Anne Nahm

Sha-na-na-na-na-na…. It’s my due date too, yeah!

Since I have been disgustingly “good” this year (as I was knocked up for most
of it), here is my Fantasy 2006 Resolution List:

*Get drunk as a monkey.
*Drink lots of coffee.
*Drink lots of coffee while drunk as a monkey.
*Post on the internet while drunk as a monkey and refuse to take it down the
next day. In fact, don’t even read the post for 24 hours.
*Call Ralph on the Big White Phone AKA pray to the porcelain god AKA get
sick as a parrot
*Wonder what the hell I posted on the internet.
*Apologize to various parties on the internet.
*Inhale deeply when I pass a smoker.
*Get a nitrate/trite loaded pepperoni and ham pizza with extra nitrates.
*Stay up past 10:30 and maybe even… watch a movie.
*kick my relatives the hell outa my house already.
*Eat lots of sushi.
*Reclaim a close personal relationship with my toes (ex: being able to actually see them and possibly paint them again).

How Do I Tell Them That Because of the Unfreezing Process, I Have No Inner Monologue?

Oops… Did I Say That Out Loud?

Contraction?…. Is that a contraction?… Belly hardening… Abdominal pain… Oh. My. God. I think it is.
Omigod! I really think it is!
“Ffffffffpppppppppttttt!”
Oh.
Definitely not.
Omigod….Ewwwww….
ME (to husband): “uhhh. Stinky farts are back.”
HUSBAND: “They ever left?”
Will get you back for that once stinky fart makes its way over to you. Ha.

So, I was really, really hoping I could start this post with “Ack… doubled over in labor pains… Must..go..now.” But instead, I get to start it with this instead. Bleh…

Last night, I had some vague notion that the time between Christmas and New Year’s is aptly akin to that little bridge of flesh between one’s who-ha and poop chute- vaguely necessary but also completely useless. Yeah, but now the comparison eludes me and I am left with nothing but that unpleasant image. Anyone seeing the wisdom there, please jump in.

In other news, in the ongoing Grand Tally of Coolness, I obtained 10 points for being carded while buying a bottle of wine at the supermarket. I suspect that the check-out guy was actually *losing* 10 points for his Grand I.Q. Tally for even remotely suspecting that the pregnant Momosaurus Rex toting a 3 year old could be under the legal limit. But still. Points are points. Yay continued doses of lash-tint and lipstick.

Also gained 10 points for accepting an invitation to a New Year’s Eve dinner party. Thus the wine, folks.

Will lose approximately *Ten Thousand* points later today when I call up hostess of party and confirm that we will be staying only until New Year’s East Coast Style, since we have a 3 year old and a pregnant lady on our hands. Holy crap, I may have to take a swig of wine just to get the nerve to make that call. Am somewhat praying to go into labor just to save myself the embarrassment. Truth is? By 9:00, I will probably be asleep on their couch.

So, I’m sure you all are dying to know what happened over at Ye Old Cervix Tapper’s this past week. Let me end that suspense for you.

Nothing… Happened.

But I get to make an appointment for inducement on the 9th. I know, I know – I get to go to a whole 41.5 weeks. How did I luck out like that you ask? Let me tell you – the doc will be on holiday. Also? I guess this week the doc thinks baby has leveled off at 8 lbs and may not actually be sasquatch sized.

Here is how wonderful my life is: Am I relieved at this news? Hell no. Instead am wondering if I have stunted the baby’s growth with all my worrying… and truly? All the damn chocolate I’ve been eating.

Nutrition? What’s that? No, seriously.

Anyway, am currently up with insomnia (and eating chocolate if you really want to know). Woke up from a dream that was both incredibly boring and yet also disturbing. You know the kind I’m talking about? I’m in a car with my dad and some cowboys I’m suing (???). The cowboys offer me $30,000 if I promise to drop the suit and never come back to their hometown again. I’m pissed because, hey! I’m the one suing here, damnit! You be afraid of me! And plus, what if I want to come back to their shit-kicking pile of dirt one day? I won’t take their dirty money! At which point my dad whips out some medical trivia on why the cowboy with the mustache keeps puckering his lip when he talks – incompletely resolved cleft palate. And damn are those other cowboys impressed with this.

