160.

Just like that, the light of day reveals the terrifying nighttime monsters to simply be clothes mounded on a chair, or an unusually-placed personal artifact.

The midwife apologized profusely for how hard she had to push down with the Doppler to locate the steady "whooshwhooshwhoosh," but she could've pushed her way through to my spine and I wouldn't have cared.

Hello, little rodent.

Thanks so much to all of you for your good thoughts. It means more to me than I can possibly convey.

A fucking mess.

That is me. Right now.

I know it is hormones and typical pregnancy paranoia. That is not making it any better.

I have an appointment tomorrow morning to check for a heartbeat, because when I went to my 9 week appointment, they couldn't hear one. Which really, isn't cause for concern. Especially considering I have one of those tippy uteruses (uteri?). Except, now, I am totally fearful that they're not going to be able to find a heartbeat tomorrow, either. And then they'll do an ultrasound, and show that the fetus isn't viable and that is the point where I just totally lose it.

I know I shouldn't torture myself by going over and over this in my head. But I cannot.stop.doing.it. I'd like nothing more than a murderously hot bath and a stiff drink to knock myself out before bed, but that would be. . . less than productive.

There are so many people that need good thoughts more than I do, but if you could spare me a little bit of a paranoia-free zone, I'd be much obliged. :/

It's the little things.

The following things have contributed to an improvement in my mood:

1. A Thai Caesar salad with tofu and extra sriacha (sp?) sauce from Noodles.
2. Figuring out the technical issue that's been plaguing my development efforts for days and days.
3. The Work Boyfriend returning from vacation and regaling me with stories about passing out in various embarrassing locations.
4. The stone for my new fireplace finally appearing in my new living room.
5. Sour Patch Kids.

A case of the Mehs.

So, yeah, I haven't updated and I suck. I just haven't felt very interesting. Which is not to say that I haven't had stuff going on, but nothing that I felt was worth sharing with the Whole of the Internet (except the Painful and Embarrassing Result of Trying to Maintain a Certain Level of Personal Grooming, but we shall not speak of that here. Or, preferably, anywhere. Ever.)

The house stuff is kicking my ass. We've had a relatively stress-free experience up until the past two and a half weeks. Now, a bajillion things have gone wrong, or needed extra attention, or needed us to reiterate a decision. I am still trying to figure out WTF our builder is doing to earn their 16% markup, because I've done all of the scheduling, following-up, checking in, and question answering for all the vendors in the past month. Supposedly, they are putting lights in today. The hard floors are all down, and they look very pretty. The fireplace guy was supposed to be here this week, but hasn't shown, so now I have to call him to figure out what his deal is.

The Small Child is exhausting. She is funny, but is in the annoying-but-necessary stage of flipping the fuck out over every.little.thing. that prevents her from asserting her independence. I recognize that I will WANT her to be more independent in say, 30 weeks or so, but right now, a 45-minute diva-fest every morning because she can't get her socks on "the right way" isn't high on my list of ways I'd like to be spending my time.

The Work Boyfriend is on vacation, and therefore, not regaling me with amusing stories or charming anecdotes. The Work Boyfriend is seriously talking about transferring to a location of the Iconic American Company which is in closer proximity to my own. This makes me uncertain about the future of The Work Boyfriend relationship, since one of the major rules is that no one's significant others can feel threatened by the Work Relationship. It is possible that Mrs. Work Boyfriend and I would become fast friends, and The Weez and Work Boyfriend would golf together on weekends, but. . . experience tells me that probably wouldn't happen.

My job here at the Iconic American Company is somewhat up in the air. I'm moving job functions, but no one knows when, or what exactly I'll be doing when I move. However, it means that my previous preggo wardrobe is entirely inappropriate for the next seven months, and I will be shelling out cash for maternity jeans and casual tops, over and above the cost of furniture, fencing, a deck, and the ginormous snowball of other expenses that are coming with our new house.

So. Yeah. Meh.

We would resent it if old friends were to get rid of certain peculiarities -- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

In perusing my site logs, it's come to my attention that some old acquaintances are reading me. Hi, y'all! Hope you are enjoying what you're reading, and that I'm contributing either amusement, wannabe-osity, or nasty-fuckness to your discussions.

The Downside.

He leaned forward in the dark and brushed my lips with his – gently at first, then with more insistence. His hands trembled slightly as they undid the buttons of my jeans and slid them down along my hips until they puddled on the floor. One arm encircled my waist, pulling me tightly against his chest, while his other hand strayed leisurely up and down my collarbone, my shoulder, my neck, my hair.

I wanted to give myself over to him entirely, to lose myself in the moment, to surrender control. But this uncomfortable thought played at the edges of my thoughts. It poked in among his soft caresses and murmured endearments like a cat’s sandpaper tongue.

In an instant, the vague feeling assumed crystalline clarity: “My husband!” and I was rushing up to the surface of consciousness as though I was 12 again and was wriggling tadpole-like toward the light shimmering in the air above the lake.

