am i shallow?

For what it’s worth, mentally, I don’t think I’m 100% ready for all of this massive mid-section growth that is currently happening and will continue to happen until February. Then, at the point the sprout is out and enjoying the world sans womb, I will be working like a mad person trying to get my bulbous belly back to better-than-before status.

I’ve always had issues with body image.  I never think I’m thin enough, mostly.  And I think I take horrid pictures. This is all probably because I’m a girl and for whatever (messed up) reason, society says girls are supposed to be thin and svelte and beautiful and perfect.

And a post-baby body does not a svelte woman make.

So, here I am, 16 weeks knocked up with too many more weeks left to count and a body that has yet to really get “pregnant.”  I mean, yes, I’m “pregnant” but obviously, I’ve yet to really *look* the part.  I feel it, no doubt, even though I’m quite positive I’d get the evil eye if I up and decided to park in a maternity parking spot. I know I’m not waddle-worthy of that space yet, anyway, but I’m trying to build a case, here, people.

All my life I’ve felt like I’ve been chasing some magical number on the scale.  I found out that the weight range for my 5’10 amazon woman height is between 135 – 165 pounds.

What do you think was the first thing I told Tim after learning this bit of knowledge?

“I’m going to weigh between 140 and 145 after the kid pops out.  Maybe I’ll go for 135.”

(Obviously, I weighed more than that pre-pregnancy…but still within the range of 135-165)

Tim was all, “You’ll look like an emaciated orphan at 135…and at 140.”

But isn’t that what we’re going for, here?  I thought super thin was in!

(Disclaimer: It’s actually not.  It’s totally not healthy and the rational part of me completely understands that)

Yet, I still have that weight of 140-145 (maybe 135??) in my brain as a goal for after the baby. AND I have a certain weight I don’t want to surpass during pregnancy. Now, whether I attain that pregnancy weight limit goal or not will depend, mostly, on how much I can resist eating Taco Bell.

What?

IT’S WHAT THE BABY WANTS.

I’m just the vessel, here.

Now, I know you’re all, “Seriously? You’re going here with the fat talk? You think YOU are fat (or, were fat post-pregnancy)?  There is something wrong with you. Obviously.”

And to all you nay-sayers, welcome to Team Tim, who says to me allllllllllllllllllllll the time that I’m the only person who thinks I’m fat (Was fat. I, at least, have figured out and completely understand that Pregnancy ≠ fat. Pregnancy = baby).

Part of me believes him because part of me thinks I’ll still believe I’m fat even *if* I attain whatever magical number I deem “skinny.”

All of this?  Probably something that needs to be fixed before I unknowingly start making the little sprout self conscious and fearful of the scale, checking his/her body at every angle to make sure they don’t look poofy.

I don’t need to create an anorexic child.  That thought alone scares me into submission with the fat talk.

So, yet another thing for me to try and conquer before I start actually influencing the tiny human being I will be responsible for (*gulp*).

This next part, well……I’m not exactly sure where it falls into the whole being a good role model but, my saving grace (if that’s even an appropriate phrase) for when all baby making is said and done is that Tim has promised me (you so did, honey) that I could get “work” done on an area that ends up saggy or not like it was before.

Namely the boobs and/or the stomach.

That’s like the ace in my pocket.  I might binge on Taco Bell and gain 100 pounds and have the flattest, most pancakey boobs ever seen by man, but watch out!  I’ll be one hot mamma after I visit Plastics!

Not that I even want to go through that…truthfully…but I like to know it’s there as an option if things get entirely out of control.

Is that shallow or is it normal?

I have no idea.

bump progression

I’ve yet to take another bump picture…so that’s on the docket this week, since I’m like 16 weeks…today, actually. Wow! (Happy bump-a-versary to me!).  So, I’ve missed week 15…even though I’m pretty sure that isn’t important.  You’ll see why in just a minute.  Here is the progression so far, 12 weeks to 14 weeks.

I’m not entirely sure there is really much of a difference?  Do you see one?  No, seriously, do you?  I can’t even tell anymore.  I feel like the first picture is more bloat, less baby…and the last one…well, I’ll let you decide because I probably shouldn’t be analyzing my stomach any more.

