New Year's Resolutions....

I know I made some resolutions in November, but I've already forgotten what most of them were, so I guess it is time to make some new resolutions that I'll forget in six weeks. 'Tis the season!

So, what is going to be important enough for me to make a goal about, but not so important that I actually have to achieve that goal?

1. Make some money. Since I left the cosmetics biz in February, I haven't actually earned any money. I was not working for some time and anyone who has started a business knows that the first six months aren't really the time to draw a salary. Pretty soon, though, I'd like to be able to deposit some money in my account and then immediately blow it on shoes and personal-care items. (Like eyeshadow. And chardonnay.)

2. Lose some weight. I've pretty much beaten this dead horse, but the funny thing is that this was my resolution last year and I weigh exactly the same now that I did a year ago. Super. I guess the silver lining is that I didn't GAIN any weight.

3. Stop messing with my hair. Every time I get depressed about my weight or life situation, I dye my hair. I need to give my hair a break so it will grow out instead of falling out. So, nothing but fresh highlights every couple of months. Seriously. I mean it this time.

4. Work out at least 30 minutes a day. Wii Fit counts. Power drinking doesn't.

5. Be nicer to Big Smelly Dog. It isn't his fault he's big and smelly. I have channel all that disgust and frustration at the reason we have Big Smelly Dog - Tony. Won't he be thrilled?

6. See my friends more. The last eight months have been largely hibernation for Tony and me. We both need a little more fresh air and a little less alone-time. So, brace yourselves, Friends of Lacy. I'm coming out!

7. Let go of the fact that I haven't accomplished the things I wanted to before I turned 30. So what if I haven't published a book, become famous or married Hugh Jackman? I have a blog, a few people know who I am and I married a guy who is willing to put on the Wolverine costume whenever I ask nicely. Things could be worse, for sure. I still have a Master's degree, a lovely home and a business that is starting to take off. Perhaps 30 is the new 20 and I'll accomplish all my goals before I'm 40. Except the Hugh Jackman thing. That might upset Tony. And then he'll stop wearing the Wolverine suit.

So there we have it. Check back with me in six weeks and see how many of these I actually remember.

Mission Statement

I've been working the past few days on an employee handbook for our company. (No, we don't have any traditional employees yet, but I like to be prepared. Once you hire a person incorrectly, it is really hard to go back and do it over. Trust me, I know.)

Anyhow, my fabulous attorney (well, one of them) sent me this workbook to fill out so we have a clear, concise and legally binding document instead of the back-of-the-napkin version I was working on. ("Um, come to work on time, do what you are supposed to do and don't sass off" was pretty much the entire thing. I know, brilliant!) Forty pages of questions later, I'm convinced there isn't a single question an employee could ask me that wouldn't be answered in this document, from what time they should arrive to how to chew their sandwich at lunch. ("Quietly, but with purpose.")

However, one particular piece of the questionnaire is tripping me up. The mission statement. The good attorney feels that no employee handbook is complete without one. I feel that they are a treacly, nonsensical waste of time that is usually created by committee so that it can be emblazoned on a wall somewhere prominent in a granite and steel-filled office. In other words, extraneous to our current situation. For example, here's a sampling of the aforementioned treacle, from the half-way decent to the half-witted:

1. Instead of a school's mission statement being that "We teach children," this is what you get - "Community School recognizes that each child is an individual; that all children are creative; that all children need to succeed. Therefore, Community School respects the individual needs of children; fosters a caring and creative environment; and emphasizes the social, emotional, physical, intellectual development of each child." I bet the tuition there is like $30,000 a year. And $20,000 of that goes to the marketing team that developed the mission statement.

2. Here's a truly awesome one for a WEBSITE THAT HELPS PEOPLE MOVE PAST THE GRIEF THEY FEEL UPON LOSING A PET. Understand that I could do an entire blog just on the ridiculous state of our country that we need a site like this, but they have a mission statement, and it is a doozy: "I'm on a one-woman campaign to stomp out guilt, the kind of guilt that clings like a leech to the coattails of our grief. It pains me to see good, loving people feeling guilty about uncontrollable circumstances surrounding the loss of their pet. Granted, there are circumstances where heinous acts deserve the roughest of guilt trips but for most people this isn't the case." I'm still stuck on how a leech clings to a coattail. Perhaps with a pushpin?

3. Here's a reasonable one. I just says what it says, with no vampiric organisms or feel-good yuppie-ness: "The Department of Human Resources partners with members of the University community to foster a work environment that attracts and inspires excellence in people so the University is successful in its mission." I understand. I get it. I still don't see why it is necessary, though.