I burst awake, lungs burning, gasping for air like a drowning woman. My body buzzed with the lingering pleasant sensations of the dream, but my mind felt cold.

Damn marital fidelity ruins all the best dreams.

This is totally TMI

And for that, I apologize. However, I need to update, and this is what is on my mind today:

Pregnancy comes with an increase in certain secretions. Pregnancy also comes with a heightened sense of smell. Because of these two conditions, I am sitting here being sickened by the smell of my own underwear.

Meme, myself, and I

From HG:

Pick your birth month and cross (strike) out what doesn't apply to you. To strike out you use the S tag. So for the cross out you would surround the "strike out" with <s> or </s> in it . Then post the whole list for the next person or link back to here.

JUNE:Thinks far with vision. Easily influenced by kindness. Polite and soft-spoken. Having lots of ideas. Sensitive. Active mind. Hesitating, tends to delay. Choosy and always wants the best. Temperamental. Funny and humorous. Loves to joke. Good debating skills. Talkative. Daydreamer. Friendly. Knows how to make friends. Abiding. Able to show character. Easily hurt. Prone to getting colds. Loves to dress up. Easily bored. Fussy. Seldom shows emotions. Takes time to recover when hurt. Brand conscious. Executive. Stubborn.

So.Damn.Proud

Last night, as she was getting ready for her bath, the Small Child stripped off her clothes, streaked into the living room, and removed the cap from one of her markers. She hastily scribbled a "landing strip" on her nether regions, then proudly surveyed her handiwork and declared:

"Look, Mumma! Me have hai-yer yike you!"

Everyone needs one.

When your day is sucking donkey dick, and you need a bit of a pick-me-up, there's nothing like a Work Boyfriend to put things back into perspective.

Here are my criteria for an Ideal Work Boyfriend:
1. The Work Boyfriend cannot be in a position that is directly superior or subordinate to one's own.
2. The Work Boyfriend cannot have any possibility of turning into an actual relationship.
3. The Work Boyfriend must have enough discretionary time to allow for coming up with amusing emails and pithy anecdotes. An overworked Work Boyfriend is not fun for anyone.
4. The Work Boyfriend must have the *ability* to come up with amusing emails and pithy anecdotes. No one wants a dumb Work Boyfriend.
5. A Work Boyfriend must always be sympathetic and not turn complaint sessions into pissing contests about whose job is harder. A Work Boyfriend should be like a bustier -- supportive, but not trying to top anything.
6. The Work Boyfriend should not, under any circumstances, have a jealous significant other who could make your professional life difficult or uncomfortable.

It's an additional bonus if the Work Boyfriend is a hottie, but that's purely gravy.

My Work Boyfriend works half a country away, but he always manages to make me laugh when I need it and boost my ego when I'm having a rotten day. And for that, I am thankful.

Core misconception.

So, if you haven't been golfing in, say, twelve years, the best time to take it up again probably isn't the night before you're going to play in an all-day volleyball tournament.

Veeg's abs say: fucking ow.

It's sad because it's true.

So, I just called my husband at work. His friend and coworker, Da Keetay, answered the phone.

VG: You're not my husband!
DK: But I *could* be.
VG: Um, okay. Take out the garbage, then lay over there and don't touch me.
DK: [pause] Could I be your husband about four weeks ago?

Mom of a girl

I always knew that I'd one day be the recipient of my child's hormone-laced meltdown, complete with a sobbing confession that "I don't know WHY I'm crying" and a passionate exhortation to "just leave me ALONE!"

I didn't realize that day would come when she was TWO.

Fortunately (or, if you're The Weez, maybe not-so-fortunately), I'm intimately familiar with irrational breakdowns. Space was given. Chocolate was administered. Hugs and "do you want to talk about it"s were dispensed afterwards. The sun came out again, and we went for ice cream.

Like I didn't have enough to obsess about.

So, I was at the gym this morning, doing these annoying (but effective) hamstring exercises that involve rolling a ginormous beach ball toward my butt with my ankles, when the television above my head started talking about the "pregnant jogger" story.

The anchorwoman chirpily burst out with the following statistic: Murder is the leading cause of death among pregnant women.

Greaaat. Now, I not only have to worry about consuming enough folate, protein, and calcium, I need to make sure The Weez isn't plotting to knife me in my sleep.

Pregnancy symptoms the books don't tell you about.

1. A complete inability to spell or type. In fact, it took me about twenty minutes to complete this entry. No, I'm not kidding.

2. Long luxurious hair growth. On your toes.

3. Increased activity of your mucous membranes. Which means a nose full of snot, a mouth full of loogies, and other regions which should not be talked about in polite company full of yuck.

4. A freaky increase of gravitational pull on your rack. The boobs are not bigger, exactly. They're just somehow mysteriously *heavier.*

5. A freaky increase of the gravitation pull of your rack on other women. I've been propositioned by girls three times in the past three weeks. This is not really a common occurrence when not knocked-up. Well, unless you count A.K..