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.