Anne Nahm

I read to the part in Twilight in which Edward reports he will not have sex with Bella because he might “lose control” and “accidentally” punch her face into her skull. I lolled and lolled. I feel ya, Ed, you cold balled bastard. (In fact, I’m kind of rooting for that to be the twist ending. With lots of blood spatter. And then maybe a scene where he vampires out and sucks her mashed up head like a giant lollipop.)

Then I put the book down, scratched my butt, went over to the computer, and googled the author, Stephenie Meyer. Apparently she wrote that five hundred page book in three months. After waking up from a dream. Having not really written too much before. And then signed a three book deal for a quarter million dollars with her first novel.

Also? She is one year older than me and she did all that three years ago.

And I just stopped weeping and rending my hair over those facts right…. Now. Which I guess means it’s time to go back to finding out if Edward is beautiful, cold, and dangerous still.

PS With Spoiler: I am two hundred fifty some pages through and so far this is what has happened: High school sucks, gym class, guys like Bella, Edward is probably a vampire, movies in biology, Edward is definitely a vampire and oooh! He’s sparkly in the sunlight. Oh, and lots of nose rubbing collarbones and declarations of love.

That’s it. For two hundred pages of my life that I will never get back. And yet? I know I will just keep on reading. This is possibly the most sadomasochistic relationship I’ve ever been in with a book. I honestly don’t know whether I enjoy the reading part more or the throwing the book across the room in disgust part more.

After two consecutive evenings chock-full of nightmares, I have decided that I really, really want to participate in NaNoWriMo for the first! Time! Ever.

Because the dreams that are pretty much about non-stop (how shall I say?) titty twisters have made me much less fond of sleeping than I have been previously. And not the sexy (if there is such a thing) variety of nipple whipples, but rather I have been plagued by unfortunate … uhm… accidents leading to purple nurples on perpetual REM loop.

I hesitate to be more descriptive as there are some string of phrases I don’t want google to associate with my site. Just… Well, if you were to walk by a clothesline one breezy summer afternoon? And all the little wooden clothespins became animated and attackish? And not all the running and screaming in the world seems to matter? Because chomp-chomp! I dunno. Perhaps the less said about my subconscious the better.

Unfortunately, NaNoWriMo starts Saturday, and something-something fifty thousand words in a month. I would really like to write that much in a month, but that means writing about 1700 words a day. I just can’t see the actual day-to-day thing happening. Not without caffeine. And serious childcare. And more than the half-brain I currently possess. Plus, missing even a day pretty much steamrolls any hopes of finishing.

So I think I am going to try for about half that many words in a month. More of a NaNoHalfAssMo if you will. Because no organization should be forced to deal with my whole ass anyway. Sub-taglined, NaNoHalfAssMo: The astroglide alternative to NaNoWriMo.

Annnnnnd I’ll just stop there as this post has entirely too much of an S&M theme emerging. If only I could remember the safety word. Damn.

In other useless facts, I am trudging through Twilight. I know some people love it. I am reluctantly pulled in as it does remind me of being in highschool – in that it is boy crazy, fairly shallow, and with all these adolescent gothy undertones. But I swear, if I have to read about how beautiful Edward is again, I’m going to have to really start hoping someone rides the guy a tremendous wedgie in the lunchroom.

In fact, the whole book (so far) begs the question: Of what type junk does Edward possess? And is it effected by wedgies, groin kicks, or heavy make-out sessions? Are blue balls possible with lack of normal blood flow? And wouldn’t ice cold balls be really gross? Much more gross than the ice cold fingertips so far introduced in the reading material. Unless ‘ice cold balls’ was the safety word, in which case, awesome!

Am also instantly addicted to this season’s Celebrity Rehab. Zomg, Gary Busey. Why? Why aren’t there some PSAs warning that one single episode could totally crack me out waiting for another installment?

I have been trying to ease up off the political stuff, but there have been several awesome posts out there lately that get the angry back up in my blood, and election day is right around the corner.

First, if you missed Julie at A Little Pregnant talking about your uterus and John McCain, I highly recommend checking out her post, linked here. Sometimes I feel like seeing all these articles showing yet another reason why the McCain/Palin ticket is not the best choice for leadership in our country is a little like kicking a decrepit old grandpa while he is already down and trying to stuff his hemorrhoids back in. But according to this poll out yesterday, it is still a very tight race.

