Team Cougar

So how old does he technically have to be in order for me not to qualify as an all out pedophile?

Geez.

Rebel without a Clue

Much like Sarah Palin, Ashley has gone Rogue on me. Back in the good ole' days I would shop for Ashley and he never bucked the system. He mindlessly put on anything that I bought him (which was usually likened to that of Justin Timberlake) and wore it without any complaint. He got a personal shopper out of the deal, and I got to dress him up like my own real life Ken doll- it was a win/win for all involved. Now, however, he has decided to have a fashion mind of his own and is RUINING my secret agenda of turning him into David Beckham (to which I can then lose 95 pounds and turn into Posh). Take Exhibit A: Yesterday I bring home a perfectly trendforward Flannel shirt that is so popular right now (see my inspiration below) and instead of just putting the damn thing on, he snubs it, and says he wants his style to be Classic, not trendy. Really?? Where is he getting these outlandish ideas? And when will I ever get my Ken Doll back?!? Now my master plan to get him in a Fedora will NEVER work. Sigh.

P.S.- Speaking of Going Rogue, will someone please send the memo to Levi Johnston that the subscribers of PlayGirl... aren't actually girls?? Somebody lied to him. Gross.

They Grow up so fast...

It's official, my child is a Genius. He made his first Thanksgiving turkey today in day school... actually it is more like a chicken nugget... and he may have been asleep when they handprinted him, but still... not bad for an 11 week old. Like I said, genius. ;) Here it is, along with a pic of him on picture day! Ha!

Picture Day!

The Parking Lot Chronicles

Funny things happen when you are sitting in the back of a Kohl's parking lot while pumping breastmilk- yes, this is what my life has succomb to. Since there is nothing to do but look out the window at the goings-on around you, that is what I did... and then I made up stories in my mind to go with what I observed. Behold how my sick mind works:

To my right, a middle-aged woman is cramming a candy bar in her mouth while subconciously looking around at voyers (a.k.a.- me), I suspect she is a closet eater and has food hidden in such places as her floor mat, panty drawer, and probably an urn on her mantle that she tells people holds the remains of her dead cat- who just died and has contributed to her emotional eating- and is now logging her 6th candy bar for the day only to bury the guilt by shopping... for shoes.

The couple to my left is sitting in the man's car while the woman's car is parked beside them which can only mean they are having an ilicit affair and these secret lovers are sharing their forbidden love... where else, the Kohl's parking lot, which is probably where they first met while he was looking for a nice suit and she was picking out a tie for her husband. The Shame of it all!

The man in front of me is vigorously cleaning the doors of his car with a Kleenex. Weird. This can only mean that he has just committed murder and is cleaning the evidence before strolling into Kohl's to buy a bedsheet to roll the body up in, which is more than likely in his trunk.

Meanwhile, I have my boob out in plain view with a suction cup attached to me looking like the prize cow at a county fair. So I ask you, who's the real sicko here?

Anyway, here is the latest picture of my little prize cow... ;)

(admit it, for a split second you thought you were about to see a picture of my boob didn't you?)

I'm kind of a big deal...

I am now writing for At Home Tennessee Magazine! I have my first article in the November issue called "Balancing Act" about a home rennovation done by Baylor Bone Interiors. Check it out!!

I'm goin' all Vegan on your ass...

Ok seriously. Those who know me know that I have a huge passion for animals- all animals. Once, in college, I even tried to save the mice that were LIVING IN MY MATTRESS by trapping them and setting them free into the wild of my backyard. (I agree, it was a little extreme, even for me) Nevertheless, I have come upon new and disturbing knowledge about our food supply (the meat industry) and the horrible path it has veered off of in recent years. This information came from Jonathan Safran Foer's new book "Eating Animals" researching Factory Farming in America in which 99% of our animals (beef, chicken, and pork) are harvested. It's un-natural and making us, and the earth, very sick. You can learn more information at http://www.eatinganimals.com/ or http://www.farmforward.com/. It doesn't mean that everyone should become a Vegan (although after reading you will be tempted) but rather encourages the masses to demand a more humane way of treating the animals that we eat, that ultimately sacrifice their lives for our food, and respect them the way they should be respected. One way to do this is to buy from your local farmer's markets, or go to http://www.localharvest.org/ to find out where fresh meat and dairy are in your local area- grown by local farmers who are doing it the right way. I just feel so passionate about this because the meat industry continues to get away with this because it is not in the public eye, and if we do not do something about it, the abuse will continue and ultimately come back to haunt us (as it has already started to do in our health). So pass this info along to everyone you know, and let's all start making a difference one by one.

