when I make them): chipped beef on toast, soup, biscuits. Among the things he does consider "supper" (ie - when I try to get him to take over mealtime responsibility): microwave popcorn, cold cereal, potato chips. It's completely arbitrary.

Anyway, I was going to just have cold cereal for supper but then decided homemade biscuits with butter and jelly sounded better. Generally, I make excellent biscuits. I'm not bragging; they're just very good. For those of you who don't know, there are infinite ways to make biscuits (some with yeast, some without), mine require only three ingredients and a cast-iron skillet: self-rising flour, shortening, and buttermilk.

The buttermilk is key. Sweet milk is not an acceptable substitute, not if you want them done right. The cast iron skillet is a recent addition. I like my biscuits very crispy on the outside and very soft on the inside. They take longer to cook in the cast-iron, but the result is well worth the wait.

Before one begins cooking, one should assemble the needed ingredients. I got out the shortening and flour and then searched the fridge for buttermilk. I found some in the back.

Here's where I have a confession: I don't believe in expiration dates. I cut the mold off cheese, drink milk until it curdles, throw away the moldy bits of bread and use the rest of the loaf. Geezus, settle down ... not when I have people over, but the rest of the time, sure.

When it comes to buttermilk, I don't really even see the "Sell By" date as a guideline. Buttermilk is already bad milk, and my position is that it will last a couple months past the government-mandated "sell by" date.

This particular buttermilk had a Sell By date of DEC09. I stared and I stared at the date trying to figure it out. In my head, I'm thinking, this milk is good until December 2009, but, on the other hand, why do I seem to recall that I've had it a while?

I smell it. It doesn't smell "right."

I taste it. It doesn't taste "right."

Against all rational thought, I decide that this must be because I'm pregnant, and I read somewhere that some things taste different while pregnant. I decide that the milk MUST be good; after all, the sell by date is December 2009.

I make the biscuits. They taste OKAY and maybe a little, I don't know, earthy. I eat them anyway and go on with my life.

Finally, ABOUT THREE DAYS LATER, I realize why the biscuits were so sub-par. Have you got there yet?

DEC09 means: December 09, 2008.

That stuff was LIKE A YEAR OLD. I drank YEAR-OLD MILK.

And I survived it with no adverse consequences.

So, to a certain extent, I'm right to treat expiration dates as mere guidelines.

But YEAR-OLD MILK. That is disgusting. I think I violated my own constitutional rights. Pregnancy brain. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Thing to Do No. 11: Reminisce

As we approach the end of what the Colonel and I have called "My 'Nancy," I've spent some time thinking back on the past 8 months. After finding out we were pregnant, I started keeping a private journal, detailing the events of my pregnancy, and my intent is to keep it for recording events and milestones for Baby W. I envision some sort of dramatic presentation of the journal to her at a graduation or wedding some day down the road.

I reread the journal the other day to pass time while (you guessed it) lying down and drinking water. Some of the highlights of the last 37 weeks include:

1. It snowed the day we found out we were expecting. The Colonel was out of town at a boys' weekend at Lake Burton, and I took a test on a whim. Immediately after taking the test, I think that I shouted for several minutes, alternating I'm ashamed to say, between, "Holy Shit!" and "Praise the Lord." Time seemed to pass so slowly while I waited for the Colonel to get home so I could tell him in person.

2. At our first doctor's appointment, the Colonel and I had a disagreement in response to the doctor's query: "Was this planned or a surprise?" I answered "Surprise," and he said "Planned." Then, the Colonel asked how I could possibly be surprised. I'm leaving out several internet-inappropriate details here, but I'll tell you that I responded, "Well, I guess I'm surprised that it worked."

3. We had both sets of parents over for dinner to tell them the news. The Colonel broke the big news by presenting my mom and mother-in-law with a picture of the first 7-week sonogram. My mom said, "Is this a baby??" The Colonel's mom said, "Well, whose baby is it??"

4. When we had our mid-way sonogram and found out we were having a girl, the Colonel's first three responses were priceless. First, he said, "Oh my God, I hope she's not a slut." Then, he said, "Oh my God, we have to start saving for a wedding!" Finally, and perhaps more calmly, "What sort of extracurricular activities and sports should we get her into so she doesn't turn out to be a lesbian?"

5. Luckily, I didn't need to vomit very often in the first and second trimesters. My favorite "morning sickness" event forced me to swerve off the interstate onto an exit ramp and vomit profusely on the side of the road. It was grape juice and looked disgusting.

Thing NOT to Do No. 1: Drink Hot Beverages

Some of you may already know this and will undoubtedly be wondering why I'm such a moron. Then, you will look back on some of my earlier posts and conclude that the Village Idiot is in good company when he hangs out with me. (See, Photo Essay, previously).

This morning I am up very early and preparing for a trial. Don't get all excited; I'm not sure it's going to go well for my client. I'm lying on the couch trying to minimize standing/sitting time because I know my ankles will be cankles by the end of the day, and I'd prefer to start off with one part of my body still skinny.

I'm researching some law and drinking hot tea. Both the researching and the hot tea are going well for several minutes when I apparently forget the rudimentary skill of swallowing (that's what she said!), choke on large gulp of hot beverage, and worry that I'm going to have to give myself CPR. The timing is great, however, as the Colonel and I just took a CPR class on Tuesday, so I might have been able to save myself.

