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The scene: Dave and I were lying in bed late on Saturday morning. (We’re taking full advantage of our last few lazy weekends while we can.) Dave started playing with my hair, but not really doing anything, just sort of “arranging” it on the pillow around my face. I was still making a half-effort at sleeping, so I found this totally annoying.

Me: What on earth are you doing?

Dave: I’m fixing your hair. See? Now, you look just like Snow White.

Me: Oh yeah? Where are my dwarves?

Dave: [Gestures at Teenie, who's perched on the body pillow next to me] Well, you’ve got Grumpy right over there.

Me: [Point at Beaumont, who's sleeping on Dave's feet] Yeah, and I guess there’s Dopey too.

Then, I tried to say that our cat Cleo could be both Sleepy and Sneezy, since she is both. (She’s got asthma, so she wheezes a lot, and she has an enlarged heart, which makes her pretty lethargic most of the time.) However, somehow my brain-to-mouth connection malfunctioned.

Me: And I guess Cleo could be Sleazy…

Dave: [laughing his head off] Sleazy??

Me: I meant Sleepy and Sneezy! It just came out wrong!

We laughed about that for a minute or so, then quieted down.

Me:Yes, Sleazy, the lesser-known eighth dwarf…

Dave: You didn’t see him around much because he was always trolling the woods in his little pimp outfit.

Me: Sort of gives a whole new meaning to that “hi-ho” song, doesn’t it?

Dave: “Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work you go…”

I laughed so hard that I started choking. Poor ol’ Walt, probably rolling over in his grave, and it’s all our fault.

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Ok, this is where my nesting instinct has led me:

Oh yes, the boxes in the garage, they will be labeled. In various fonts. And then, perhaps I will stack them alphabetically. I haven’t decided about that last part yet.

You can make fun of me if you like. Believe me, Dave mocked the label maker plenty when I first bought it. Then he decided it would be a good idea to label all of the cables on the surround-sound system/home network in his office, so he can actually find what he’s looking for when he needs to go un-hook or re-hook something. Which he does all the time. Because he’s a guy.

So, ha! The label maker shall eventually be loved by all. Except Teenie, who clearly expresses her disdain for it in that photo. (Although honestly, as much as I love her, I admit that “disdain” is sort of her default setting. Not with me, of course. She’s all cuddles and purrs with me. The rest of the world? Not so much.)

Moving on: I have no idea why my father seems to be such a recurrent topic on my blog lately, but here he is again. The other day, we were having a conversation and he asked me if I was showing more now than in the last photo he saw of me. (I sent him that picture of me when I was 12 weeks pregnant. Six weeks ago.) I was like, “Um, gee. What do you think?”

But since my dad doesn’t have much of an imagination, he asked me to take more pictures. So I did. And here, we have the belly at 18 weeks.

Before you judge me, remember that I have a very short torso.

Although even considering that, I figure that at my current rate of expansion, by Christmas the circumference of my waist will be approximately the same as my height. Terrifying.

Also noteworthy: yesterday morning I was lying in bed during that decadent eight-minute stretch before the snooze alarm goes off. Unlike most mornings, I was actually awake during this little snooze-break. Dave and I were talking about feeling the baby move; people keep asking me if I’ve felt it kick yet, and it bothers me that I always have to say no. As if I’m going to get graded on the progress of my pregnancy or something. (No kicks before the 20-week mark: C-minus!) The problem is, what with all of the other “tummy issues” that I have on a regular basis (which we won’t discuss here), I really wasn’t sure if I had felt it move yet or not. I was waiting for some really obvious sign. Like, I don’t know, the outline of a footprint on my stomach.

I told Dave that the night before, as I was trying to fall asleep, I felt some fluttering that felt a bit more front-and-center than my usual tummy stuff, and I thought that might have been the baby moving. But I wasn’t sure.

Dave got up and went downstairs to turn the kettle on. (Those Brits love their tea, dontcha know.) I stayed in bed, lying on my side, with one hand sort of on top of my stomach. As soon as Dave left the room, I felt something bump my hand. I’m almost positive it was a foot. It shocked me so much that I yanked my hand away, and it took me a few seconds to recover to even realize that, “Hey! That was it!” So that was pretty cool.

Of course, I’ve been totally unable to re-create it ever since. It’s not like I can teach the baby to kick on demand. Yet.