Three things...

1.) Really, Lady Ga-Ga, really? There are no words.

2.) I am positive that my arm is bigger than Kelly Ripa's gimp leg. Seriously, is she 12?

3.) This is going to be me if I don't get off my lazy ass.

Gaskin vs. The Mouse

'Twas the night before Halloween and all through the house, not a creature was stirring... except for this pesky little Houdini mouse that has been in our kitchen for the last month. I am not exaggerating when I say that we have been through at least 6 traps trying to kill this little guy to no avail. And by the amount of "treats" that have been left out for him in the last month, he probably thinks that he is staying at the Marriott and will start leaving room service orders every night. For the longest we didn't see him, just his "evidence" in the form of turds all over our cabinets (makes chills go up your spine doesn't it?) but then he started getting brave and yesterday he did the unthinkable. He came out in the daylight. Let me explain my nightmare: Yesterday morning I am home with Rinks (who is still the cutest baby that has ever lived) and I am going about my normal business. Well then it came time for me to relieve myself of liquid waste (a.k.a.- I had to pee) so I go into the downstairs bathroom. While I am in there minding my own business, this little fart knocker runs under the door INTO THE BATHROOM where I am... ahem... sitting, unable to move! I start screaming profanities and obviously he was not expecting me either so he starts running in circles until he finds a hole under the cabinet. I run out, pants down, and do the only thing I know to do... trap him with rolled up towels under the door and wait for Ashley to get home. So Ashley put a trap in there last night and low and behold, after 8 tries, he finally bit the dust. Rest in peace you little turd cannon.

Update: He has risen from the dead and is back for VENGENCE! Ok, it's probably his cousin but nevertheless, it's back! Round 1: Gaskin. Round 2: To be Continued...

Rinks' first photo shoot...

My college roommate and photographer Beth of BMoFoto came by this week and took some pics of Rinks, and he was such a pro. He was actually posing for the camera at times, and that is when I realized, he is as vain as his mama. He loves that camera. :)

Oh Yes He Did!

Well, it's time I give credit where credit is due. And after months and months of being in the spotlight, and mostly in the dog house, my husband pulled through and made up for lost time. The other morning I went downstairs to get breakfast and what do I see taped to my refridgerator door? A gift certificate for a FULL SPA day!! So, what does this tell us ladies? A little nagging and a lot of degrading really goes a long way!


"You did WHAT?!?!"

My Cups Runneth Over

I would like to take this moment and say a prayer of thanks and appreciation to God and my body for producing this Liquid Workout that we all know as Breast Milk. Because of this miracle fat zapper I have lost 2o pounds in 8 days! What!?! Ok, so maybe some of it was attributed to the deliverance of Rinks and all of his glory but still, it ain't bad. So I have decided that I am never going to stop breastfeeding, and when Rinks grows out of it I will just start feeding random hungry babies like Salma Hayek, only with a more selfish intention of never having to step on a treadmill again. Meanwhile, as Rinks has been sucking every last calorie out of me, it has all been for good reason because he is finally up to a whopping 7 pounds. So I am anticipating looking like Kate Moss (minus the Cocaine addiction) by Thanksgiving. Whoo hoo! And to think that people said Motherhood would make me less vain... I think not. Here is the latest pic of the little gangsta.

He's Heeerrre!!

Last Saturday on September 5th at 3:43pm I became the mom to the cutest little boy that ever graced this planet and thus overnight went from being the World's Crankiest Pregnant Woman to the World's Most Obnoxious Mother. So here is the cause for all those hormones, stretch marks, near divorce to my husband, Boobie road maps, and of course, the cellulite; and he was worth every single minute. So now that the Gestation Chronicles has come to an end, hold on to your hat for the start of what will now be Planet Postpartum.

Rinks William - World's Cutest Boy

Oh. No. He. Didn't.- Part 2.

Last Sunday night was one of my good friend's birthday so we were off to celebrate over a little Mexican- yeah for Cheese Dip! These days my wardrobe has dwindled down to about 3 outfits that I rotate on a weekly basis, and although I am not going to make it on the Worst Dressed List, I know that Heidi Klum is not calling me any time soon to guest host on Project Runway. And I am at peace with that. However, someone else in my house does not feel the same way (I'll give you a hint- it's not Buddy). So on Sunday night when I walk out in one of my 3 outfits, Tim Gunn (a.k.a. Ashley) cocks a brow at me as he irons his shirt and says, "Is that what you are going to wear?" Hold up. Isn't that my line? I look down at my perfectly suitable ensemble and say, "Yeah, is that a problem?" He pauses for a minute and looks down at his shirt. I know this look, it is becoming all too familiar now. And then he says this: "I think you need a Style Intervention." OH. NO. HE. DIDN'T. I walk toward him slowly in my controlled rage and calmly ask, "I am not sure if you have noticed that I have a 7 pound fetus attached to the front of my body, THAT YOU PUT THERE, and I am a little limited on my attire these days."
And so help me Saint Agnes if this boy isn't just begging to be kicked in the groin when he follows by saying, "Well, yeah, but I am talking about even before you got pregnant."
I am not sure what happened after that as my vision blurred, I started seeing red, and then blacked out for 12 minutes only to wake up to Ashley holding his groin and speaking 3 octaves higher than normal. But all in all, I think that he would agree that his "intervention" was a success.

