I’ve decided that rather than take personally the inappropriate and downright rude comments regarding my pregnant body made by my coworker, I’m going to document them here so you can all laugh at them with me. And if some of you want to form a mob to take her out, well, I can’t stop you.

This is the same coworker who, when I walked out of my office into the hallway where she was standing talking to another coworker, looked up, saw me walking toward them and said, “My, don’t we look…skinny?”

Henceforth, let’s refer to her as Muffy. Because, really, I think that describes her pretty well.

Yesterday, my friend/coworker J. and I were talking when Muffy walked into his office and said “Now THIS is a pregnant woman,” while putting her hand on my belly. J. asked me if I had sent our baby pool to Muffy. I hadn’t, mostly because I’m afraid of her guesses. I said no. She asked what it was and when I explained that it’s a website where you go enter your bets about how big the baby will be, etc., she said, “Oh, so I can go in there and say I think you’re having a 13 or 14 pound baby?”

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I told her she was welcome to enter whatever guesses she wants to. I also told her she could guess about when the baby will be born. I laughed as I told her my mother-in-law is guessing I’ll be a week late.

“Oh god! I hope not!” said Muffy. “I mean, look at how big you are now!”

I wished them both a good night and walked out of the office laughing and shaking my head in disbelief.

Needless to say, I haven’t sent her the link to the baby pool website.

I think I have a new favorite blog. And because it’s kinda real estate related, I don’t feel guilty reading every post in the archives.

This one is my favorite. So far.

I’m seriously considering this.

If you look really close, you can see that I didn’t even bother to lint brush off the cat hairs before this photo was taken. Keepin’ it classy.

I got this via GTB, who got it via Stu. And because it’s Friday and I love ya, I had to share.

Malapropisms are one of my favorite things in the whole world. The use of them in Everything is Illuminated is one of the reasons I so cherish that book. I had a roommate in college who forever endeared herself to me when she first told us of what a “pit sty” her room was. I knew she meant either pigsty or pit. But something about pit sty made me chuckle.

So today, when GTB and I were talking about a wedding we are going to next Friday night that a) is out of town and b) starts at 4:00, he emphasized that we really need to hit the road by noon. He mixed up pussy footing and piddle farting to describe that which he does not want us to do, but in the process he created perhaps the most hilarious and disgusting malapropism I’ve ever heard:

Pussy farting.

So rest assured, dear GTB. Next Friday, I promise not to piddle fart, pussy foot, or, most importantly, pussy fart. No matter how pregnant I am.

Angry bicyclists gang up on the wrong person

Today is July 8, which means we are T minus two months from Signe’s due date. And it can’t come a moment too soon. As I become deeper entrenched in my third trimester, I embark on a daily discovery of fun, new pregnancy symptoms. Such as:

-Leg cramps. I’d never had these before, but since Sunday, I’ve now had two. Both times, it happened really early in the morning, say about 4:30 or so, and it sent me shooting out of bed crying “Ow! Ow! Ow!” in rapid succession. Fortunately, having read about leg cramps in some of my pregnancy books, I knew that the best way to deal with them is to stand on the cramped leg and walk around. Otherwise, I probably would have shaken GTB awake to punch me in the calf until it stops hurting.

-Constantly sore hips. I hear this is from all the relaxin that is working to help my hips and pelvic bone spread in order to let the baby through there. Honestly, I’m not sure how much wider my hips needed to be, but whaddayagonnado?

-Restless leg syndrome. Say what you will about the legitimacy of this ailment, I know for a fact that it’s real. Between this and the cramps, I surmise that my legs are rebelling against all the extra weight they are carrying. I don’t blame them; I’d be pissed too. But you’d think that when I finally lie down with the idea of giving them some rest, they’d calm the F down and cooperate. But nooooooooo!

-Fatigue. I got home from work yesterday, sat on the bed to pet Niles, and next thing I know, I’m waking up from a 30-minute nap. Don’t get me wrong; it felt great. But I’m usually in better control of my sleep patterns.

-Air-headedness. Last night, before we left for our birthing class, I was so intent on remembering my pillow and the bag of information they require us to bring to every class, I completely forgot my purse. So much for paying for dinner. Or, you know, driving with a license. This is just one of several examples.

-Stress. How in the world am I going to get it all done in two months?! Work projects, Signe’s room, setting up the will, finding a pediatrician, figuring out finances for my time off… I’m not sure I have time for friends’ and cousins’ weddings, baby showers, or any of the other fun stuff I actually want to do. And it’s FREAKING ME OUT!

-Backache. A few weeks ago, in our birthing class, our instructor taught us ways our partners can help with back pain. GTB tried a few things, but I felt nothing, because, quite simply, my back didn’t hurt. As everyone in the class oohed and aahhed in relief around us, I felt smug because obviously I’m in such good shape my back doesn’t hurt. Three weeks later though, here I am, grumbling about it.

