Dental Damns

Ever since my Novocain-less root canal of 1999 I have been a stickler about getting my teeth cleaned regularly. For the record, though, my root canal was not due to dental denial but more due to a piece of pavement hell bent on meeting my face head on and the accompanying 40 pound backpack that ensured this happening.

But I digress.

So I get to the dentist's office and immediately tell the girl, "I'm fine but a little more pregnant than the last time so - no xrays or needles or - um - anything pokey." We talked for a bit about her prego friends and whether or not mint polish would make me gag (we were safe) and then she started the cleaning.

My eyes were closed when I felt the tugging on my scalp. Curious, I opened my eyes and she giggled. "Sorry," she said, "I got the polisher caught in your hair! That's never happened! I mean, I poked my husband in the eye the other day during his cleaning - but at least I didn't pull his hair!"

I tried to swallow. "Well, glad to be an example!"

A few minutes later she added: "You have a tiny mouth,"frowning behind her blue mask she pulled a spitty polisher from my mouth. "And wet."

That's right.

The professional tooth lady told me I had a tiny, wet mouth.

I tried to giggle but choked on my own spit.

So call your dentist now, because you never know if you'll get the normal compliment of "your gums look nice!" or "no cavities!" or, the classic, "you have a tiny, wet mouth!"

ahahahahha :)

Baby Bumpers

The warm goo was spreading across my poofy midsection as my husband and mother watched from their respective chairs.

It was awkward.

I'm not one to flaunt my Michelin-style mid-section so to have three separate people watch as it is bared and then gooed - is NOT my idea of a good time.

The Ultrasound Tech started smooshing my lower abdomen with the scanner (it looks like the UPC scanner at most retail outlets I worked at) and there was the baby - mooning us. His tiny head was turned away from us with his butt pushed upwards.

Sleeping like his dad already who likes to use his ass as a not-so-secret weapon while snoring away.

"Hmm, I'm just going to take some measurements," I could tell that she wasn't too happy about my kid's position. She then rattled off and talked about head size, showed us the baby's feet, both legs, arms and watched as the tiny person mouthed non-words and rested their little head on one hand. Moving around, the baby stared at us and continued to open and close their mouth as the Tech continued to manipulate my tummy fat.

"Well, I don't think we'll be able to tell - well - that right there looks like a penis! Oh yeah - sometimes you can't tell, but, well, he's got a pretty prominent penis!'

Harry cheered. Mom cried. I contemplated the fact that there was a penis growing inside of me now.

:) Harry Shivel IV is still set to be due on April 1st, 2010.

Until then - I repeat - THERE IS A PENIS GROWING INSIDE ME.

Leggo My Preggo Eggo

So obviously I've not posted a blog in sometime and for that I apologize. But I have a good excuse! I'm pregnant!

17 weeks along - and the first 12 were AWFUL! I was sick all the time and then I caught a horrendous cold that made me sound like a barking, mentally deranged seal which would make me gag and THEN I'd toss my cookies (sometimes literally as I love me some Cookie Crisp cereal) and THEN, as if THAT wasn't bad enough - this happened:

I was lying in bed, enjoying the last of the 15 minute naps that my coughing fits would allow when the alarm went off. I reached up to turn off the annoying buzzer - and coughed. My back popped. I screamed. Harry hopped up like he'd been shot and ran around turning on lights in his underwear. I had thrown out my back - coughing. I was in such immense pain. And I was so scared. I'd been so good about taking better care of this fetus than the last one that decided not to stick around so the idea of taking medicine scared me. But seeing as how Harry had to lower me on to the toilet and sit me up every three hours - I had no choice. By the end of the weekend I was almost able to sit up, roll over and use the bathroom again on my own. I was as accomplished as most 18 month olds - and thanks to the drugs my doc insisted I take - I slept just as much, too.

My due date is April 1st, fittingly enough, on April Fool's Day. And - since I'm the queen of "TMI" - I must tell you of the conception date as I know exactly when this little "surprise" was sprung.