Instead of choking, I managed to cough up this very large gulp of hot beverage. I coughed it up all over myself, onto my chest and shirt, into my hair (of course, just washed), and running down my belly. Thankfully, I have no belly button, so there was no residual pooling in the area. Small blessings, right?

I'm going to hope that was today's major fumble. Wish me luck!

Thing to Do No. 10: Play the "Pregnancy" Card

When the Colonel and I first found out we were having a baby on a snowy February day (at least two years ago, I swear), we took a trip that afternoon to the Kroger near our house. In his excitement, the Colonel pointed to the "New and Expectant Mom" parking and said "Oooh, park there! There's your space." He also pumped my gas for me that day, a lovely favor I haven't seen repeated since. He was mostly joking about the parking space, and I told him I didn't really think it was there for "our kind of pregnant."

Several months later, however, that special spot started looking pretty good, and I'm somewhat embarassed to say that not only do I park there, I also judge harshly the people who park there without justification. A few weeks ago, neither of the "Mom" spots were available at my Kroger, and you better believe that I checked both cars for car seats (1 had one and was therefore "legitimate," and 1 did not, making it suspect). I then checked the grocery store, every aisle, for the telltale pregnant lady waddling along with her forehead on her cart. She wasn't there!

Anyway, I generally prefer to be a "do-it-myself"er, but I have put this pregnancy thing to use a few good times. Yesterday, however, marked the first time I played my trump card and LOST.

I was working at the Paulding County courthouse, performing an arduous and highly specialized task called "running title" or, crassly, "deed dogging." Generally, running title and deed dogging is a moderately simple task requiring special skills of hauling old books, reading deeds, and standing for hours on end, and it's generally done in anticipation of real estate closings. My project was more involved than a typical real estate closing title search because it was more litigation-related. You'll just have to trust me here; if I go into detail, your eyes will glaze over and you might droool on your keyboard.

This type of work requires access to two main things: 1) the deed records of the Clerk of Superior Court; and 2) the tax maps from the Tax Assessor. Since the invention and widespread use of the internet, most courthouses now have the tax maps viewable online from the Deed Room. Not so in Paulding County. In Paulding County, if you want to use the internet to look at deeds, you have to go through security and go to a room in one building. If you want to use the internet to look at maps, you have to leave the first building, bypass security, go to the next building, go through security, go to the third floor, and use the internet over there.

Wait a minute, you are thinking, if you can use the internet, why go to the courthouse at all? Ahh, because the internet deed records only go back to 1990, and I was hoping to go back to approximately 1900, which requires lifting lots of heavy old books. Thus, you need the maps on the internet in the same place as the deed records.

Paulding County doesn't allow this happen. Every time I tried to pull up a map from the deed room, I got a message saying that webpage wasn't accessible without a password. This is the deed-dogging equivalent to having that dream where you know something awesome is about to happen and then you wake up just before it does.

I begged, begged, begged the Clerk of Superior Court (Treva Shelton, you're on the list), the Tax Assessor, and the IT department guy to give me the password. I'm ashamed, but I think I even said, while fighting back tears, "Listen, I'm 8 1/2 months pregnant; I'm tired as hell; and I don't want to schlep this file back and forth between your two buildings all day. Can you please just give me the password?" Typically bureaucratic, they all told me they couldn't help and pointed me to the next person.

I even stopped and cried in between the two buildings at one point. I sent my boss a very rude email insinuating that my frustrations were entirely his fault. I also think that I spent most of the day making an ass of myself and muttering under my breath about backwater Paulding County.

Thing to Do No.9: Make a Hospital List

Earlier this week, the Colonel and I started making our list of things to take to the hospital. I think the top items on each say a lot about us:

The Colonel:
1) Laptop and iphone. We are due the weekend of the UGA/FL game, although, I'm afraid its outcome is a foregone conclusion. Hopefully, we will have a baby that weekend, and the Colonel will have something to cheer him up.
2) Gatorade
3) Cookies

Holly:
1) Coordinating pre- and post-partum outfits. I bought a special labor skirt because, again, as I've told you, I am not wearing a hospital gown. No way.
2) Makeup. Just the bare necessities, but I still have nightmares about those women we've seen on the birthing videos, and I firmly believe a little lipstick is good for everyone.
3) A sharpie marker to write "DO NOT CUT HERE OR I WILL SUE YOU AND I AM A LAWYER" on my inner thigh. This, I think, will endear me to the doctor or midwife.

A few days later, it occurred to me we might need a few items for the baby. I think this is where all those outfits my mom and sister have been buying come in. I'm pretty sure the hospital will give us (read "charge us") for everything else. I've been advised to steal everything from the hospital we can get our hands on, so I suppose we'll also have to pack a collapsible "SWAG" duffle.

So far, I've got most of my toiletries together, but I just can't decide whether I will want my moisturizer with SPF or just regular moisturizer. Even if I'm not going outdoors, I just don't know that I'd feel right without wearing sunscreen.

Coffee Update: Some Days Are Like That

I finally succeeded in making a pot of coffee. I remembered all the critical steps. I poured a bit into my favorite mug and added cream.

Wait a minute! Why are there white specks in my coffee? Seriously God. Your sense of humor just tickles me to death.

My half and half went out of date August 27, but you can usually use it for a week or two afterwards. Three and half weeks is apparently the cut-off date.

Ignore these pictures. They are for the Colonel who called me concerned about the basement flooding.