All Nighter

To deal with my wicked morning sickness I am using a combination of Promethazine at night, Zofran in the morning, anti-nausea preggo drops, and PSI wrist bands. With all of these remedies combined I still feel nauseous most of the time, but thankfully I'm only throwing up about once a day now instead of six times. For some reason I still don't feel like clicking my heels with delight, but I am trying to be grateful for the blessings I have. Like a new growing baby.

The Promethazine causes extreme drowsiness, which is why I take it at night. I tried taking half pills during the day, and ended up drooling into my keyboard for long stretches of the workweek. Last night I forgot to take it. And no sleeping occurred. I was awake as a chihuahua on espresso. Thankfully, (read deeply embittered sarcasm in that word) Dumpster was restless most of the night too. My tossing and turning was accompanied by the grunting and snuffling of a bulldog shaped like the world's largest sausage trying to squeeze himself under our bed. Like trying to stuff a salami in a mail slot. Then he got an itch and scratched himself right up against our bedroom door so it thunked against the wall at machine gun fire tempo. Then he found his bone and tossed it across the room for himself a couple times. And then, I will not share with you the awful noises and smells he made.

The moral of this section of the story is: although bulldog puppies are preeminent amongst God's adorable creations, at some point they grow up, and then, it's like owning a biochemical weapon with a tongue. He is an assault on all the senses.

I am now debating with myself if I should endure some more nausea and stop taking my night drugs or continue on in comatose bliss, less sicky.

It concerns me that I can't sleep without this drug now. And it also frightens me that if I'm so wigged out by it, what the baby might be feeling. Any intelligent comments on this dilemma would be greatly appreciated.

Satan's Panties

This post is based on two basic premises: 1)We don't do laundry that often, and 2) our dog has some severe psychological issues.

Living in America with a vast availability of comparatively expendable wealth and places at which to expend it, Justin and I have enough clothing to take us through at least a week or two without needing to do laundry. I'm sure we could go a good deal longer, but some of the combinations we would have to devise might leave the general public scratching their heads. At the end of every clothing rotation, once I've been through the comfy cottons, the seamless solids, and even the fun prints, are the red undies. Don't you blush for shame; we all have them. They are red and lacy and monstrously uncomfortable. Once intended for sexier purposes, they now merely serve to squeeze one more day out of any already maxed wash cycle.

Dumpster, our special puppy, has this unusual habit of transporting our dirty laundry one article at a time to the living room every night, and making himself a little nest of mom and dad's clothing. His favorite items are dad's socks, mom's unmentionables, and Noah's onesies. It is super annoying.

Friday was a rushed morning. We had someone coming in to clean our air vents, so we were trying to move furniture and pull covers off. In the rush of it, Dumpy snoozed away on the couch, on a small selection of our dirty clothes. I returned home that afternoon, after allowing strangers in my home all day to clean and dis-in-microbial-fect. There spread out across our couch, leaving no room for doubt as to their identity, were my lacy, red panties.

What do you do at that point? I'm sure this is the real reason the British claimed Australia. Every young British maid, whose knickers got left in public view, could run away to a hot desert land, where they would never again have to face polite company. Although I'm sure there are a few deranged kangaroos that probably make a habit of stealing frocks and bloomers to make little beds out of. There is a Dumpy in every bunch. Except maybe this Ririe bunch if he ever does that again.

Bye Bye Oil Can Mania

We used to watch a lot of television. Not that we would sit obsessed with the screen; it would just be on while we did homework, or ate, or let our tired brains dissolve. Now we have a child, who is not only far more entertaining than any show we could watch, but also absorbs time like a sponge. With this bouncing little time muncher and another on the way as well as nursing school, working three jobs, and being worshippers, we've decided to get rid of cable. We have Netflix to satisfy our depravity as needed. Cable is just one giant waste of money. (Or so we say now, but just wait until the Utes season starts, and we don't get any of the games. -shudder-)

There are some things I will miss. Perhaps not with the same nostalgia I hold for my carefree childhood days, but miss in that, "remember-how-we-used-to-have-time-to-watch-THAT?" kind of way.

You know you need a life when you watch American Pickers. Since I assume the very best of all three of my readers, I assume you have no idea what American Pickers is. Allow me to educate you. It's these two Iowa farm boys who travel all over the back roads of the country collecting old junk rusty gold. They meet people who haven't shaved since the signing at Appomattox Courthouse, and they dig through tetanus infested barns looking for motorcycle engines they can blow $42,000 on. It's quite boring, honestly. I wouldn't have ever watched it at all, except, at least once an episode, they say it... Sometimes it's a variation. Sometimes they try to just slip it in. But it is always so worth it...

"This would be a really great piece for someone who collects mid-1930s Fleet-Wing oil cans."

...

...

That's your target market?!?!

Who are these people???

Where did they get $300 to pay for a rusty oil can???

The fact that people with this kind of taste and disposable income exist in this God-forsaken land renders me utterly speechless. And then I die laughing. Oh, I will miss that fifteen seconds of each American Pickers episode. It always makes the other 2805 seconds totally worth it.

This is Frank and his beloved oil cans.

A Proper Tea

I’m not the tea party type. Lace gloves make no sense, tea has never been comforting or satisfying, and I believe sandwiches should not be finger foods, they should be foot longs. Growing up, my favorite color was olive green (the kind found in camo), my favorite pants were two sizes too big, and my single greatest joy was showing up the guys in… everything. Sitting and chatting with the girls over a steaming brew with little dried out biscuits sounded rather like punishment or at least a waste of a Saturday better spent looting, pillaging, or otherwise pirating.

But somehow, the tomboy got herself put in charge of the Ladies Spring Tea at church.

This evening I am off to purchase lace doilies, fake crystal bowls, and bright table clothes. I will spend some night soon figuring out how to make tissue paper flowers. (God help me.) Cute little scentsy door prizes need to be acquired soon as well. I will decorate with flowers and ribbons and glitter. I will set plates with little tarts, adorable cookies, and bite size cucumber sandwiches. I will play Celtic stringed hymns in the background with little bunny slides flashing on the power point screens.

And a little part of me will die inside.

Only to be reanimated Friday evening as I kick dirt, swing a bat, masticate unsightly amounts of Big League Chew, and throw like anything but a girl.

Because God made me a woman, and then He made me an athlete.