And bonus points to me for having a different outfit on each time.  You have no idea how big of a deal that is when your waist “thickness” (in other words: circumference/roundness/wideness) has increased to the point where you can only wear a few pairs of shorts that still qualify as *comfortable*  My go-to outfit are dresses.  I have those on ALL THE TIME. Yet, sadly, Tim informed me that dresses aren’t exactly what one would consider appropriate baby bump picture material.

(what a buzzkill, right?!)

Ok, enough on all that.  Here’s “The Bump.”

Almost 12 Weeks

Almost 13 Weeks

14 Weeks

I guess it would help if I stood facing the same direction each time.  Didn’t really think about that…pregnancy picture fail.

the trots. they happen

If you haven’t read this yet, you should. Just sayin.

As for our Thanksgiving # 2…

It started with Turkey Trot # 2. They had chip timing and everything…or something like that. We’re still not entirely sure if we were being timed or were on probation…

The race course went down country roads and through neighborhoods. Where, exactly? Shit…I couldn’t even tell you how we got there if I wanted to…it’s all roads and trees and random houses to me. Ask Evelyn, the GPS.

In the neighborhood section we were almost run right the hell over by an irate woman in a minivan. Apparently, she had somewhere she needed to go and apparently some runner dude decided that wasn’t happening. He ran right along beside her, yelling into her drivers side window all, “Stop your car, asshole! This is a race…which means you need to park your fat fucking self on the curb and WAIT.”

True story.

Anyway, after the police (yes, the police) stopped her at the end of the neighborhood, everyone was fairly complacent until we hit the end of the race where the course squeezes down into a 2 foot wide muddy, downhill, root infested track where Tim and I almost ended up on our asses about 17 times in the span of 30 seconds – it was THAT bad.

(notice how I said *almost* which means: it didn’t happen)

We finished without going the wrong direction (yay us!), ate a cookie and an apple (well, Tim had a banana, but, whatever) and then drove back to his parents house to participate in the gluttony that was to be spread out over the remainder of the day.

This is us, post-race and pre-feast.

We totally went the right way. And we burned calories, which means more food. Yay! We're pretty sure we're awesome.

We have nothing post-feast…blame it on the food-induced coma. Or the pies.

Pie? No, this is not pie. This is ridiculous.

Today brings another tradition: Croissant sandwiches with leftover turkey, cranberry sauce and stuffing.

Yah…I thought it was disgusting too when Tim first told me about it.

But it’s actually a mouth-gasm and I’m recommending you try it.

Today.

Oh, and tonight, if you’re an East Coaster, wave!

Our asses will be flying home.

snippets of conversation from thanksgiving #1

Before I begin the chaos that is 6 people vying for the same tiny soap box, here are a few pictures from the weekend…Thanksgiving #1

What's important here? The turkey. It's the only thing *kind of* in focus. Ummm thanks, mom.

Troy's drink. Troy who is 13. It's tea. Swear. I wouldn't lie in front of the Pilgrim.

Now…the conversations…they’re always disjointed and very confusing. You’re welcome.

(cue me almost dropping a massive, opened can of yams all over the floor)

Mom: You are such a klutz, Jessica. Things never change…

Me: What?! I’m not clumsy.

Tim: You mean, she’s always been this uncoordinated?

Mom: Everywhere except the basketball court…

*****************

(for some reason, my 3 brothers think that “mom” is theirs…and apparently I no longer count in the sibling category, so they’ll be all, “MY MOM said…”)

Troy: My mom keeps having to have Come and Find Jesus meetings with me.

(he meant to say “come to Jesus” meetings)

Tim: Well, I mean, wow. Have you found him yet? Cause it seems like you’ve been having a lot of those meetings lately…

*****************

Me: So, do you guys still play the trivia?

Jeff, Mom, Mason and Troy: THE what?!

Me, perplexed: The trivia?…Do you still go and play?

Tim, laughing hysterically: THE trivia? Who are you? Yoda?