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I suppose it’s common knowledge that pregnant women have all sorts of crazy dreams, right? And I have been having more than my share of them. Most of them are just bizarre, although I’ve had several nightmares. And not just any nightmares, these are the type that haunt me for the next day or two and give me the chills whenever I think about them. Not fun.

Last week, though, I had the Best. Dream. Ever.

I dreamt that I met George Clooney, and I had the opportunity to hook up with him. I’m not sure how exactly that happened, but he was there and he wanted me. Not a bad way to start off a dream, eh? Alas, I turned poor George down. I explained to him that I loved my husband, so I couldn’t have sex with him. But, I figured that Dave would probably be able to forgive me if George and I kissed for a little while.

I mean, come ON, it’s George freakin’ Clooney. Dave couldn’t possibly hold a grudge for me not being able to pass up an opportunity like this:

If any of you ladies could turn that down, you are of stronger moral fiber than I.

So, George and I made out. It was totally PG-rated, there wasn’t even any over-the-sweater action. But it was awesome.

Ok, so it’s actually kind of lame, but at least it was better than flea’s Clooney dream.

P.S. to Dave: I love you and I promise that George wouldn’t have a chance in real life. Honest.

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First of all, you guys really need to work on improving your in-flight movie selection. The Pink Panther? Really? Have you watched that movie? Because I watched the first 15 minutes, and trust me, it sucked. I never laughed once. And I’m pretty sure that I was supposed to. A few times.

And on the return flight, Aquamarine? What the hell is that, a movie about 14 year-old girls befriending a mermaid? I’ve never even heard of this movie, how on earth did you people track it down and decide that it was worthy of adding to your in-flight movie repertoire? My poor husband accidentally left his iPod and Gameboy in my parents’ mini-van, so he watched the movie out of desparation for something to do to pass the time. I can’t believe you subjected the poor man to such utter drivel.

Second, there is a flight attendant on the Dallas-Forth Worth to New Orleans route who is quite possibly one of the scariest women I have ever seen. I wish I had a photo to show you, but listen to this description: orangey fake-tanned, iridescent bright pink lipstick (all the better to accentuate her smokers’ teeth), and the hair. Dear god, the hair. Peroxided to within an inch of its life, with inches-thick crispy bangs, and which is being held in sort of a makeshift ponytail with not one but TWO giant clippies. One on the top and one on the bottom. And the clips aren’t even the same color, one is bright purple and the other is tortoiseshell-brown. But they have the effect of a semi-ponytail, in the sense that her hair is gathered up and pulled back off of her face. Unfortunately, her “faux-nytail” doesn’t hang down the way a normal ponytail would, since her hair has the consistency of straw. Instead, it sticks straight out from the back of her head, so she looks sort of like one of those pointer dogs whose found a dead bird or something. And American Airlines, you people hired this woman. I beg you, please give her a raise and the name of a good stylist.

Third, could you please explain to me why some of your flights have significantly more leg-room than others? Our hour-long connection from Dallas to New Orleans was nice and relatively roomy (for an airplane seat, anyway), but on the flight from Seattle to Dallas (and vice-versa)? We were so cramped that I was sweating in places where one should never sweat. And if I wanted to cross my legs, I had to do some elaborate yoga-like pose where I pull my knee up to my face before sliding it down on the other side of my leg. No room to just swing it over. I know you guys aren’t doing too well financially, so you want to fit as many passengers onto each flight as possible, but damn. At 5′5″, I’m relatively short, so imagine the discomfort that some of your taller passengers must experience. I’m not asking for much, just a little consistency among your fleet of fine aircrafts. And breathing room.

Also, your four-dollar snack box leaves a lot to be desired. The granola was ok, but the crackers were stale, and that cheese spread you give us to put on the crackers? Don’t even try to tell me that garbage is actual cheese. It’s faux cheese. Hell, let’s just call it feese. And it’s disgusting. Give a girl some real cheddar, why don’t you.

Just some suggestions to consider before my next flight with your airline - which, after this latest fiasco, will hopefully not be anytime in the foreseeable future.

Hugs and kisses,
Cindy

I’ll post the recap of the New Orleans trip tomorrow. I’m just too exhausted to think straight today.