Ta-dahh!… Wake up, you! I’m disturbed by this. Am sure some arm-chair therapist out there is reading this, smoking a pipe and shaking his head sadly “dah… clearly ze patient is neurotic and insecure.”

To you, arm-chair therapist, I say “well, *duh*. Hope you didn’t spend too much time in school to figure that out.”

Grrr….

HUSBAND walks into kitchen.

ME (wiping up pickle juice from the floor in front of the fridge): “You know how I never quite twist the lids closed on screw-top containers?”

HUSBAND (smiling sweetly down at me while I clean): “Oh yeah. That’s so cute. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

ME: “I guess my sister does it too, ’cause I’ve dropped about five jars she must have been into while she was here. I must have some sort of muscle memory. I never drop them if it’s me who screwed it on funny.”

Pause. Pause.

ME, considering the floor: “I don’t think it’s cute. I think it sucks.”

HUSBAND (collapsing into chair as if great burden has been lifted): “Oh, thank God for your sister!”

Sadly, since this happened, I have dropped another 3 jars *of my own twisting*. It’s like once karma has been let out of the bag, it’s been wildly biting me in the butt.

Greentshirt is currently sanitizing her own eyeballs and will soon have a report posted at her place on what the eff happened with Mitch from Accounting. Apparently not for the faint of heart, but perhaps good for that holiday resolution to lose 5 lbs. Enjoy! Yay bravery! Yay Greentshirt!

EDITED TO ADD: IT IS UP! HAHAHAHAHA!

Hope you had a good vacation. Out in the real world, I have been busy going to play-dates, baby ‘sprinkles’, and saying very motherly things like “my goodness!” and “you have two choices….” Also? My belly is so big now that I recently tried to unbutton my maternity pants to give myself some room to friggin’ breathe. All you mothers know the punchline, right?

Was not wearing pants.

In other news, I still need closure on Mitch from Accounting’s Man-gina (uhhh… no double entendre intended). In case you are one of those hero types who missed the last post. I’m just sayin’. Help!

In Which Anne Forgets To Take Her Crazy Pills

Upon the birth of my first child, I spent months of negotiations and careful planning to make sure that my husband and I were left alone to form the base of our tiny family. Grandparents were allowed to visit, but other relatives had to wait 2 weeks minimum to see the little grub. And then they could only come 1-2 at a time. And God help them if they tried to stay overnight.

I know. Am terrible, baby hogging monster. Have been nerdy, introverted, private person since I myself hopped out of the womb. But am lucky – family on both sides voluntarily put on choke-chains and stayed away despite salivating desire to see child fresh from the oven. I? Was so happy to not have to deal with *talking* to others that I wept with gratitude. See? Love my good, good-hearted family. Just want them to stay the eff away lots.

After having recently spent time with your own relatives recently, I’m sure that even the most social of you can find a niggling of understanding about not wanting to be armpit to armpit with family. And my family? If you invite them over, expect them to pop in on you while you are in your pajamas at breakfast. Or in the shower. Or asleep behind a locked door in your own room. You know… just to hang out. It’s in the family contract.

‘Natch, had same plan of action for this child. Blah-blah-months-of-careful-diplomacy-to-get-people-to-stay-away-blah. Then? Last week? Decided on a whim to screw that plan and invite them all over to see new baby while she’ll still practically be steaming with afterbirth. OUT OF NOWHERE, friends. OUT OF CAPS-LOCKED ABYSS OF INSANITY NOWHERE.

Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Have strangely optimistic attitude it will go OK. Actually, see myself as Bruce Willis in “Die Hard” (complete with receding hairline, machine gun and bloody bare feet), cackling wildly and screaming “bring it on, mutha-effas!” Bring it ONNNNNN!”

Don’t really have any closure on this anecdote, except to get you psyched about the A) upcoming chaos B) unraveling of my sanity brought on by my own big, fat mouth and/or C) warn you that blog may quickly degenerate into broken cursing and insane babbling.

It’s kind of like my Christmas gift to you. Enjoy!