(what the hell is wrong with saying THE trivia?)

*****************

(cue heated basketball competition on the Wii. I was totally winning.)

Me: I am AWESOME. And I’ve never even played this before.

Mom: You aren’t awesome. You’re yelling “MISS IT!” every time someone tries to shoot the basketball. It’s no wonder you’re winning…

Me: That’s not allowed?

*****************

(I’ve been trying to explain to Tim that it’s not that I’m pissy in the morning…I don’t talk to him because I’m trying to avoid a stupid fight over who forgot to pull out my favorite warm, fuzzy socks or who looked at me funny for 2.3 seconds longer than they should have.)

Me: Mom! Tell Tim we never talked in the morning.

Mom: We didn’t talk in the morning.

Me: No, I mean…that when we woke up we didn’t talk so we didn’t fight.

Mom: We didn’t talk so we didn’t fight…

Me: You’re totally not helping.

*****************

Y’all – Tim and I are for serious probably somewhere over the East Coast – right. this. second. – so if you’re anywhere between Georgia and New York – wave! You can probably see our asses if you squint really hard.

We’re on the way to Thanksgiving #2 AND Turkey Trot #2.

Oh, yes. We found one. And we’re running it.

They give away pottery as prizes if you win.

Not that I plan on winning, but you know how much I love pottery.

We really just have to redeem ourselves.

I’ll shit skittles if we fuck it up and go the wrong direction twice in 7 days.

for all you dog lovers. or picture lovers. or those who like to peek in people’s windows.

I realized I haven’t posted any pictures in like…FOREVER.

And I’m sure you forgot…or maybe you had no idea…that we have a growing puppy in the house who, two months ago, looked like this next to Maddie.

And this is last weekend during our trip to the nature trail. Lexi-the-Giant has since learned what “sit” means, so we’re Tim is able to get a decent picture.

If you do better with numbers, which is completely alien to me, but, whatever, I’ll humor you (I’m so nice, I know): When we got Lexi at the end of August, she was like, 21 pounds.

She is now 38 pounds…which is almost 2 pounds A WEEK (I’m sure my math is all wrong…and you’re just going to have to deal…cause just in case you hadn’t figured it out yet: math and I are not on speaking terms). Her paws are bigger than Maddie’s…and she’s almost as long as Maddie.

And that’s more than slightly concerning, considering she’s only however old (June 10, 2009) minus (October 20, 2009) is…I don’t do that, either. Subtracting DATES is like rocket science to me. Calendars don’t help. I’ve tried. I lose count and then I’ll forget to count weekends or holidays, cause they never really “count” anyway when it comes to work and diets and all…

And she’s losing teeth…which totally grosses me out. I picked up one of her toys this morning and found a nice little surprise stuck to it and about lost it. I don’t DO loose teeth…wobbly teeth…random teeth SITTING ON A CHEW TOY…they make my stomach lurch and result in an immediate gag reflex that continues until I can get the image out of my brain and convince myself to think about something totally unrelated…like bubbles.

I have no idea what I’m going to do about kids. Actually, I know exactly what I’m going to do. They’re going to have to figure it out on their own or wait for their father to come home, cause there will be no help-me-tie-a-string-to-my-piece-of-loose-calcium-and-a-door-knob on my watch…no way am I participating in that activity nor will I be within 500 feet of someone who is. Ever.

I know *they* (whoever those elusive people are) say that dogs are good training for a child…but…I don’t know. I’ve got mixed emotions about that. For one, kids don’t bite each other’s ears when they’re getting protective over territory, like an empty peanut butter jar (BIG MISTAKE. Remind me never to do THAT again…that which resulted in Lexi getting her ear pierced by Maddie’s tooth). Instead it’ll be three thousand times worse. They’ll hit and scratch and then hold grudges for months. Dogs just get over it all, “sorry about that, dude.” And the victim of the gnarly attack all, “no worries, man. I kinda like it. Makes me look tough.”

I mean, not that Lexi has an actual HOLE in her ear…just two really deep gauges…that were almost holes.