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Since I have absolutely nothing interesting or funny to write about, it’s time for another installment of “what strange keyword searches are bringing people to my website?” I’m omitting all of the porn-related searches, because there are just too many of them to mention, and most of them are seriously, disturbingly gross.

Windshield wiper fluid gets in the nose?
Dude. Ouch.

Michael’s Bar & Grill, Rawlins, Wyoming
Hey, we were there! Best mozzarella sticks I have ever had in my life. And the guy who owned the place bought Kris a beer, so we liked him. Sucky town, good bar.

I hate Missouri
Boy, do I. No offense to anyone who lives there, but good LORD, it takes forever to drive across that state.

(My dad’s full name)
This struck me as odd because I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned my dad’s name here, so I don’t know how I got 3 hits from that. Huh.

short and bald do I even stand a chance in dating
Aww. Of course you do, little fella. There’s someone out there for everyone. You just don’t have a chance with me. (Not because I have an issue with short, bald men - I honestly don’t - but because I’m taken, bitches.)

Penis was 5 feet long.
I know I said I wouldn’t mention any porn searches, but HA! HAAAA!! Oh, how that made me laugh. (I’m pretty sure they got linked to this post, which still horrifies me.)

now what
This is my favorite search phrase yet. No kidding.

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About six years ago, I lived in Worcester, Massachusetts. I’ve already written about how awful my apartment was in that town. But I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this guy that I dated while I lived there. “Dated” is actually kind of a loose term. It was during a time when I was very lonely and depressed, so I was drinking a lot more than normal. He was just the guy who happened to be around for a few drunk make-out sessions. For the record, I never slept with him, because apparently even when I’m sh*t-faced, I still have some shred of good judgment.

His name was Michael, although he told me that everyone called him Leroy. I don’t know why. I refused to call him that, and it pissed him off that I insisted on calling him Michael. Of course, now he has the nickname PsychoMike. I honestly don’t remember what PsychoMike did for a living, I think it had something to do with stereo equipment. We hung out/dated for a couple of months. When one of my co-workers had a Christmas party at her house, I brought him as my date, which turned out to be a huge mistake. He followed me into the bathroom when I went to go re-apply my lipstick and tried to have sex with me in there. My boss and my boss’s boss were less than 20 feet away from the bathroom door, so I was having none of that. We got into an argument about it later, and I’m pretty sure that’s the night we kinda-sorta “broke up” (since technically he was never a boyfriend in the first place, there was nothing to officially break up, but whatever).

For the next few weeks, everytime I saw him out around town, I would ignore him, and then he would call me at 3 a.m. and scream into my answering machine, calling me a bitch and the c-word and all kinds of other lovely language. Yeah, he was a winner. Oh, also, one of my friend’s boyfriends pointed out that he sort of looked like the mad scientist’s little sidekick on South Park, and honestly? Even when I was dating him, I could sort of see the resemblance. Short, bald, bug-eyed, bad clothes, the whole thing. I have no excuses, just that all of this happened during a particularly low point in my life.

Over the past 5 or 6 years, I’ve gotten the occasional email from him. The last one was well over two years ago, and it honestly scared the bejeezus out of me, so I never answered him. I thought that was the end of it. Then last week, I got this in my inbox:

hey there cindy…… long long time no speak…… anyway, was searching through my VERY old address book and spotted your e-mail and thought i’d say what’s up!!!…. just to refresh your memory it’s mike from lovely worcester….. refresh your memory a little more…… remember you/ myself went to holiday party few years back …… like i said found your e-mail and thought i would say hello…..

Um, ok. Like the only thing I’d remember about him was that Christmas party, not the fact that we dated for two months prior to that. Right. I started to write him back with a very pleasant chit-chatty email about what I’ve been up to lately, and it included things like, “oh hey, remember my friend Melissa? She got married and had a baby boy last year.” (Which is true, yay for Melissa.)

Then I remembered the last email he sent to me (back in 2003-2004 timeframe), and I decided that the best way to deal with The Crazy is to confront The Crazy head-on. So I scrapped the email I had originally written and went with this instead:

Hi Mike,

Yes, of course I remember you. I think the last time you emailed me, you told me you were in love with me and you wanted me to send you some of my panties or something like that. Honestly, you kinda freaked me out. Hope there isn’t any of that business going on anymore.