Burn, Baby, Burn

If it's true what they say that heartburn is an indicator of your baby having hair, then I must be birthing Curious George, because at this point I am popping Tums like Amy Winehouse at a methadone clinic. It all started one night after a binge at a local Pizza Hut (see previous post for the full effect) when the depths of Hell took over my respiratory system as I stood shooting milk straight from the carton in front of the fridge at 2 in the morning. Thinking that my punishment for eating the sweet, cheesy deliciousness that is the Cheesestick is over, I opt for a lesser offense on my next meal- a Turkey Sandwich. The fire rages on and I am defeated once again- by a friggin' Turkey Sandwich! But heartburn, you have picked on the wrong person this time (cue Braveheart theme song), because I am a fighter. And I will not be defeated by your raging hellfire that is fated to separate me from my beloved Italian cuisine or the delicate chocolaty dish known as the "Thunder from Downunder." So bring it, Heartburn, and prepare to be faced with one fat appetite equipped with a 350 count bottle of Tums with a backup of a pint of milk. And then we'll see who goes down in flames.

Ode to the Pizza Hut Buffet

Oh Pizza Hut Lunch Buffet
How you tempt me so
With your cheesy, saucy goodness
And your breadsticks made of dough

I meant to take just one trip
To try the thin crust cheese
But then they brought out apple cinnamon
And one trip turned into three

I tried to quit you once
But you quietly call my name
As I pass you by each day
I keep winning a losing game

Oh Pizza Hut Lunch Buffet
When am I gonna learn
That it is you, and you alone
That is making my heart burn

The End.

Baby Graham!

After 13 hours of Courtney pushing her way through Labor, and the rest of us suffering through horrific bouts of suffocating gas passed by the old guy next to us in the waiting room... Baby Graham made his way into the world! Courtney and Graham are doing terrific... this boy is what we call "a HOSS" weighing in at 9lbs and 7oz! He is beautiful!

What Lies Beneath

I was invited to a pool party this past weekend for a friend's birthday. And being that there is nothing I would rather do right now than get into a bathing suit at 8 1/2 months pregnant, I accepted. As I am talking to my sister, who was also invited, she began telling me about the woes of getting into a bathing suit right now because her stomach 'is like, so huge' and she is going to have to hold it in the whole time. I try to pretend that I have sympathy for her but really I am wanting to just sit on her. So as she continues her speech about how hard it is to be 5 pounds overweight she says this to me, "All of the girls going to the pool party have said that they are going to try and get a lounge chair beside you so they will feel skinny in their swimsuit." Gasp.

Now listen, I get it. I am 8 1/2 months pregnant; I now have cankles, cellulite in places I didn't think were possible, and currently walk with a limp thanks to baby Rinks resting comfortably on my sciatic nerve (more on that later). But beneath all that- buried under the 28 added pounds of water, amniotic fluid, and cellulite- is a raging Skinny Bitch that is screaming, "Awe Naw girl, you done went and did it now!" (As it turns out, my inner Skinny Bitch has the dialect of an inner city Latina) And she is kicking ass and taking names of all who cross her while plotting revenge in the form of P90X and Dr. Atkins, and when she emerges ladies, prepare to scatter your lounge chairs!

SWAT 'Em

Well, who would have thought? My grandfather was right all along- Everyone is on Drugs. Growing up, it didn't matter what the crime was- from robbing a bank to running a traffic light- his answer was always the same, "Those kids are on the Dope." And now, I believe him.

Which leads us to last night.

Picture it. We are at home enjoying a quiet evening while cooking my famous Poppy Seed Chicken and Rotel Potatoes and thinking how everything is right with the world. The weather is beautiful, we have Jason Mraz playing softly in the background, and plans of a nice movie later in the evening.

Now enter Nashville Metro S.W.A.T.

Like, outside our house.... In black masks.... With a bull horn..... Running to our neighbors door..... With a battering Ram.

