You know you’re pregnant when you dream about going to Dairy Queen with your husband, ordering a Blizzard to share, realizing the large Blizzard isn’t large enough for you both, and deciding to order another one for yourself.

When you wake up with your stomach growling from the anticipation, which will, sadly, not be satisfied unless you either wake up your husband or drive yourself to the first 24-hour Dairy Queen you can find, you realize that all those jokes about late night pregnancy cravings weren’t bullshit.

A couple of weeks ago, my brother was awarded the Bronze Star Medal for his work in Iraq last year. This morning, my mom sent me a copy of his citation. It reads:

For meritorious achievement in connection with combat operations against the enemy while serving as the Operations Officer of… in support of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM. Major XXXX’s tireless efforts in the detailed planning of joint and combined Counter-Insurgency operations including multiple company-size clearance operations, targeted raids against known and suspected Insurgents, and the partnering and integration of Iraqi Army and Iraqi Police Forces resulted in the detention of more than 250 suspected Insurgents of which more than 75 percent were forwarded to higher headquarters for further processing. His direct involvement with Iraqi Police Forces within the … Area of Operations led to astonishing growth and development of more than 1,250 trained Iraqi Police Officers. Major XXXX’s concept of partnership in the Iraqi Army and Iraqi Police Forces faciliatated an unprecendented union between Coalition and Iraqi Security Forces. His expertise and complete immersion in all facets of the Counter-Insurgency fight, from security operations to the extension of Battalion control across the villages throughout the Area of Operation and from and in-depth level of local leader engagement to civic and economic development, significantly contributed to distinguishing the Battalion as the “textbook” example to be followed in the Iraqi conflict. Major XXXX’s total effectiveness, forceful leadership, and loyal devotion to duty reflected great credit upon himself and were in keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.

Upon reading it, I was faced with both huge swells of pride in my big brother and total deflation of any smugness I had over the kickass PowerPoint presentation I put together yesterday.

Regardless, since it’s Memorial Day, my mind is on the guys and gals who have given their lives in Iraq, Afghanistan, and all the battles that came before. I’m grateful for their sacrifice, and that of their families. Bless them all.

And, because I’m just hormonal enough…God Bless America!

Curious about what I look like when I’m six months pregnant? Well, here ya go!

It’s hot, which, when you’re six months pregnant, means everything is swelling. I’ve taken off my rings and am drinking as much water as I can. Still my ankles and feet look like someone actually inflated them.

As I sit here watching TV with a fan blowing on me and my feet elevated on GTB’s lap, my beloved husband has noticed how large my pretty little feet have become. When I ask him if he sees how fat my toes are, he says, “They’re not fat, they’re Rubenesque.”

Strangely, that doesn’t make me feel better. Nice try though.

Have you ever gotten the feeling someone you don’t know has written a blog post about you?

Dear Pamela Sitt,

Since I work in real estate, I consider it my job to be as informed about real estate as possible. Technically, I’m a writer who works for a real estate company, but I still feel obligated to keep up to date on the goings on of the market, lending practices, and how homeowners can optimize their homeownership experience. These areas of interest are not MY areas of interest, per se. But in order to be a good real estate writer, I work really hard to keep up with them.

Which is why I think your latest column is a piece of shit.

For one thing, I love the Deadliest Catch, so you being anything but respectful to Captain Johnathan pisses me off. I understand he looks a little rough around the edges and swears like a sailor. But that’s because he IS a rough-around-the-edges sailor. Which you would have known if you could have lowered yourself to actually watch the show. It would have taken you all of about one episode to realize that the man you were talking to is one of the stars. And your admission that you couldn’t get familiar with the show because you’re more into “The Hills” is retarded. It would be like me saying “Oh, I can’t write about King County property taxes because I’ve never actually owned a home in Belleuve.” Do a little research, you halfwit!

Second, how in the world does a woman whose column is called “Girl About Town” get away with saying she doesn’t go to West Seattle because it’s too far? I understand that West Seattle isn’t Belltown, and you do have to cross a bridge to get there, but I do think it’s technically still in “town.”

Maybe I’m being too harsh, but journalists who put in a half-assed effort to write a story about an event they attended and then base their story on how much cooler they are than the other losers attending while dissing the guys the event has been thrown for make my teeth hurt. That’s not journalism. That’s not even column worthy. It’s lazy and elitest, and frankly, it makes you look stupid.

My only hope is that you don’t get paid for your columns and are compensated purely by complimentary attendance at the events you “report” on. In this case, even that compensation far exceeded your worth.

Sincerely,
The Girl from Hickopolis, a.k.a. someone who actually works for her money

We’re sitting in GTB’s room. I’m perusing the wonders of the world wide web. He’s playing his guitar, trying to match the notes to “Brides Have Hit Glass.” He just opened his iTunes to play the actual song and Signe suddenly woke up and started dancing. Actually, it feels a little like she’s playing air guitar in there.

“I think your daughter likes Guided by Voices,” I told GTB.

He’s still wiping the tears of joy from his cheeks.

Death Cab for Cutie hasn’t put out an album that really moved me since the Photo Album. There are brilliant songs scattered throughout their most recent albums–e.g. “What Sarah Said” from Plans and “Tiny Vessels” from Transatlanticism–but nothing has really gotten under my skin the way We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes did. Though, to be honest, that’s probably more a product of my curmudgeonly old age than it is about them musically.

Still, I am eagerly anticipating the new album, out Tuesday. And I would pay someone big bucks (or at least my half of our economic stimulus tax rebate) if they could figure out a way to hook up a Scrabulous game between me and Chris Walla.

I just love these guys. Sigh.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go listen to “Amputations.”

To: All Oregon Drivers

From: The Girl at Hickopolis

Re: Terwilliger Curves Reader Board on northbound Interstate 5

Please be advised: when above-mentioned reader board is lit up with a message, you are allowed to read it as you drive. It is not required that you slam on your brakes. The fact that there are words on the board does not necessarily indicate an accident up ahead. In fact, more often than not, the information on that board is about an accident at least ten miles from that location, usually on another highway.

If, on the other hand, you feel the need to slow down because you are incapable of reading

Crash on northbound Hiwy 30
north of Scappoose
Trucks use I-5

without slowing down to a near crawl, there is something wrong with your vision. Please drive straight home, cut up your license, and donate your car to Dove Lewis.

A few nights ago, I got back from the gym, took a shower, and raided GTB’s T-shirt drawer for something big and cushy to wear over my growing belly. None of my cute little Ts are all that cute when they’re being stretched to maximum capacity, plus they’re really uncomfortable. I grabbed one of his favorite red shirts and put it on. Lo and behold, it’s too small. Yep, I’ve reached the point where even my husband’s clothes don’t fit me.

Yesterday, I parked my car in a gravel driveway and was negotiating the rocks in my favorite pair of black mary jane heels when I felt a little give in my right foot. I looked down and saw that the shoe had torn on the outside just south of my pinky toe. That’s right, my swelling feet had made a pair of shoes explode.

I’ve been having this agonizing pain in my upper left butt cheek and thought it was my sciatic nerve acting up. I did a little online research last night and found that it’s more likely posterior pelvic pain and if that’s the case, I should stop wearing high heels entirely. It’s now all flats, all the time.

I know that pregnancy is the most feminine thing a woman can do, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt less ladylike in my entire life.