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.

Thing to Do No. 8: Make a Photo Essay to Show the World What an Idiot You Are

You guys are going to love this. I'm working from home today (yea yea, feet up, drinking water), and about mid-morning, I decided to make a pot of coffee. Let's see if you can figure out what went wrong.

So far, so good, right? These are all the things that I need for making coffee.


Yep, yep ... put the filter in the basket. Good.


Put the coffee in the filter in the basket. Wonderful.


Close the door. Excellent.


Just add water. Piece of cake.


Plug in the coffee maker. Works like magic.


All done. Prepare to Walk Away.





Have you spotted it yet?




How about now?

I walk away, answer some emails, and then think, "Wow, that coffee smells FANTASTIC!"








UH-OH.


Oh CRAP.


Geez Louise.


Sigh.

Thing to Do No. 7: Imagine the Things I SHOULD Have Said

Being pregnant apparently gives the the entire world license to make comments to me or about me. Where a normal stranger-to-stranger encounter might be met with polite restraint, a stranger-to-pregnant-person encounter is fraught with inane and invasive commentary. With six weeks to go, I am considering a campaign to change the world in this regard, and it's probably going to get ugly.

Scene 1: At the Hair Salon

Me: (To Eyebrow Stylist) Here's your check. Have a good day.

Eyebrow Stylist: (To me) Thank you. See you soon, and good luck.

Nosy Bystander Hairdresser: (Butting in) What are you having?

Me: (Curtly) It's a girl.

NBH: Have you picked out a name yet?

Me: (Brusquely) No. (Turning to leave)

NBH: (Pushily) Well, what are your top contenders?

Me: (Testily) We'll probably choose some sort of family name. (Jingling keys)

NBH: What are all the names you're considering?

*What I actually said:

Me: Oh let's see, Louisa, Shelby, Malynn, Truvy, and Annelle. We REALLY haven't decided.

**What I should have said:

Me: (With acid sarcasm) Actually we're really torn. What we've been thinking is that we would invite a bunch of hairdressers to the delivery room to help us decide. What are you doing at the end of October? We really need MORE people up in our business these days.


Scene 2: At the CVS

(I've made a run to the store ih the pouring down rain for ice cream. I'm checking out with two Nestle Tollhouse Cookie Ice Cream Sandwiches.)

Checkout Guy: Oh! Look at you! I couldn't decide if you were pregnant, but now I see that you definitely are.

Me: (Anxious to get home with the ice cream) Yes. What gave it away?

CG: The two ice cream sandwiches and you look a little pregnant. But you're the "good kind" of pregnant, you know? When you walked in, I couldn't tell if you was or wasn't because you don't have that waddle and don't look all fat. Yessir, you got the good kind of pregnant.

*What I Actually Said:

Me: Hmm. Have a good night.

**What I Should Have Said:

Me: Let me 'splain something to you Checkout Guy. There is no "good kind" of pregnant. Not where I'm standing. Ring up those ice cream sandwiches before I start shooting. (Need gun here for demonstrative effect)


Scene 3: At the Mexican Restaurant

Host with All Silver Teeth: How many?

Me: Three, please.

HWAST: (Cutely) Three?? Or three and a half or three and two-quarters?

Me: (Presuming he meant three-quarters) Three and three-quarters. (Sighing)

HWAST: (Showing us to our table) How much longer? Short or long?

Me: Short, I suppose.

HWAST: Oh, babies are ... (unintelligible Mexican-speak)

*What I Actually Said:

Me: Hmmm.

**What I Should Have Said:

Me: I hate you. Shut the hell up, and bring me a diet coke and some queso.

"No, thank you, I will NOT have a good day."

Something about being awake in the middle of the night when I most want to be asleep makes me mad as hell, which makes me even more awake, which makes me even angrier.

I'm thinking of changing the name of this blog to "101 Things to Do in the Middle of the Night ... Except That." If I were to do so, killing the next living creature to cross my path might make the top of my list.

No, I am not mad at anyone in particular, but the vague direction of my emotion only serves to make it more akin to a hurricane than a tornado.