Anyway…I don’t even know where I was going with this…oh, comparing dogs to kids.

Somehow, that just didn’t come out right.

Maybe there is no comparison.

And…just FYI: Even IF WHEN a child comes along, the collective “you” will not refer to me as “mommy blogger.”

It’s bad enough that my actual name will disappear and I shall be known as “Hey, you!” or “Moooooooom!” or “I hate you!”

I certainly do not want to be relegated to a fucking category of ten bazillion people.

Wait.

Hear me out.

I have nothing against a mommy blogger. I love mommy bloggers. I read mommy blogs.

What I do have an issue with is categories. Or niches. Or whatever word that will require me part of the collective “whole.”

I like to stand all by myself.

Even if it’s alone in a random corner with spiders.

Well, the spiders would probably get me to join the “group”…but only until said arachnids are disposed of by whatever method that is considered permanent and does not result in their offspring coming back for revenge.

So, beginning on the day I announce to you that my offspring will be populating this planet in a matter of months, I’d like to be called Bad Ass.

And today is NOT that day.

Though I still kinda like Bad Ass.

kids? how about an ostrich instead? or maybe a penguin.

As of late, a conversation has continued to surface…mixing itself into random topics like what shade Lexi’s poo was…more often than I would deem sane.

What is it, you ask? What cannot seem to keep itself at bay for longer than like…thirty seconds?

It revolves around procreation.

You know, kids.

Yes.

Babies.

Are we going to have them? How many? When? How? Should we? WHEN?

And I don’t have a fucking clue.

Kids terrify me.

No, having my own terrify me. I’m fine with babysitting…or watching other kids romp around the heels of their parents…cause I get to go home to silence…where our “kids” can sit in their crate.

I can’t put a baby in a crate.  I mean, unless I want to be labeled the unfit-mother-psycho-woman-who-locks-her-kids-in-a crate.

And just so you know, I’m totally clear on the what-is-appropriate-for-a-crate-and-what-is-not.

On top of all that, the whole “being pregnant” thing…I don’t want to end up with stretch marks or a flappy stomach or other pieces parts not “working” like they used to…

I want my body to BE THE SAME after those hellacious nine months…and from what research I’ve gathered…

NOT HAPPENING.

Plus…ummm I’d like to be successful…you know, like, career-wise. Will a child hinder or help that?

Hell if I know. It’d make for some interesting, disgusting, why-the-hell-would-you-share-that? stories…that’s for damn sure.

I know. I’m whining. It’s totally selfish…probably immature…

But I cannot even keep a PLANT ALIVE.

How am I supposed to handle an INFANT?

And I freak out now if when I gain 5 pounds…and you expect me to be ok with TWENTY-FIVE?….THIRTY?…

Oh, hell no. Tim is going to have to force feed me.

I KNOW…it’s the “baby” and “the uterus” and “the fluids” and “whatever” ….

It’s just not computing in my brain.

And, after reviewing my crazy rant, I think I just answered my own question:

Having kids…right now…BAD IDEA.

Problem is, I LOVE all the crafty-cutty-pastey stuff where you get to make cupcakes with faces or little drawings for the fridge or go fun places like the park to look at leaves and feed the ducks…I LOVE playing with kids and watching them discover new things and that look on their face the first time they figure something out on their own…it absolutely makes me melt.

That kind of love is the same kind of love like I LOVE chocolate and diamonds and new things…like purses…

And I don’t think Tim is going to tolerate my coloring on his lunch box and cutting his sandwich into shapes much longer.

my name? shit. ask me something else.

There are only two ways my name can go…

And I say two because the third - ”Jessie” or “Jesse” is not an option.

One of my ex’s…the one who didn’t do shit with the pet sitting business…that was his name.

And I’ll be damned if I have to be called a name with such a negative connotation that it immediately makes me want to hit something…with a sledge hammer…until I render it unrecognizable. I like to avoid such scenarios, if you know what I’m saying.

Throughout my entire life until like, 8th grade….everyone called me “Jessica.”