All of the sudden we look out our window and see 3 cop cars, 4 un-marked undercover cars surrounding our neighbors' house yelling, "This is Metro City S.W.A.T., you are surrounded!" AND THEN THEY START BREAKING DOWN THE DOOR!!

Well, like any normal person I run outside, literally barefoot and pregnant, to get in on the action. Nothing this exciting has happened since the infamous Peeper of 2007. So there we are, me and all of my neighbors standing around like it's the county fair- sans funnel cakes and fried twinkies- while they lead our neighbors out in handcuffs. Their crime? Drug dealing. In the 'Burbs!

Score one for Papaw.

The Ice Queen

Meet Buddy Lee. He is our Boxer mix and my baby who can do no wrong. Every summer Buddy Lee gets his Summer Buzz (at least one of us gets to have a buzz right now) where we take him to get shaved so he sheds less and doesn't get so hot in this god awful summer heat. About a month ago I noticed that Buddy Lee is shaking during the day and night, and of course being the optimistic person that I am, I automatically conclude that he has a terminal life-threatening neurological disease and has 6 months to live (I know, motherhood is going to be a doozy for me, huh?) So I call the vet, tell them that he is shaking and give him my assessment of the neurological auto-immune disease that I have diagnosed him with, and expect him to concur. He tells me to bring him in for a closer look. So I give Buddy Lee a silent final fairwell and hold back my tears as we walk the Green Mile to the Vet's office, I can see the sadness and fear in Buddy's eyes as I tell him what a good dog he has been and how much we have loved him. We get inside the office and I brace myself (and Buddy Lee) as we receive the dreaded diagnosis from the Doctor: Hypothermia (ok, maybe I am paraphrasing- i.e. exaggerating). Wait. What?

As it turns out, I have literally been freezing my dog to death in the MIDDLE OF SUMMER. The Vet gives me and my belly a smirk while he gives me the prescription of "not keeping my house the temperature of a meat locker, then maybe he will stop shaking- from being so cold." Smartass. Buddy Lee then gives me an exasperated look as if to say, "Listen you crazy white lady. It's friggin' cold in that walk-in freezer you call a house, take a hint and give a dog a blanket!"

Well played, Buddy Lee, well played.

Me Want Cookies

It is official. I am a fatass. How do I know this, you ask? My doctor told me so. Ok, not in so many words but I went to the doctor yesterday for my check up and I have gained 8 pounds (8 pounds!!!) in 3 weeks. That, America, is almost 1/2 a pound a day which translates into a whole hell of alot of simple sugars- medically speaking. So my doctor who apparently doesn't practice tactfulness asks me, "Girl, what on earth have you been eating?!" I keep my head down, suddenly taking great interest in counting the specks on the floor and quietly answer, "Cookies."
"Like everyday??" She drills me like the cookie monster that I have become. "Uh, yeah. Sometimes 2 times a day."

That's right America. My name is Mandi, and I have a Cookie problem. I have tried to stop but I am too far gone into the dark depths of deliciousness that only the Cookie can bring. And it has cost me- 8 pounds to be exact.

So Dr. Discretion sent me home equipped with the unsolicited advise of "How 'bout laying off those Cookies?" along with the order to drink more water and eat more greens. But sadly we both know that in the epic battle of Mandi vs. The Cookie, The Cookie will come out victorious. And my thighs, in all their dimpled glory, will suffer the consequences.

The Orginal Bachelorette

I had the pleasure of doing something that everyone should do once in their lives... I watched "The Bachelorette" with my 80-year-old grandmother Genieva. After dining on an eclectic dinner variety featuring Genieva's homemade Meatball Stew, a baked potato, pimento cheese and crackers, sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and oh yeah, Sour Cream and Onion Pringles, we made our way into the living room where she wanted to watch the Bachelorette. And who am I to deny her of this request? So I am here now to share the wise commentary of the Original Bachelorette while watching ABC's version:

Wes (Bachelor #1 a.k.a. douche bag) speaking to Jillian: Jillian I don't want to go back to the past, I am over that, I just want to move forward now....

Mamaw (a.k.a. O.B. while knitting in her chair): Yeah, move forward right into her pants!

Me: Gasp! (blushing)

(20 minutes later, in a scene where Jillian comes face to face with returned Bachelor #4, Ed)

Jillian: I am so glad that Ed came back. I don't know what it is about him, but I get butterflies every time he walks into the room.

Mamaw (still knitting): She must be hard up if she gets butterflies when she looks at him.

Me: Mamaw you are a Dirty Bird!