Up to now, I've tried to manage my insomnia by listening to my ipod in bed, and eventually, some book on tape I've heard a hundred times will lull me to sleep. But you know what? I am TIRED of listening to my ipod. I'm tired of checking my email under the sheets at night. I'm tired of getting up to go to the bathroom and returning to bed to stare at the ceiling.

And I'm pissed as hell about it. I am not interested in being a good sport any longer. Watch out world; I'm about to go off.

Posted by Popular Demand: Why We Are Ignoring the Doorbell

Our neighbors have two children, a girl about 10 and a boy about 7. The boy loves to come over and "help" Knox while he works in the yard. The girl, we'll call her Sally, I have dubbed "our little capitalist."

During last year's election campaign, she made John McCain signs from cardboard and asked to put one in our yard. It read: "Obama wants to take away our nuclear weapons; John McCain will help keep us safe." I'm certain she was well-researched on all points and not just spouting her parents' rhetoric. Admiring her spirit and preferring McCain to Obama, we let her post the sign, which, sadly, became a pile of cardboard mush shortly after the first rain ... I think around the time of Major Bailout #1. Thanks a lot W, btw.

Sally also loves to earn money, or perhaps her parents pimp her out onto the unsuspecting neighbors. Last fall, we let her help rake leaves, and while she asked for only $3 for about 4 hours work, I made a bad business and personal decision and paid her $10. Nurturing a budding capitalist and entrepreneur, in hindsight I should have emphasized that one not only deserves to be paid what one's worth but also what one asks for and given her only the $3. She hurts no one but herself when she undervalues her product. Instead, I took the protectionist sympathetic approach and overpaid her. Having sniffed out a gravy train and a chronic dependency enabler, she is now forever knocking on our door to sell us muffins from a box or a Country Time Lemonade, all lukewarm and appetizing like a urine specimen.

Ever the diverse businesswoman, a couple of weeks ago, she tried to have a yard sale and was disappointed that no one came. Soon, I am going to have to clue her in on marketing as a major aspect of entrepreneurship. Her latest scheme is to start a dogwalking business. Her business plan, unfortunately, is fraught with potholes.

First, and most disappointingly, she is striking out with an undeveloped skillset. She has a dog, but she doesn't walk it. On the rare occasions she has tried, she makes the rookie mistake of using a harness, which all dogwalkers know does nothing but encourage detrimental pulling on the leash.

Second, she has not structured her business plan to meet a need which she can fulfill. She apparently knows only one family in the neighborhood that walks their dog, and that would be the Withers' household. While we definitely have a "need" to walk the dog, we do not have a demand for a dogwalker, being, as it were, that Knox and I very much enjoy our evening strolls together.

Third, she is not able to perform her business service without significant overhead costs. In an upstart business, one wants to control overhead and keep costs to a minimum by handling as many aspects of the business alone or, at least, on a scale befitting the business size and revenue stream. Sally, regrettably, is not allowed to walk around the neighborhood alone; and this parental restriction severely handicaps her business opportunities. It means she can only get a dog to walk from one of her immediate neighbors and can't ambulate in the range needed to render a sellable service.

The net result of Sally's fatal business plan is that, staring failure in the face, she insists on coming to our home every evening when I get home, interrupting my post-work nap (a dangerous endeavor on its own), and ringing the doorbell in an ill-fated attempt to solicit a dogwalking opportunity. Wednesday evening, I answered the door after several rings and allowed her to walk Molly, who, by the way, hates her. Given her parents' restrictions, she then had to ask me to accompany her on the walk. I consented and endured two blocks of art camp, summer required reading, and Bible school prattle, hoping that would toll the death knell on the upstart.

Last evening, however, she again rang the doorbell for several minutes. This time, I left it unanswered and waited for Knox to get home. Thinking we had dodged a bullet, we struck out around 8pm, cocktail and mocktail in hand, for our stroll. We made it about 10 yards, and Sally was there, lying in wait for us. She asked to accompany us and to take the leash.

While we are enabling her shoddy business, we, at least, are not contributing to its success and have refused to pay her for ruining our evening excursions.

Thing to Do No. 6: Telegate

I still don't have a functional computer, so don't be too critical of this post. Right now, I'm typing on one of those horrible netbooks with a 6 inch screen and microscopic keyboard. My apologies!