Then, something changed during the summer before I started high school. I guess “Jessica” wasn’t cool enough to say anymore…or it took to long to get out those three LONG ASS SYLLABLES…

I became “Jess” to my friends and to those people who were not my friends but knew me because I was “that freshman” starting on the Varsity basketball team…while teachers and those at least 5 years older than me still called me Jessica.

I liked Jess. Jess was new and different and (fine, I’ll admit it) a hell of a lot easier to say.

And I was tired of people getting all lazy calling me Jes-ka…instead of Jes-sic-a.

I was Jess through college…where EVERYONE…all the way up to the Deans…called me Jess. The only time I was Jessica was to my mom  (who never caught on to the whole “Jess” thing. She was still gunning for Juice or Jessie-Mike…and…no. Just…no).

Then I got out of college.

And I wanted a change.

Jess sounded too…childish…too immature. She sounded like someone who didn’t know her ass from her forehead and liked to party…hardcore party…the kind where you wake up in a location you don’t even remember going to…

I never  partied.

And I never got confused…I always knew where my ass was…even though some thought otherwise.

I wanted to be Jessica again.

Jessica had her shit together.

So, when I met Tim, that’s what I called myself…that’s how I introduced myself…that’s how I signed my damn name.

And from the SECOND I MET HIM…

He called me Jess.

WHAT. THE. HELL.

Now, that wouldn’t have been such an issue had he reserved “Jess” for only the most private of places where names like Sugar Lump or Honey Nuts are acceptable and even deemed cute…because no one else hears…Jess could have been like, a pet name or something.

Well, we won’t even go down that imaginary road, cause he told his parents…and his co-workers…and the guy at the checkout line at the grocery store…

And I was all, ”JESSICA. I WANT TO BE CALLED JESSICA!”

So, he tried…or, at least he said he tried…though the damage had already been done. No one wanted to have to change and say “Jessica” when “Jess” was so much easier…

Yesterday at his work thing, one of his co-workers was all, “So, Jess…”

Then another one…”Hey! Jess!…” And another….”Oh, Jess…did you know…”

And these are people I have never actually had a real conversation with.

Yet, Jess came out of their mouth like we’d known each other for like, EVER.

On the way home, I was all, “I thought you were trying to say Jessica now…”

Tim: “I AM. It’s HARD.”

Me: “Well, everyone called me JESS today…did you notice that? EVERYONE.”

Tim: “What? Nooo…you just didn’t hear them correctly….”

Me: “Oh, I heard them…heard them leave out two whole syllables.”

Tim: “I mean, saying Jessica sounds like you’re in trouble or something…”

Me: ….

Tim: “It’s TOO HARD! What’s wrong with Jess, anyway?

Me: Jess is that girl who doesn’t apply herself and makes her living by mooching off other people…and doesn’t shower…unless absolutely necessary.

Tim: Well, then I guess…

Me: Don’t EVEN go there…unless you want to live in the seventh circle of hell for the next month.

Tim: …I guess Jess cleaned up and got her act together…is what I WAS GOING TO SAY.

Me: Riight…and my name’s Jessica.

***FOOTNOTE***

Tim read this right before it was published…and he said he was going to put out a memo at work…deeming “Jess” unacceptable because it would result in his sleeping on the couch…and the next employee who said it would have to write “My boss’s wife’s name is Jessica” five thousand times on the whiteboard in his office…and I think I just fucked up at least seven apostrophes…plural…not plural…possessive…what the hell…as long as it says “Jessica” I don’t really give a damn.

***FOOTNOTE # 2***

I realize there are not even seven apostrophes in the aforementioned footnote. It’s called exaggeration. AND I know some of you call me Jess. That is fine. I will not come at you with a sledge hammer.

it will be in my stomach for like, ten years

I’ve boycotted fast food.

It used to be something  I ate fairly frequently – but it all stopped in college when it finally dawned on me that there was cause and effect with food. As in, I eat fat, I get fat. Quality over quantity…or something like that.

My college basketball coach would ALWAYS stop at Wendy’s after games. I don’t know what was so magical about that place.