Mamaw (O.B.): Yeah well you hang around me long enough and you might learn a thing or two.

Genieva: The Original Bachelorette herself

Captain Clueless

There are things that every man should know; like your anniversary date, your cholesterol level, and what you should never, under any circumstance, say to a woman. I would like to take the opportunity right now to address the latter.

If you have been reading this blog then you know by now that a.) I am pregnant, b.) I have gained substantial weight, and c.) I have a husband who I affectionately refer to as "Captain Clueless". Since rolling into my third trimester (figuratively and literally) I haven't been feeling very confident and needed some reassurance. So yesterday when my husband, the Captain, came in from grocery shopping and was standing at the sink hammering open a coconut... wait a minute. Let's pull over and park right here for a second. Yes, you heard right, he was hammering open a coconut at the kitchen sink. A coconut that he actually picked up at Publix, probably hesitated for a moment before simply thinking 'Mmmm... Coconuts', and then putting it into the cart. It was actually too ridiculous of a scene to even make fun of, but of course that didn't stop me.

Anyway, like I said, I am feeling down and out and needed some reassurance so I ask, "Do you find me attractive anymore... like this?" (pointing at my protruding belly)

He looks up from the coconut and pauses... then looks down, then up at me and pauses again. I can see the wheels frantically turning in his head as he says, "Well I always find you attractive," pause, thinking, nervous laugh, pause. "But I don't necessarily see you as a sexual object right now."

Gentlemen, please take note and learn from Ashley's newfound life lesson #1,332: Never ever, under any circumstance, say this to a woman. I don't care if you would rather have sex with Hatchett Face or Janet Reno and you feel like you are in the 'safe zone' or the 'circle of truth' when she tells you, "It's ok honey, you can be honest with me." Proceed with caution as this actually means "I dare you to say no, you asshat."
This advice can also be applied to the questions, "Do I look like I have gained weight?" "Do you think she is prettier than me?" And of course the old standby, "Does my butt look big?"

So boys, consider yourself warned.

Skinny Bitches

I recently went on Vacation to the beach with some family and friends. I wanted to go before I got too big and could have been mistaken for Shamoo the Whale and tranquilized right there on the beach. So on the trip down there I learned Mandi's life lesson #1486: Never travel more than 7 hours with two anorexic bitches while you are pregnant. Enter Dana and Holly- the skinny bitches- Dana goes DAYS between meals and Holly likes to run 13 miles and lift heavy objects for fun. The three of us leave Nashville around 3pm and head down to Orange Beach to meet up with our parents (about a 7 hour trip). I notice about 3 hours into the trip we haven't stopped, nor have I heard any mention of it. Even though I am getting hungry, I haven't said anything up to this point for fear of the glares I would receive from the front seat. So I am quietly sitting in the backseat looking for leftover crumbs between the seats and hoping that one of them might pipe in any minute and say that they are getting hungry... and then I hear this:

Dana (to Holly): Hey, there is an exit up ahead, you think I need to go ahead and get gas?

Holly: Yeah, that would be good. Then we won't have to stop the rest of the way, we can just drive straight through and get there about 10pm.

Dana: Sounds good to me. (They both give each other a satisfied look)

Me (or my hormones): Wait a minute, you two anorexic skanks. I realize that y'all can split a peanut and call it dinner for the night, but Mama needs to eat! So I am choosing to play the preggo card right about now and demanding that we pull into that local burger joint right up there and get something in my stomach STAT!

Holly and Dana: (with fearful looks in their eyes) Whatever you say, Mama. Whatever you say.

Mama: 1
Skinny Bitches: 0

Oh it is good to be me.

And Now... A Message From My Hormones.

Attention Horny Teenagers:

We all get it. You are young, free, and in L.U.V. But here's a newsflash, no one wants to see you rubbing your honey's back, caressing their hair, or exploring the inside of each other's mouths while in LINE AT SUBWAY getting lunch. Guess what? We are all there to eat as well, and we actually want to keep our lunch down so let's keep the lovin' to ourselves when it's appropriate- like in the backseat of your car at the riverbanks or in your bedroom when your parents think you are crashing for midterm exams. And a word to the wise boys and girls, these same hormones that are making you feel each other up in public places while making the rest of us sick? These, girls, are the same hormones that will lovingly take over your body like aliens when you are pregnant causing you to scream and throw foreign objects at this same boy that you not so long ago were ripping the clothes off of. And then crying profusely afterwards while burying yourself into a tub of Bryers French Chocolate with a side of Vinegar Chips. And boys, these exact hormones will blame you for causing everything in the first place, making you want to end your life, or hers. So go ahead Young Ones, enjoy your blissful ignorance, but how 'bout sparing the rest of us whose raging love hormones have since mutated into cynical pessimism that is actually responsible for this very message.

