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.