We had our theories…one that always came up was that Wendy’s was Coach’s favorite and she just up and decided that since she was driving, she got to pick. No democracy here…more like a dictatorship.

It became the running joke. Wait…let me guess…WENDY’S!

I would get a baked potato or salad EVERY SINGLE TIME instead of stuffing my gut with grease…along with a Frosty.  I’ll always love Frosty’s.

Those don’t count.

Once, Coach got so tired of hearing our collective complaining that she pulled into a ‘Flying J’ truck stop all, “Get out. This is where we’re eating. Like it or starve.”

We looked around at each other while we were still on the bus like, “She’s joking, right?”

When she hopped off and started walking in, we were all, “SERIOUSLY?….SERIOUSLY?? We have to eat HERE??”

We did. In the little restaurant. Just picture a basketball team, complete with trainers and coaches mingling with truckers amongst the greasy smell of fried everything.

If you’re wondering how it was…I took one look at the food-stained menu and walked myself into the grocery/gas station portion where they sell everything from coffee mugs to hemoroid cream and bought pre-packaged food to eat instead.

Eventually, I started scoping out other, nearby options whenever we pulled up to our typical post-game dive. I once walked across five lanes of traffic, dodging cars in the dark,  just to get to a Subway. I had about five other teammates follow after me once they saw where I was going.

When we got back with our subs, Coach was all, “I CANNOT AFFORD FOR HALF OF MY STARTERS TO GET HIT BY A MAC TRUCK AND BE ON THE INJURED LIST! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?”

You know, I was thinking I’m tired of Wendy’s and there’s a better, less greasy option RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET.

DAMN, WOMAN. AREN’T ATHLETES SUPPOSED TO EAT HEALTHY?

Yeah…that was the last time THAT happened.

And so began my packing of edible food for every trip.

Anyway, the whole point to this is…I asked Tim yesterday what he wanted for dinner and he’s all, “I have a craving for McDonald’s.” 

More specifically, a quarter pounder with cheese and french fries craving.

When he said it, I was all, “I cannot believe I am saying this…but I could actually go for that right now. I haven’t had fast food in…it’s probably been at least a decade.”

So, his job was to pick up the artery clogging meal on his way home from work and I had to go get Oreos (the other half of the craving).

As the afternoon wore on, the more I thought about McDonald’s, the more my brain kept saying to me, “BAD IDEA. DON’T DO IT. REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED THE LAST TIME.”

You wanna know about the last time? My stomach and intestines revolted on me and subsequently caused a massive explosion in the toilet.

Apparently, that one visual was enough. I ended up going to the grocery store and buying Tim a pack of Oreos along with ingredients to make myself a reuben (here’s the recipe I used…it was AMAZING…if you like reubens).

I have no idea why I decided on a reuben…the last time I had one was probably two years ago. I just started looking up sandwich recipes and came across a reuben and was all, “THAT WOULD BE GOOD….”

I won’t lie. I DID eat a few french fries and had ONE BITE of Tim’s burger.

And it tasted EXACTLY THE SAME as it did when I was ten, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, watching Rugrats and Ahhh! Real Monsters, eating my McDonald’s.

I was told once that McDonald’s french fries never biodegrate…never get digested…never rot. 

They sit in their long, yellow slender shape forever.

I’ve never tested the theory…but I’m inclined to agree.

And now, I get to enjoy the sensation of the indigestible fake-potato sticks shooting out of my ass in full form…only to be flushed and then sit in the sewer forever…unless a rat sees it bobbing up and down in the untreated water and snatches it out for a midday snack.

That was a disgusting mental image, wasn’t it?

This is why I don’t eat fast food.

The brain starts to go down a slippery slope…

…see what I mean?

what i wanted to say yesterday…just delayed…

We got an aerial view of some of the flooding this morning on our flight home and it isn’t pretty. Thankfully, our house wasn’t flooded. The sun is out, so hopefully everyone is drying out a bit.

And thank you to everyone who wished us safe travels yesterday.

When we got home, girls about attacked us all, “WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU? You were due back like, Monday.”

Anyhow, my plan was to introduce you to the real, live Italians yesterday…it just never happened because we were too busy sitting in airports and hotels.