I learned a new word on facebook this week, courtesy of the most obnoxious person I know. "Telegate" means generally to tailgate from a distance; think cybermeetings and telecommuting.

Yesterday, while the Colonel and a friend of his (using MY TICKET) traveled to God's Country for the UGA v. SC game, I ... you guessed it ... sat at home and laid on the couch. Shocker!

Actually, my sister invited me over for what we now call Telegate Soup, a delicious vegetable chowder. I laid on her couch while we watched a real nailbiter. Molly amused herself by playing with all the dog toys, which, because they are merely different, are apparently infinitely better than the dog toys she has at her own house.

During halftime, we went out for ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery. We nearly left when the employees broke out into an obnoxious ice cream song to the theme from Gilligan's Island. It was horrible. I hate places that do that.

Here's the recipe for Telegate Soup. Good find, Caro!

Computer Problems

Just one actually. It doesn't work ... at all. More later.

Cause and Effect

I'm not sure what happened here. One minute, I was just having a quick fun size Milky Way, and the next minute there were candy wrappers all over the sofa.



I tried to blame it on Molly, but she is adamantly watching her figure. Her expression seems to insinuate that I might look more a little closer to home.















I see what she means.

Thing to Do No. 5: Find Religion

I once heard a defense attorney say: "Jesus can always be found lying beneath jail cell cots; the problem is that most inmates leave Him where they found Him." I'm not really sure how that relates to the intent of this post, but I like the quote anyway.

Yesterday, while I was having my pity party, I also got to do some mildly serious thinking. This was between episodes 1 and 2 of "True Blood" Season 1 on DVD, which I have borrowed from my sister. I think I used to have a blogname for her, but I can't remember it. The thought that continually crossed my mind was how irritated I was that my body was (drama-queen term coming up) "betraying" me. I kept thinking: I am healthy as a horse; I eat well(ish); and I exercise. My baby, according to all the evidence, is also perfectly healthy. So why am I sitting at home confined to the sofa? It doesn't seem fair, and it doesn't make sense.

That highly self-centered train of thought had an eventual destination, however. I segued from thinking about how agitated I was about sitting at home in a perfectly healthy body with a perfectly healthy baby to thinking about some others in my life. I have friends who are struggling to conceive and friends who have dealt with failed pregnancies. I have friends whose parents are facing illnesses that seem to have come out of nowhere. How must they feel? If I could be as upset as I am about my body not quite doing what I want it to do, how about those whose bodies truly are betraying them?

It's baffling and unsettling to realize that the bodies that so often serve us so well also often fail us without explanation or justification. Having had only a very mild taste, I can appreciate somewhat better how groundshaking "real" bad news must be. Of the friends I've watched struggle with these far more pressing and stressful health issues, I am always amazed at the fortitude with which they respond and at the ripple effects that extend to those around them.

Perhaps the gist of this post is that perhaps (and that's a big perhaps) we have to experience a real loss of control to realign our priorities and get our heads on straight.

On the other hand, perhaps the gist of this post is that sometimes, Shit Happens.

Either way, I'm grateful for the undeserved support from the Colonel and my family and friends over the past several days. Take it from me: I can be a real pain in the ass.

The Colonel Is Funny

"I swear! It doesn't matter what I do to this mobile, but that bird's ass is always facing out. We want to see the front or the side!"

Thing to Do No. 4: Have a Pity Party

Everyone hates a whiner, and I suspect my own whining is causing my family no small amount of annoyance, particularly the Colonel. Let me begin with saying that the Colonel is perhaps the most accommodating and capable individual I’ve ever known in my entire life. I am not joking when I say that I married him because he knows how to hang things on walls. He also cares about a lot of the things that I care about. Just the other night, we had a ten-minute conversation on which way the Ws should face on our monogrammed dinner napkins (out, we decided, with the bottom of the W pointed toward the corner of the placemat).

