Happy Halloween

Or, in other words, a lamentation.

Pumpkinfest, a day heralded above all other days, was not to be this year. Between my work schedule and my sick schedule, life is too unpredictable to invite everyone I know to dress as pumpkins and come eat pumpkin pie with me. Tragedy.

Next year, though, it's on.

The sacrifices we make!

Glamorous

My glamorous life has taken a turn for the less-glamorous in several ways that may entertain you. In the past three months I have:

1. not done one single dish.
   
2. vomited over fifty times (in case you were jealous about the dish situation).
   
3. gained twenty pounds.
4. eaten fifteen slices of pizza from Costco.
5. tried Taco Bell for the first time.
6. not slept through the night once.
   
7. missed all of tomato season.
8. read eight books about babies, give or take.
9. begun having freaky nightmares every night.
10. convinced myself that I will give birth to an intersex child and move to an intersex-friendly community (maybe Portland?).
11. tested the limits of Ryan's time-management skills and overall obedience.
12. shaved my legs and underarms for the first time in about five years. Strangely, it helped.
    
13. heard a heart beating in my body that isn't my heart.
14. realized I have to find a pediatrician.
15. felt grateful that I had an upper respiratory infection because it meant I had to call in sick to work.
16. felt astonished that I could get an upper respiratory infection when I had drunk a Coldbuster at Jamba Juice every day for the past six weeks. False advertising; they should have a pregnancy clause.
    
17. noticed that people want to tell me either why parenting is wonderful heaven or miserable hell, though I suspect a combination might be most accurate.
18. peed on the bathroom floor due to the forcefulness of my dry heaves. I was kind of proud.
19. had sore abs from vomiting. Again, pride.
    
20. contracted a bladder infection.

The scope of this blog's misnomer title seems to be expanding by the minute.

A few things

First of all, you're welcome.

Second of all, I'm pregnant.

Third of all, this was my father's response:

Just a suggestion-

1. If it is a boy, don't name him "Lee".

2. If it's a girl, don't name her "Lea".

Also, hippie-era names such as "Moon Unit" have not stood the test of time well.
It's your choice, of course.
Keep me posted.

Love, Dad

Roger that, Dad. We're pretty sure we're going with Dweezil anyway.

I regret the time that has elapsed since I last posted. We took a most wonderful and memorable road trip through the pacific northwest and had such a marvelous time that I came home in a state of incubation. I spent the entirety of August and September rolling on the floor in agony, vomiting intermittently, marveling at the masochism of women who host more than one bloodthirsty blastocyst in their lifetimes. Adding insult to injury, our house was burglarized (all computers stolen) cementing the impossibility of blogging.

Your patience is appreciated.

I have made the unfortunate discovery that cheese pizza from Costco buys me several hours without the gags. Hopefully I'll feel better soon enough that this kid doesn't emerge composed entirely of cheese.

Comin' atcha April 2011...