It was a late night a few months ago and Harry was waiting for our friend Tom to come over to play a rather vulgar game of "Tony Hawk" for old times' sake. While we were waiting for him to arrive - a make out session commenced. Ten minutes later Tom arrived. We - had not. So Harry scooted him down the stairs and told him to set up the Xbox. A respectable amount of time later, Harry joined him and I laid in bed, unawares that my netherregions were being invaded. So to speak.

So, that's why I like to say that it took every Tom, Dick and Harry to get me pregnant. :)

There's a lot going on right now and I'm going to try to make sure to keep this blog updated as the baby days start to pile up and end on that fateful day - when the stork will arrive with a baby. And a vlasic pickle.

Don't burst my bubble. :)

You Smell Like Old

I'm one blue-haired beehive away from officially being an old lady.

For two weeks now I have been sneezing, blubbering, snotting and hacking up my lung matter - the latter of which keeps me up at night. I've tried cough syrup with codeine and gargling salt water and sprite with crackers. Nothing helped with the cough. I would HORNK and sputter and gag and - unfortunately - toss my tummy contents with such force it would leave me with a smattering of bloody freckles to match my light brown ones.

And then - it happened.

It started innocently enough. I plugged in my humidifier and inserted one small mentholated pad to circulate in the air. The relief wasn't instantaneous but it was still calming. My throat still tingled and my head still hurt - but the smell - the soothing vapors - was nice. So nice.

And then - I got some Vick's Vapor Rub. The gooey mentholated syrup mocked me from its blue jar with striking green wrapper. I knew that if I smeared even one finger-full of the stuff - I'd be a goner. I'd be addicted.

Like a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat salad bar (trust me - I was a FAT kid - and I LOVED me some salad!!!) I was up to my elbows in Vick's best within minutes. The burn and the vapors lulled me into a sleep-induced haze that not even the foul-tasting codeine-laced medicine could do.

I tried to hide my new shame from Harry. Tried to not let him see my nightly ritual of mentholated humidifier coupled with a thin sheen of Vapor Rub on my chesty regions. But I was too tired Sunday night - and I slipped.

Actually when he came back from fetching me my fourth bottle of water for the day I was in bed, covers pulled up to my navel, topless. For one moment he seemed happy - like Christmas came early - and with a twin - but that eye twinkle quickly faded when I held out one chubby hand - clutching the Vick's.

"Help me?" I said, coughing pathetically for emphasis.

"Sure." He had the good grace to pretend to be amused by my antics.

"Avoid the girly bits," I said and laid back with my eyes shut. I waited for the cool tingle of the eucalyptus and menthol vapors to reach my assaulted sinuses.

"Hey - this stuff looks like my-"

"Shut up," I interrupted. "Don't make this perverted. Ahhhh yes. Avoid the nipples. Ahhhhh." I sighed again and laid back, chest glistening, nose red and spittle still hanging from my chin from my last coughing fit.

"Wanna do it?" I asked. Mostly to see what he'd say.

He slowly capped the heaven-sent scented rub and added it to the collection of hard candy, cough drips, tums and water bottles that litter my bedside table.

"Not even a little," he said.

"Oh thank God..." I muttered and rolled over to have sweet, sweet mentholated tinted dreams.

Don't be a Dick

We just got back home from a week spent at Myrtle Beach, SC. One morning we even went to the beach. I ventured out to my ankles - squealed - and then ran back to the safety of my thirty dollar rented blue lounge chairs and umbrella. Harry was braver. He stayed in and jumped into the high, hurricane-like waves and even body surfed a few into the seashell-strewn shore. Unfortunately, while in the water - he got attacked by a sea creature.

No, not a jellyfish.

Or a shark.

Or even a curious fish--with teeth.

Later, when in the shower, it turned out that quite a few of the tiny sharp shells from the shore made it into the "safety net" of his swimtrunks. Once there, they decided to attack whatever tender flesh they came in contact with. I stared in horror as he got in the glass-walled shower, removed his trunks - and half a pound of shells fell out.

I went to lay on the bed while he worked at getting all the misplaced sea bits into one corner.

"I think I'm injured," he said a few minutes later when he emerged, wrinkly and red from the steam.

"What? Oh no - where?" I was concerned - we still had two days of hardcore shopping to do at the surrounding Tanger Outlets.