By the way, I got married about a year ago. His name is Dave, he’s British, he’s a computer geek like I am, and he makes me laugh like no one I’ve ever met in my life. So I’m very happy these days.

Hope you’re doing well.

Cindy

I know it was sort of bitchy and snide, but I really hoped that would be the end of it. Of course, The Crazy always has to respond:

HEY THERE CINDY… FIRST AND FOREMOST CONGRATS! LASTLY…. VERY SORRY I “FREAKED YOU OUT” CRETAINLY, WAS NOT MY INTENTION… ALWAYS THOUGHT YOU WERE NICE… IT’S ALL ABOUT SPENDING TIME W/ SOMEONE WHO MAKES YA LAUGH…. I’M DOING WELL THANKS

And that was that. (Btw, all of the above emails are completely copied and pasted. I don’t know why he writes in all caps sometimes and not others. One of life’s great mysteries, I guess.) I didn’t reply because I honestly don’t want to keep the communication lines open with this guy. Oh, and that bit about him being in love with me and wanting me to mail him my panties? That actually happened. Swear to God.

The whole thing just reminded me of why I’m so grateful to have Dave, because dude, I seriously traded up. (Aside to Dave: Love you, babe.)

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I’ve been debating on whether or not I was going to write about this, or if it fell under the too personal/gross category, but…. ah, hell with it, I still think it’s funny. A few people who read this have already heard this story, so apologies to them.

Ok, I’m using these “ovulation detector” tests while we’re trying to get pregnant. Basically, you pee on a stick and if there are two lines, it means you’re ovulating, so quick! Go have sex! Whee! However, there are two major catches on the instructions:
1. It says that the best time to test is between 10 a.m. and 8 p.m. Apparently most women get their LH surge in mid-morning, so that would be the best time to detect it. That’s not entirely undoable, but I’m at work for the majority of that time frame, so it definitely makes things more complicated. Especially since I absolutely will not be bringing any pee sticks into a ladies’ room stall with me. Call me a prude, but I save that stuff for when I’m at home.
2. The directions say to minimize your fluid intake and not pee for at least four hours before you take the test. Now that is a problem. I’m one of those eternally thirsty people. I always have a beverage at my desk - usually two, a water and a soda. And the only time that I ever go four hours without peeing is when I’m asleep.

But, in the interest of trying to get myself “up the duff” (as Dave says - don’t ask me, I guess it’s a British thing), I’ve decided to give it a try. The time to start monitoring my cycle was this past Sunday. No big deal. Monday was the first time I tried it on a workday. I managed to go the whole afternoon with only one cup of water. Driving home nearly killed me because I have this insane neuroses about the fact that I must go to the bathroom before I get in the car to go anywhere. It’s one of those things my mother drilled into my head as a child, and I seriously can’t go anywhere without peeing first. Many of my friends (and Dave too) have teased me about this over the years. It’s kind of insane, I can’t even go a mile down the street to pick up our take-out, even when I know without a doubt in my mind that I’ll be back at home in less than 5 minutes. But on Monday afternoon, I did it. I called Kris from my cell phone and had her talk to me during my entire drive home to distract me from thinking about the fact that “oh my god, I didn’t pee before I left work, now what will happen if I hit traffic, I will explode and die!!”

By the time I got home, it had been about three hours since the last time I peed. I was practically hopping up & down on one foot, so I decided that three hours was close enough to four, and went to do the test.

Teenie followed me into the bathroom, just like she always does. I don’t really have any hang-ups about cats in the bathroom with me, so no big deal. She sat on the floor in front of the toilet, right between my legs - the perfect spot so I can scratch her head while I’m going to the bathroom, which is normally fine.

I guess I didn’t realize just how badly I really needed to pee, because the force of it literally ricocheted off of the pee stick and hit the cat smack in the face. She sort of jerked her head back and gave me this absolutely horrified look, and then stormed off to the other side of the bathroom, where she sat on the bathmat and started washing her face. I could not stop laughing. It was only a drop or two, it’s not like I sprayed her, but her reaction was priceless.

Of course, after all of this, I had to go and tell Dave (because really, the poor guy isn’t subjected enough to the details of my bodily functions), and we both laughed until we cried. Such responsible pet owners we are. We’re obviously totally ready for parenthood.

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