No One Can Prepare You For This

Oh the joy and bliss of pregnancy. The eating (and eating and eating), the tender little movements, the enormous and almost obscene breasts, and of course the luminous skin and hair as a result of prenatal vitamins. I have felt really great, thought nothing much had changed physically except the bump (ok, and maybe the dimples on the tops of my thighs), and then there is the spray tan (see previous posting for explanation) to help keep the confidence going. And then the other day I made the biggest mistake a pregnant woman can make. I stepped onto the scale (I always turn my back when being weighed at the doctor- or have a slapping fight with the nurse who makes me weigh). And nothing could have prepared me for the evil number that glared at me from underneath my feet. I was at a friend's house when this happened so I called to her in a panic. I was sure that she would come in there and tell me that the scale was off by 20 pounds and then we would both laugh at the mistaken close call of my weighing the same as an NFL football player and then maybe even go celebrate with a milkshake. But no, my friends, that is not how it happened. She told me that the scale was not only accurate, it was doctor's-office-grade-accurate. And then confirmed that the number was in fact a whole number, with no decimals. I am not going to tell you what that number is because I feel obligated to hold on to my dignity as well as my supermodel reputation. But it's alot. ALOT. And to top it off? The baby hasn't even started putting on weight yet!! But what am I gonna do at this point? Diet? No. I am going to accept this astronomical number for what it is... sausage and biscuits, pizza, french fries, and milkshakes. And as a result, I will also accept my hamhocks that have become my arms, the cottage cheese that have become my knees, and of course the expanding road maps that have become my breasts. Amen.

Oh. No. He. Didn't.

This weekend was Mother's Day. And as most of you now know, this is the first time that I get to celebrate this special holiday first hand- as a mother to be. (It's a boy, by the way!) And so on Sunday while in Tupelo visiting the in-laws I received a tender card from my dear husband, which read "there is a surprise waiting for you back in Nashville." I held my breath with suspense as to what it might be. Could it be a custom frame that will hold the first picture of my new baby? Or perhaps a full Spa day since my joints have been wreaking havoc on my body? I could hardly wait to get back. So on Monday while at work I get a text from him that said, "Go to 112 Franklin Road to pick up your surprise". Oh! This must be something big! So big that he can't pick it up himself! I have visions of diamond pendents dancing in my head, I am carrying his child after all.

So I whip my car around to go to this mystery address. Jarrod's maybe? But when I get closer I notice it is a shopping center. Hmm... exciting nonetheless. So I find the shop of the address- JS Fields, a salon- I knew it! A Spa day! I smugly walk in with my bellly protruding, just for emphasis on how much I deserve my gift, and greet the receptionist to retreive my surprise. And what does she give me?

Yep, that would be a Spray Tan gift certificate, boys and girls. Apparently, this is my romantic husband's idea of a "Thank you for bearing my child and creating a life that will forever change our lives" gift. Priceless. So for Father's Day this year I am going to get him some Crest White Strips and call it even.

Immunity

I am not afraid to tell you that not only have I been eating during this period of gestation (this is my new favorite word, I try to use it as least twice a day), but I have been grubbin' as the kids like to call it these days. And I found out today that I am not the only one who has been noticing my newfound Food Fun House... please follow along on this story I like to call "My Husband is a Bastard".

My sister is a skinny skankbag. She is 5'7 and weighs about a buck thirty and I hate her for this. So today while she and I and my husband were at lunch, I made a feeble attempt to put food in her mouth by buying her a sandwich filled with mayonnaise and cheese. Of course she takes 3 bites and declares she is full. Then the conversation followed like this:

Me: (eye roll) Dana, you have to eat more or you will weaken your immune sytem. Hello, Swine Flu?!?

Sis: I do eat, thank you very much. And besides, I take vitamins.

Me: Vitamins are not going to be enough, you have to eat food in order to keep your immune system strong.

Bastard Husband: (Looking at me) Well then your immune system must be strong as an Ox.

Me: (lots of glaring, lots of hissing noises... silence... more glaring, more hissing noises)

MapQuest Called, They Want My Boobs Back.