"On my penis."

"Oh no - lemmie look." Now, when one is married, or even just in a committed relationship - these requests seem less odd. I do not recommend trying this on a first through fifth date.

But he obliged and laid down on the bed. I carefully examined the specimen to look for anything unusual and, sure enough, a small scratch was at the very top.

"Okay," I said, getting a good look at the cut to make sure no shell remained. "I think it's fine it's just a little pri-" I stopped as I realized what I was going to say was not what I meant to say nor should any woman say while holding a man's pride in her hand.

"It's fine," I tried to cover.

"No, what were you going to say?" Concern filled his voice and I got the giggles. Again, not something one should do when looking at their mate's manparts.

"Holly!"

"Fine," I said carefully covering him with the white towel. "I was going to say that it just looks like a little prick - and that's all. But I knew you'd take it wrong."

He stared at me, face turning red, trying not to laugh.

"A little prick, huh?" he said. "THAT'S what you're going to say to me?" He was pretending to be affronted so I sat back on the bed, crossed my arms and huffed.

"Yes. And don't take that the wrong way," I said.

"Noooooooo," he said sarcastically. "I would NEVER take that the wrong way."

And he hasn't. Not even when he repeats it - all the time - at random times - especially on the way home.

"Should we turn here?" he'd ask.

"Sure - I trust you," I'd say, not looking up from my magazine.

"Are you sure - cuz apparently I have a little prick..."

Luckily his cut has healed nicely on his member. Though if he doesn't quit reminding me of my misspoken concern - he may have far worse injuries to be concerned about...

Let That Settle In...

Harry and I were walking out of the darkened theater on Tuesday night having just seen "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" for the second time.

"I liked it - I really did," I said as I tossed my Cherry Icee cup into the trash, "but don't you think it was a bit long at times?"

"Yeah," Harry said absently as he hitched up his britches for the millionth time making me want to find him a belt - and strangle him with it. "So - what should I do? About the car? Do I go ahead and trade it for that SUV? What do you think?"

We'd been over this topic before.

Repeatedly.

A lot.

My patience?

Gone.

My opinion?

Filled with four-letter words and spittle.

"I don't know," I sighed, regaining my composure by staring at a poster with Bradley Cooper's face smiling from its center. "Well, don't settle. That's when you're always really unhappy. When you settle for what you don't really want."

"But I'm happy with you!"

I stopped. My head swung toward him and I smiled a sweet smile. "I'm so sorry, dear, that you had to settle for me. Since I was all you could get. So you settled. For me. So sorry. Call your granny. Tell her your moving back in. Now. And to come pick you up at the theater cuz you so ain't ridin' home with me!" I get country when I get irate.

But then I giggled. So I knew my cover was blown.

"I meant that you made me happy so I never have to settle," he tried and pawed at my arm/sideboob.

"Diggin' a hole."

"You know I love you! And you know that's not what I meant."

I stopped in the middle of the lobby and mimed digging a hole.

"I didn't settle! Wait, stop! Come here!" he dragged me by the arm so that we were hugging under the poster of an upcoming Disney feature. Rubbing his scrufflies on my face he kissed me gently and squeezed me in such a way I feared my Icee would revisit. "I didn't settle." he said.

"Fine," I said and accidently smiled. I tried to cover it with my hand as I was attempting to score a guilt-filled foot massage out of the deal - but he saw it.

We walked hand-in-hand to the elevator and as the doors closed he said, "So really - what do you think I should do about my car?"

And his body was never seen again....

:)

Still there?

I used to love blogging.

Every instance in my life was judged on whether or not it could be blogged and turned to the nets for the enjoyment of others. And I guess I still judge life that way - but the idea of logging in to blogger, fighting with the limited controls and trying to move and crop pictures, well, it's just too much!

When Twitter is instantaneous - and Facebook is so easily accessed on my phone - the idea of blogging, cropping, editing and sticking pics in various places is sooo not appealing anymore!

So - is blogging a dying art?

Was it snatched up by the media and by the publishing and movie biz, glamorized, sensationalized and expelled back out - like gum that's lost its flavor?

Maybe I'm just disenchanted.

Hmm...