You know, I really should stop planning. It never seems to happen the way I work it all out in my brain…

So, the Italians: Mirco, Lea and Sabino. Mirco is Lea and Sabino’s son.

 

Yesterday at breakfast, Lea asked me IF (key word, here) I wanted to have a little “bambino.”

The “asking” had to go through Mirco (he’s our Italian-English translator, since Lea and Sabino speak very little English and I speak ZERO Italian other than “merci” – which I just realized is French…damn) and I thought she asked me WHEN I was planning to get on with the baby-making.

I looked around, eyeing Tim like, “HELP ME…how do you say eventually?”

When, unbeknownst to me, all that was required was a simple yes or no.

Instead, my confusion ended being a good five minute joke cause I’m all, “HOW DO YOU SAY NOT NOW? LATER? FUTURE??

And they’re looking at me like, soooo….do you want a bambino or not? Seems like a simple enough question…you do or you don’t…

Totally lost in translation.

We finally got it all sorted out…yes, just not in the immediate future.

Our trip also reminded me how Italians can EAT. WOW. I am totally fooded-out.

I won’t even go into details because the food list would be an entire post by itself. You’d gain ten pounds just reading it.

We’ll leave it at this: somehow, we managed to fill an entire eight-person dining room table with dessert. DESSERT.

And poor Maddie…I don’t know if she has a hot spot or was bitten by something…but we came home and she had a HUGE welt-looking thing on her side. We cleaned it out with peroxide and told her NO LICKING.

She didn’t listen.

So she got coned.

I know. She looks totally pitiful and is having a really hard time judging the space available to her between stationary objects…like doorframes.

stuck…in rochester because of flooding…in atlanta

So, we’re hanging out in an airport hotel. The ONLY hotel within walking distance (Yes, people. We WALKED).

Because Atlanta is apparently getting it’s ass handed to it from all the rain.

Technically, we should already BE in Atlanta at this moment, had our flight left on time. However, our plane is still sitting at the gate.  Delayed until…whenever. 8:00pm I think it is…(original flight was supposed to leave around 3:00pm…)

We decided to re-book our flight instead of sitting in those really uncomfortable airport seats and then having to make a mad dash to try and grab a seat on a flight tomorrow if this flight is cancelled…which the lady at the little booth next to the gate thought was going to happen all, “I just don’t think it’s gonna like, take off.”

It’s really too bad..I WAS sitting next to Hurley, from Lost. All, “dude!”

(Tim upgraded our seats again…and we ended up in two window seats on opposite sides of each other. Contrary to what it seems, we do typically try to sit together on planes…it just hasn’t been working out so well lately…)

Ok, sooo maybe it wasn’t the REAL Hurley…but he looked and talked and had mannerisms EXACTLY like him and was nervous as all hell. He had the flight attendant bring him a mini bottle of wine before he even had his seatbelt fastened.

Oh…yes. We actually GOT ON THE PLANE. 

After about five minutes they made us get back off so we’d be more “comfortable” since they grounded all Atlanta flights and now had to wait for an update and the green light to take off.

They’re still waiting.

I must say – I AM TOTALLY FREAKING OUT about all the girls. I was all,  “BUT IT MIGHT FLOOD!”

And Tim’s all, “The house is ABOVE everything. They’ll be fine.”

Me: But what about Lexi?? She’s on the GROUND LEVEL! IN A CRATE!

Tim: It’s not going to flood. Seriously, chill out. Besides, Cindy (our pet sitter) will call us.

I let it go after that…cause he’s right.  She’d totally move Lexi’s crate to higher ground  AND call us to let us know we have a river in our living room. That’s just the kind of forward thinker she is.

Anyhow – I’m, off to check the news and call the family…think good thoughts for my mom…her basement is currently underwater, thanks to the flooded creek behind her house…along with all the other Atlantan’s…apparently it’s REALLY, REALLY BAD.

And, if you live in Atlanta and are reading this, here’s a little tip: DON’T DRIVE!

Whatever it is, it can wait.