A reason I cannot give for marrying him, however, is his attitude toward food. The Colonel does not mind if he goes 17 hours without eating, and I am more like a foraging wild dog, constantly worrying over the quality, quantity, and timeliness of my next meal. I think about my breakfast when I go to bed at night, start thinking about lunch while the coffee is brewing, and plan dinner before afternoon soaps get started. In between meals, I have a carefully planned maze of snacks available to me wherever I might be. I hate people who say things like, “Oh, I just forgot to eat.” To me, that’s like saying, “Oh I forgot to breathe” or “I forgot to use lotion after getting out of the shower.” Who does that?

Since becoming bedridden, at about 4:00 everyday, I start worrying myself silly over what we’ll do for supper. My hands get a little sweaty, my stomach starts growling, and I have to find one of my emergency snacks. Finally, the Colonel comes home around 7 (he works every day from 6am to 7pm, can you believe that?), and my anxiety increases.

On top of this is the fact that I am starved for company and conversation by this point. During the times of day when I am not fretting my next meal, I work myself into a frenzy over my job. All I can think is that the business I’ve built up during the last four years is headed down the toilet, and no, I don’t feel better knowing that my precious clients and cases are in the hands of four men. I had at least six trials planned between now and my maternity leave, and that doesn’t even factor in the vast amount of trial preparation work I intended to accomplish in between trials.

When it comes to food and work, I like to be in charge. IN CHARGE. No, I don’t want you in my kitchen, and no, I definitely don’t want you mucking around in my cases. You may not do it the way I want it done. That knife doesn’t go there. It’s very humbling to sit around and ask your family and colleagues to do something that just days ago, you were perfectly capable of doing on your own. And it’s troubling to have to ask because I know they are all busy. And it’s humbling to realize I have to just keep my mouth shut about it also.

Here’s Molly, looking beautiful.

A Change of Scenery

I'm doing something radically different today. Instead of sitting on the living room sofa all day, today I am hanging out in the bedroom.



Molly and I are both enjoying the view of the front yard. She is alerting me to squirrel and pedestrian passersby.


Maybe tomorrow, we'll go to the sunroom. Unfortunately, the internet reception isn't very good there.

Thing to Do No. 3: Take Bad Photos

I have a digital camera. I have no idea how to use it. I got it perhaps 3 years ago, and just a couple of months ago, I learned how to get pictures off of it and onto my computer. My friend Katie gave me a good tip and told me to try to avoid using the flash at all costs. I now know how to turn the flash off, and I’m pleased with the results. Imagine how bad they would be otherwise.

This is Molly, out of work Poodle to the Stars. Like me, she needs a haircut and her brows and nails done. She’s probably mad that I took her picture looking like she does.



Bad hair notwithstanding, Molly must wonder why her life suddenly sucks. Just last week, she was coming to work with me, taking short walks at 11am and 3pm, and enjoying the outdoors in the evenings. Now, while we are generally occupying separate sofas, we are serving a communal sentence.

Interestingly, or perhaps not, Molly refuses to go outside right now. I’ve tried to let her out at least three times today, but she refuses to cross the threshold onto the back deck. In my head, I’m thinking she doesn’t want to leave me in case something happens. In her head, she is probably worried that if she goes out, I’ll do something interesting without her.

Sorry Sweetheart.

Thing to Do No. 2: Plot Hospital Insubordination

I mentioned earlier that I didn’t care for the standard issue hospital gowns. I’m not wearing this. I may be an arrogant ass, but I’m not wearing that for any period of time. My husband will be there for godssakes. It’s bad enough that I currently need my nails, brows, and roots done, but I’m not spending hours of labor in the medical equivalent of a gunny sack. I’ve seen some of those labor videos, and those women look atrocious.

(Those of you out there reading along and chuckling to yourselves thinking, “That’s what SHE thinks; just wait and see.” Keep your comments to yourself; I’m very grouchy.)

The Colonel has proffered his own labor outfit suggestion, and I have responded that it will be fine if he doesn’t mind our daughter growing up without a father. He thinks it would be “funny” for me to wear eyeblack and a UGA football jersey.

I found something on the internet called a “labor skirt.” It is supposedly designed to avoid the hospital gown while accommodating any necessary medical equipment from admission to delivery, including c-section. I imagine you have to just throw it away when it’s all said and done, but it’s a nice alternative to the gown.