-Swollen feet. I know I bitched about this before, but really, I had no idea what I was talking about back then. There are times, usually at the end of a hot day, that I don’t even recognize my own feet. Where did the bones go? Whose fat, pink, piggies are those? What’s worse though is when they are swollen in the morning and I can’t find a pair of shoes that fit. I only have two or three pairs that will even go over my inflated dogs, and two of them are flip flops. That’s fine on the weekend, but it’s not very professional for the work day.

There’s more, but I should stop with the whining. I know Signe will be worth it, and I know mommy amnesia will kick in at some point and I’ll forget all about the crap it took to get her here. But there are times when I think “Hmm, maybe I do want two kids.” And when I’m having that insane thought, I want to be able to come back here and be reminded of how fat my feet really are and how much it sucks to feel like I’ve been riding a horse for six weeks straight.

A few weeks ago, I drove to pick up my carpool buddy, a.k.a. GTB, after work. I’d had a really bad day, was sitting in horrible traffic, and just wanted to be home, in jammies, watching the Deadliest Catch. As I sat impatiently in my car on northbound I-5, GTB called to check on my progress and said he was going to a bar with a friend for a beer and could I please come pick him up there. No problem, I said.

Fast forward 30 minutes, I was about two blocks from the bar so I dialed up my hubby’s cell phone and told him I was close. “I just ordered another beer. Aren’t you coming in?” I explained my shitty day, told him I didn’t want to come in, but that he was welcome to finish his beer and meet me outside whenever he was ready.

A few seconds later, beer undrunk, he came outside and got in the car. “I thought you’d want to come in,” he said. “I figured I could tempt you to stay with their awesome Happy Hour food menu.”

“I’m not hungry,” I replied.

He paused, looked at me, and asked, half-kidding, “Should we mark this day on the calendar?”

I probably could have been offended, but I knew what he meant. I’m pregnant, ergo I’m hungry ALL THE TIME. I can eat GTB under the table. I don’t necessarily eat more in one sitting than he does, but I definitely eat more often. We’ll eat dinner and he’ll be done for the evening. In the meantime, I’ll eat some kind of dessert, then I’ll need a bowl of cereal or something right before we go to bed. So admitting that for the first time in months, food wasn’t appealing, well, you can see how that would be kinda monumental.

Anyway, when a friend asked GTB last night if he’s ever woken up in the middle of the night to find me eating ice cream in bed, GTB said that he hadn’t, but that he has often fallen asleep to me eating ice cream or cereal in bed. I told our friend the above story, thinking it was funny.

On the way home, GTB said, “I didn’t mean anything malicious when I said that thing about you not being hungry that day. I wish you wouldn’t hold onto things like that.”

I told him I wasn’t mad about it. I just thought it was a funny story. Though he didn’t need to, he attempted to further justify his comment by explaining that he doesn’t mind that I eat so much. He understands why I do. But that, yeah, it really is a lot.

Pondering that, I asked him “But do you really believe that I’m eating a lot because I’m pregnant or do you think I’m just using pregnancy as an excuse to eat a lot?” Because, honestly, I’m not sure of the answer myself.

“I think you’re hungry,” he said without emotion. And that was the end of that.

GTB has been awesome pretty much the whole time I’ve been pregnant. True, there was that time he told me he couldn’t understand why I was letting morning sickness get the better of me because I’m usually a “pillar of strength.” But other than that, he’s been supportive, sweet, and accomodating.

For example, he’s told me on several occasions that he doesn’t think I’ve gained weight anywhere but my belly. That I look exactly like I used to, only with a baby bump. It’s all bullshit, and we both know it, but isn’t it nice of him to say that?

When I balanced my checkbook the other day and realized how much cumulative money I’ve spent at Motherhood Maternity, I asked him to tell me to just deal with what I’ve got next time I told him I was going shopping for bigger clothes. His response: “I’ll do no such thing! I want you to feel comfortable and confident. If that means going shopping, so be it.”

On the few occasions I’ve told him about the rude things people say to me about my gut (e.g. a co-worker who saw me on Tuesday and said “My! Don’t you look…skinny! How big is that baby going to be?!”), I have to physically restrain him lest he go pick a fight with them.

He gets mad at me when I lift things. He rubs my feet when they’re swollen. He goes to bed with me at 9:30 p.m. He puts tummy butter on my itchy and expanding stomach every night, while singing a little song he made up about it (“Butter for your tummy…”). He doesn’t discourage me when I tell him I’m going to Trader Joe’s for yet another bag of peanut butter-filled pretzels.

So, I could have been upset at the remark about marking my non-hungry day on the calendar. But GTB has been the perfect partner in just about every way I can imagine. Why start a fight over something little like that? Ya know?

Instead of tougher limits on giving drivers’ licenses to illegal immigrants, you know what I’d like to see? Mandatory drivers ed for anyone seeking to drive in Oregon.

You can show me all the birth certificates, immigration papers, or passports you want, pal. But until you can prove that you know what turn signals are for or how to navigate a 4-way stop, you don’t deserve to drive in my presence.

Hmph.