Also, these two posts got me going again on the matter of Prop 8 in California. Currently, same sex marriages are legal here. A ‘Yes’ vote on Prop 8 would be a vote to make same sex marriage illegal. The first post on this matter is by the faboo Mr. Lady at Whiskey in my Sippy Cup. The other is Looky, Daddy,

from whence I took this picture.

Where I live in California, they have been playing Yes on Prop 8 commercials ad nasuem. In my opinion, the use of scare tactics in these commercials is so ridiculous they have done just about everything but had a flamingly gay couple jump out of a closet and scare some nice heterosexual family to death. Because apparently the homosexual agenda of marriage includes more of the boogeyman behavior as part of the rituals and less of the finding a life partner and sharing the same civil rights heterosexuals get.

Here is a great rebuttal to one of these commercials, clarifying what appears to be some seriously misleading statements made in the original. Original commercial here.

I don’t understand why a campaign would resort to fearmongering and deception if they thought their principles were valid with compelling reasons supporting them. And from a religious standpoint, I wonder if God would be cool with this kind of thing.

From the bathroom: “Mommy, come look! I pooped! In the potty!”

Me: “Oh yeah? Good job!”

*Long awestruck gasp from bathroom.*

Me, walking in: “You OK?”

Her: “my poop looks like a squirrel!”

Eyeballing creation while trying not to breathe. “So it does.”

Her, smugly pulling up pants. “I made an animal.”

So here’s what 17 weeks is looking like for me, third time out. It’s also what gaining a muthereffing six pounds in one month looks like. Whee. I was really hoping I could put off the scene when the nurse gasps, drops her notepad, and triple checks the scale for later on in this pregnancy.

Which, PS, has happened both previous pregnancies at around 7 months. And again at 8 months one time. I’m really kind of surprised I even have a sense of shame anymore. Except this time it is at 17 weeks. Also, this nurse really didn’t need to go, “beep….. beep…. beep” and fake forklift me off the scale after she was done weighing me. Totally unprofessional.

Want to see a little more? Here you go.

You’ll note where they are still checking for the heartbeat. Not on the part sticking out the furthest. That part of me is apparently gestating my baby’s Cheeze Doodle doppelganger. Also, if you are wondering how I get such a fabulous blue tinge to my fishbelly, I have to disappoint: No amount of staying out of the sun or bathing in non-fat milk can get you this pale. You have to be born with it. Or cloned with glow-in-the-dark jellyfish DNA spliced in.

Am mocking the belly. But lest you get the wrong impression, am also very happy with it. And rubbing it all the time. And smiling to myself in the most gag inducing motherly way.

At my check up this week, the doc couldn’t find the heartbeat. She looked for a full one hundred and twenty seconds. Then she had to stop and break out the old timey ultrasound to check with a big furrowed eyebrow and lack of eye contact while she greased the equipment up.

With the first baby, I had this naiveté that everything would go perfectly. Seeing the ultrasound that time was a bit of a letdown to be honest: What are those lines and curves? Oh yeah, it’s a baby. I knew that.

The second child, I was a little more apprehensive. I guess I had been around other kids enough to get a sense of what could go wrong. But I brought my husband and daughter to that ultrasound, and I was too distracted with both of them to get worried. Before I was really thinking about it, the tech was saying ‘healthy’ and ‘girl’ and we were piling back into the car because omigod-I-scheduled-that-during-naptime-whoops, get that kid to bed.

This time, laying there by myself in the doctor’s office, getting an unexpected ultrasound, waiting to see a heartbeat, it was different. Maybe it was that dose of panicky trying not to panic. Or, you know, wondering if six pound gain in one month was some signal of fetal death. Seeing that round circle of a head and curve of a perfect spine in the total silence of not even breathing while I waited? Most beautiful baby in the world. Like maybe all this time before I wasn’t really convinced there was anything inside me at all. Besides Cheeze Doodles.

Then the baby moved on screen and I started bawling a little bit. And the doc was all: What? She’d seen the heartbeat two minutes ago and was just checking to see if she could maneuver a bits shot in to let me know what the sex was.

PS, no bits were identified.