I LOVE creative vandalism...especially when it has me looking forward to going to a certain intersection. May I present to you, this masterpiece. It's much better than the "All Hail Satin" stop sign one town over. Obviously, our kids are smarter than theirs are.

I was just looking at John's Mypsace profile because I don't think I have in a long time...which is funny because when we were dating, I furtively stalked it all the time. While checking it out this morning I read his about me and I laughed--it sums him up completely:

"I am hopelessly addicted to fun, drama, nicotine and love".

I've been a bad, bad blogger...but bear with me. I just went back to work this week and I'm trying to set up my classroom and do about 900,000 things that I would've done over the summer had my curriculum been finished and given to me before Tuesday. But it wasn't and therefore, I'm just learning to deal. My ankles are crazy swollen, the baby kicks me a lot and seems to say, "Mom, why don't you just lay down on the linoleum and relax" but I have to poke him back and say, "In time, Little Man..." because there's just no stopping me once I make my to do list. Luckily, I'll be taking a break tomorrow and then finishing it all up on Sunday--which hopefully means that I can find the humor in my life again. I mean aside from the fact that yes, I truly did lay down on the cool linoleum floor today and thought I died and gone to Heaven.

Something I don't understand about my husband is that he must use a different glass every time that he goes back for another drink. He must, the little drinking glass primadonna! Because how else can you explain two people going through 18 glasses (true count, as I loaded them into the dishwasher) and only one glass being used by me?

Mark my words people, I'm going to get him a sippy cup with his name on it.

John just "stormed" dramatically downstairs because he didn't like the way the interventionist guy on the show Intervention was being passive aggressive towards the addict. As he ran downstairs (to smoke in his man cave) he said (and I quote), "I'd never let him run my intervention" which left me wondering what people were going to intervene about...leavinga gazillion socks in his car? Being a good cook? For playing with his iPhone too much? I dunno.

And as he went downstairs I'm fairly sure he muttered, "I hate your TV shows..." which is really just code for the fact that he's jealous that TIVO works overtime for me and not him!

Last night when John came home from work we were snuggling on the couch and then you know, a back rub turns into a lower back rub and then your pants come off...like always. Boys, they are so slick with their seduction tactics...and wouldn't you know it, it still works on me! Anyways, so there we are in the beginnings of pregnancy sex which if you didn't know is like 99% awkward, trying to find ways in which my belly doesn't hurt or doesn't get in the way--and I don't even want to get into the fact that the baby decides to pound my kidneys at the same time John's pounding er...well... anyways...on with the story. I have the utmost faith that we'll get the handle on it, but since this belly seemed to just magically appear overnight, I've been having issues with balance and every day maneuvering...again, on with the story...

So there we are, John doing his best at trying to make me feel comfortable and not at all like I have a volleyball where my flat stomach once was when all of a sudden he says to me, "Do we need to stop?" I give him the crazy eye, and think to myself, "Are you crazy? There is no stopping at this point!" I think I even dug my heel in his back to emphasize this. In case he didn't catch that clue I said, "No, why?" and then I followed his gaze towards the Band-Aid on my calf (that was resting daintily on his shoulder). It appeared that black ooze was coming out from under it. I panicked for just a second and then realized that it was just a combo of Neosporin and fuzzies from the black pj pants that I had been wearing minutes earlier. I explain this in as few words as possible, "No amputation necessary! As you were soldier! I'll explain later!" And then we were back into the game of pregnancy sex twister...but I thought it was pretty nice of him to offer to stop. I don't think he would've when we were dating, he would've just told me afterwards, "PS, your leg is gangrenous, you might want to get that checked out." It just shows he cares...about whether or not my leg is going to fall off.

.

Last night I dreamed I was at the grocery store but in every aisle it was just Marlboro Menthol Lights and bottles of Bombay Sapphire Gin...and I just kept loading the stuff into my cart like I was on Supermarket Sweep. Hmmm, wonder what my subconscious is craving?

...that I'm excited that the baby is a boy. My mom reminded me over the phone the other day that I was caught grinding my Barbie's head off using my dad's grinder in the garage--leaving a flesh colored stump where her head once was. Yay! I don't have to play dolls. I hate dolls...and um apparently, I like to dismember them.

Yesterday I found out that I was carrying a baby boy, it was a surreal experience because for some reason, I figured it was going to be asexual forever, but now it's real...it's a boy. I heard the technician announce it and cackle that my son loved to bare his genitals--clearly he is his mother's child. Come to think of it, he could definitely be his father's son as well--we all love to bare our genitals around here.

When I pictured myself as a mother, I always pictured playing with a little girl and dressing her up in little cute pink dresses and doing girly stuff (this was always the vague part...I don't really know what we would be doing). For one hot minute I was a little sad that I wasn't having a girl (Don't ever let my son read this ok???). Then I thought about it, my childhood resume includes "best mudpie maker east of the Mississippi", "most casts in a single summer due to climbing trees that shouldn't be climbed" and "most likely to ask her dad for an M-16 rifle (toy) to play war with the boys". Obviously, I wasn't much of a girls girl...and even today, I'd never do a girl justice. I wear black pants to work every. single. day, because I don't feel like being a lady at work. And don't get me started on how I do my hair--it has two styles, down and loose, or up in a ponytail (oooh options). And although I still think that little girls' clothes are wayyyyy cuter than little boys', I'm so excited to get him a little Eagles jersey and hang out with my little man. Only 19 weeks to go.

And remember, this will not be a mommy blog...as soon as I do something fun and more monumental than finding out the sex of my baby, I'll dish the dirt :)