There are lots of things people tell you about pregnancy. Like the first time you feel that sweet little kick, or the horrible morning sickness, or even those crazy mood swings. However, many fail to tell you what happens above Ground Zero when you venture to the mounds resting due North. I discovered this hidden revelation when I was getting into the shower just the other morning and found that I could locate Utah on my left breast. Startled, I took a closer look because I was sure my eyes were deceiving me. Only when I got closer, not only did I see Utah, but I could see the capital city (unfortunately, Capital names were not listed on my breasts) lined with red and blue lines of surrounding interstates. And if that wasn't bad enough, browned biscuit-sized saucers invaded what used to be called nipples (sorry Dad if you are reading this). Sure, I know what some of you are going to say- this is a beautiful process the pregnant body goes through when the veins in your breasts expand in order to prepare for the feeding of your precious infant. Save it, because I'm not interested. I miss the days when I could boast proudly of veinless, perky boobs, proportionate nipples, and dignity in knowing that if my shirt happened to blow open on a windy day (or for some beads in New Orleans on Mardi Gras) that I could hold my head (and chest) up high and shout "Whoo Hoo! Boobies!"
But sadly, those days have come to a close and all I have left is a couple of lumpy maps that I never even learned how to read.

Thanks alot Mother Nature.

Mandi

'Naders and Tater Tots...

I should have been a storm chaser. Not because I love storms, but because they obviously love me. So I would like to formally apologize to Nashville for the recent storms, I have not been back in Nashville a week and they are already lurking close behind. I try to be cautious in storms and this one was no different. So there I am huddled in my downstairs bathroom complete with Buddy Lee (a.k.a. the best dog in the world), a flashlight, bottled water, trail mix (mama's hungry), a portable radio, and my cell phone with FEMA on speed dial- just in case. I can hear the wind flailing outside and the hail beating against the window and peek around to the back window and see that my little fence is about to give it up at any minute. Then the phone rings. It's Dana, my sister. I assume she is wanting to come and seek shelter since she lives on a 2nd floor condo, so of course I answer the phone. "Hey," I answer, "you calling to come over? The sirens are going off and it's saying that we are under a Tornado Warning right now- you better hurry if you are coming over." "No," she says casually, " I was about to go to Sonic and wanted to know if you wanted anything. Do you?" Wait a tick. What did she just say? "Wait, what? The Sonic in Nolansville? Dana, there is a Tornado warning there RIGHT NOW." "I know, but I want a Diet Coke so bad, I guess if you see someone twirling in the air you'll know it's me. So do you want something?" She is obviously out of her mind...butI am kinda hungry, and since she is willing to risk her life for a diet coke, why not make it worthwhile with a burger and fries too? "You're (freakish) loyalty to the Sonic Fountain Drinks should really be noted and possibly rewarded. Ok fine, get me a burger and fries... and a large Diet Coke." Before anyone starts to lecture about letting my sister out in the storm, let me tell you, there was NO WAY she would be deterred from a Sonic Diet Coke mission, like I said, freakish loyalty. She shows up 20 minutes later soaked head to toe at my door step holding two large Diet Cokes and a bag of burgers. I couldn't help but laugh; she might be insane, but at least she is considerate.


On a serious note, the storms in Murfreesboro were tragic and my thoughts go out to those who lost their homes and/or loved ones.

"Ode to the Subway Cookie"

Oh Chocolate Chip Cookie
So soft and and so round,
With your chips melting in the middle
And your edges ever so slightly brown.

I just finished my turkey sandwich
Ok, maybe some jalepeno chips too,
And because I did so well with my choices
I needed a little reward or two.

I should have chosen the apples
Or maybe the yogurt with berries of blue,
But oh! Cookie with your Chips of Chocolate
I wish I could quit you.

The End.

Moving...

You know when your husband writes this on your moving boxes, it's time to re-evaluate your choice of whether or not to go on meds... (see previous post for Exhibit A)

The Terminator

"I think you might be giving birth to the Terminator" Ashley says.

"What do you mean?" I ask as I slowly count down from 10 in order lower my skyrocketing blood pressure from thoughts of my latest confrontation with a perfect stranger.

"Well it just seems that you are a little feistier than usual since you have been pregnant." I can tell he is being careful with his words, which makes me want to hit him upside the head with my Route 44 Diet Coke.

"Well it just so happens that everyone I have encountered in the last 3 months has been a complete and total asshat, so sue me if I feel the need to call them out on it." Vengeance is mine!!

"You made a customer service rep cry." He says dryly, like it was my fault she was born in Kurdistan and couldn't speak English. Here's a tip: if you are calling Americans, know how to say at least 3 words in English. "And I thought you were going to end my life because I painted a room with the wrong paint" he continues.

"I wasn't going to end your life." Ok, so it crossed my mind, but I counted down from 500 and was fine, like, 4 hours later.

"I'm just saying, maybe you should think about taking it down a notch and try relaxing a bit." He says cautiously.