Thing to Do No. 1: Send Demanding Emails

With nothing more than a lap tray, laptop, and wireless connection, I can irritate, agitate, annoy, and berate everyone I know via email, this blog, and facebook. I am fashioning my email missives after Miranda Priestly as played by Meryl Streep in “The Devil Wears Prada,” one of the few book-to-movie interpretations where I felt the movie was infinitely better than the book. The book, to me, was very unfair to working, career women. I was more than a little put out when the main character and her temporary, one-year job were blamed for her drunk girlfriend’s car accident. “If only she had been there for her friend, maybe the friend wouldn’t have had eleven tequila shots and then decided to drive around in the middle of the night.” Give me a break.

Back to Miranda Priestly … My favorite thing about her in the book and movie is the utter vagueness of her demands. I see a lot of myself in her demands for instant comprehension, compliance, and gratification. Here are some excerpts of emails I’ve sent of this morning and over the past few days. I should be ashamed.


“Remember that piece of paper I gave you last week? Please scan and email that to me.”


“His name might be Chad Somethingorother. Send it to him.”


“Please do with this whatever I told you to do with the last thing like this.”


“Remind me what I said about that old file from two years ago.”


“What is the status on all that stuff I asked about before?”

How I Got Here in the First Place

Welcome to yet another partially written, ill-conceived weblog by Holly. This will be blog number three that I’ve started and will likely entertain for a few days or weeks before abandoning it like a pair of overly trendy, impulsively bought shoes. Unlike my prior blogging efforts, however, this one is intended to be temporary, and perhaps that will be the key to its staying power. It’s temporary because I envision it ending with the arrival of Baby W, due in nine weeks but expected at any time between now and then.

Who is Baby W? And how did we get here? To refresh my old readers’ memories and bring anyone new up to speed, the Holly saga began online several years ago with Mean Reds, an internet distraction chronicling my life during study for the bar exam and first year of law practice. The Colonel is the same man of several different roles, beginning with boyfriend and progressing to fiancé and husband and now playing the unenviable role of handservant. Our first child, begotten out of wedlock, is our standard poodle, Molly Golightly, Poodle to the Stars.

Blogging effort number two was a food and restaurant critique blog called the Marietta Slammer. I abandoned it in small part because my father suggested it sounded overly critical and incredibly spoiled and in larger part because Marietta is Restaurant Siberia where all the food is bad and you can only hate so much.

A little background:
When two people are married and they love each other very much and take a nap together, sometimes they make a baby. That’s our story, and we’re sticking to it.

The Colonel and I began our journey into parenthood approximately seven months ago, and in that time, I’ve had a very contented and uneventful pregnancy. We’re having a little girl, whose name is not to be disclosed prior to delivery, Colonel’s orders. Our happy little gestation period was interrupted last Monday when I started experiencing very frequent contractions. I had been having practice contractions (called Braxton-Hicks) since about week 20, but they were highly irregular and infrequent. Given the sudden onset of these contractions, my doctor’s office saw me on Tuesday and sent me over to the hospital to see if I liked the standard issue hospital gown. I didn’t.

While trying out the gown (ample in the front, open in the back), the triage nurse had me sit on the fetal monitor for approximately four hours. She and the midwife on call confirmed with some surprise that I was indeed having contractions every couple of minutes. The results from a fetal fibronectin test reassured them I would not likely go into labor for at least two weeks, so I was given a bag of IV fluid and a terbutaline shot to stop the contractions.

The contractions resumed on Wednesday, and at my followup appointment on Thursday, another midwife from my doctor’s office made it quite clear that I could either rest at home or spend the rest of my term at the hospital. While we were all hoping serious rest would quell the contractions, I had to start taking as-needed doses of terbutaline (prescription crack as far as I can tell) after having at least 8 contractions in ten minutes in the wee hours of Friday morning.


Now I am doped up, drinking lots of water, and lying horizontally for the foreseeable future. My dear sweet husband is waiting on me hand and foot, and he doesn’t even know yet that I’m going to ask him to clean my bathroom today. The grandparents-in-waiting are taking turns preparing meals and calling worriedly, and I am amusing myself, and hopefully some of you, with these postings, a 101 (or so) Things To Do on Your Back … Except That.

Enjoy.