"Yeah, maybe you're right." I reply, while thinking of 6 ways to disembowel him for making such a ridiculous accusation. Call me crazy, but at that moment I could have swore I heard a slight voice coming from my midsection echoing "I'll be back."

"You're pregnant... in a bar!"

I had my first "Sweet Home Alabama" moment this week when my single sister coaxed me into a bar at 4 months pregnant. She lured me in with the promise of fried pickles and french fries (in my defense, Jesus himself would not be able to resist this deadly combo) and that's when I found myself surrounded by 16,000 men watching March Madness and drinking Bud. That night I discovered Mandi's life lesson #1,472: telling strange men at a bar that you are pregnant is likened to telling them that you have a third nipple. So I decided to have some fun with it and started warning them to "Just Say No to one night stands- it's not worth it!" (My campaign slogan would be- If you're gonna love, put it in a glove.) And then rub my belly and sigh for dramatic effect. So needless to say, my single sis and her skinny girlfriends sat around not eating and drinking their wine, looking especially single and sophisticated while I sat by myself surrounded by plates of sausage and cheese, fried shrimp, and of course... fried pickles. And I was the happiest person in the room.

A Thief in the Night

I was in the shower this morning during my usual routine. I placed my bra, underwear and pajamas on the side of the bathtub as I usually do. However when I got out of the shower, I couldn't find my bra or my shirt. That's strange, I thought. But then maybe I didn't put it there after all. So I search my drawer, my closet, my room. Nothing. This isn't the first time it's happened. I have missed dishrags, socks, and even shoes- thinking I have lost my mind. Until I looked under my bed and found this...

Yep, that is 3 pair of shoes, a bra, 3 shirts, 2 pairs of pants, 6 dishrags, a bone, a rope toy, and a pair of shorts. ALL UNDER MY BED. How could such a thing as this happen??

Meet Dingo. The Culprit.

Apparently Dingo has been building a bomb shelter under our bed that we had no idea about. I don't know if he is the smartest dog on earth, or the most retarded. I am leaning toward the latter.

It's Official...

I am officially showing. Do I have a big bump? you ask. Oh yes, but it just so happens that I am the first woman to carry her fetus in her ass. Hence the big bump, or rather as some may call it, the Shelf Butt. Just the other night I was able to free up my hands and carry my drink on my backside. I would post a picture but thought some of you might get turned on, and others offended, so I thought better of it. I am thinking of auditioning for the next 50 Cent video before I deliver and it all goes south (literally)... it's like I've always said, Mama's gotta work!

Shrimp and Tears

So last night Ashley takes me to a romantic dinner at Long John Silver's (had I known he was this romantic I would have married him sooner) and we are the only ones in the restaurant except for an older gentlemen sitting alone across from us. While enjoying my meal of popcorn shrimp and fries (I am very health conscience during this pregnancy) I start thinking about this old man sitting alone eating his dinner on a Thursday evening; and how he probably doesn't have any family and has no one to cook for him and is chronically and eternally alone (I haven't always been this optimistic) and I start BAWLING. Ashley looks at me like I have just sprouted green antlers and states, "Oh my god, you are crying." We sit there for an uncomfortable moment while I try to recooperate and finally I say with a touch of annoyance and pride, "I wish for just one day you could experience these hormones!" And he looks at me and says, "Believe me, I have, everyday for the last 3 months."

Conversations with my Mother...

Mom: So honey did you pick out a name for the baby?

Me: Yeah, I think so. We chose Finley Malone, for either a boy or a girl!

Mom: Pff. Finley? What kind of name is that? Wait, this is a joke isn't Mandi? hahaha! That is a good one! No seriously... what did you pick?

Me: (Pause) Well, I...I am serious, it's Finley. Finley Malone.

Mom: You CANNOT name my grandchild a name like Finkle.

Me: It's FINLEY, Finley, mom. Not Finkle. (stifling uncontrollable laughter)

Mom: Well Finkle would even be better than Finley. I will have to find another name to call them.

Me: Ok Mom. You just decide what you want to call Finley.

Mom: What about "Fin Fin"? Haha! "C'mere Fin Fin!

Me: (Sigh. Shaking my head)

Meet the Gaskins

The Gaskins

Hello! We are the Gaskins and we are new to the blog world! And hold the phone, we just found out that we have procreated! I decided that now would be as good of time as any to start writing about it so perfect strangers and friends alike can be a virtual audience in our life. We are due on September 19th but according to my mother I will be 2 weeks late (she's prophetic to boot). So we are excited and I am excited to share all of my personal ins and outs of this life changing journey. So enjoy!