4. And my favorite: "Our mission is simple: To offer education on the wise use of credit." Brilliant.

I guess that is why I'm having such a hard time with this. Even though I'm a writer in my spare time, I don't see that more verbosity is necessarily better when you are telling people what you do. Sure, it feels good to tell people their children are exceptional. (Note: most of them aren't. Otherwise, the word "exceptional" has lost all meaning. Deal with it. Your kid is probably - in the truest sense of probability - average. And that's okay. You probably are too.) And it is nice to put a leech on the coattails of grief. But what are you trying to do at the end of the day? What is the net net of your business? What is your basic business model? Do you hire people for a university? Do you counsel about credit? Do you help self-involved pet owners get over the grief of losing Fluffy to diabetes at the age of 20? Do you teach wealthy children to believe they are gifted? Tell people what your job is and let them get back to their lives. Or don't tell them at all. Just do it.

So, with that in mind, I believe that our mission at Legion Logistics is this: We move freight and make money.

Perfect! Now let's get back to moving freight and making money.

Intermission

Hey all! Just wanted to hop on here quickly and let you know I haven't forgotten about my blog. I've been very busy lately with the holidays and work and it has seemed impossible to carve out enough time to write a blog that wasn't complete gibberish.

I'll be back soon enough, I'm sure. Writing this blog is like having an exercise routine - you have to be disciplined about it, and we all know how disciplined I am. Things have been happening that I've wanted to write about, but every time I think to sit down and expel all my fabulous thoughts, an email comes, the phone rings or there are cookies to be baked.

By the way, the party went fabulously. People enjoyed the cookies, or so I'm told. We also discovered that Jack makes a mind-bending punch. I, as usual, over-prepared intensely, so I had about 3,000 dozen cookies left over that were sent with Mom and Jack to their respective offices and I'm saving the left-over beer and wine for our Super Bowl Party, for which I will be baking NOTHING. In fact, I may never bake again.

The holidays were also wonderful. Mom, Jack and my brother Levi came down and we ate, drank, played games, opened presents, saw movies (Avatar is a revelation, especially in 3-D. Sherlock Holmes is entertaining in a fluffy sort of way.) and generally had a good time.

Now I'm settling into my usual post-holiday funk, amplified by the fact that 2010 is the year I turn 30 and I still haven't figured out what (or even who) I want to be when I grow up. I know age is just a number and certainly 30 isn't old, but I had a lot of things I wanted to accomplish by this point that I haven't. (There are a lot of things I HAVE accomplished that seem somewhat diminished by the un-accomplished. It's like that prayer that talks about what I have done and what I've left undone. It's the undone that bothers me.)

So, I'm going to wade back into my accounting work and try to set aside time each day to blog (and work out!). We'll see how it goes. Hope your holidays were wonderful and that you have something properly celebratory planned for New Year's.

Cookie mutilation

I hate my hand mixer.

No, I LOATHE my hand mixer.

Every time I get that stupid thing out, my blood pressure immediately goes up. Take last night, for instance. I started testing recipes for the big party, so I was making my first-ever batch of sugar cookies. (For a long time now, my position has been that if a dessert isn't chocolate, there is no point in making it. However, for a party I need to cater to all tastes, even those folks who believe that baked disks of non-chocolate dough are actually a dessert. Lunatics.)

The problems started right away. I bought butter at Sam's Club yesterday, but instead of sticks, I got one-pound blocks of unsalted butter. It tastes great and was really cheap, but how on earth do you figure out what one stick of butter would be when confronted with a chunk of butter the size of a recreational vehicle? Well, I hacked it in to approximate quarters (four sticks in a pound, right?), tossed one of them in the bowl and added the sugar.

Then I brought out the hand mixer from hell. This stupid little machine ostensibly has three speeds, but I've found those speeds to be fast, faster and frickin' turbo. There is no such thing as a low speed for creaming butter and sugar. Instead, you end up flinging shards of butter and sugar all over your formerly clean kitchen. I actually hunch over the bowl with my arms wrapped around it to try to keep some portion of the ingredients where they belong. At one point last night, I looked down at Sarge and saw that he was covered in tiny pieces of sugary butter. It looked like I was making a puppy fritter. I was near homicidal when I finished, fantasizing about throwing this hand mixer in the lake and driving to Sam's, where I had been taunted by a fabulous Kitchen-Aid stand mixer earlier in the day. However, I didn't have the $289 to buy it. And throwing appliances in our lake is probably illegal or something.

(Side note. I once owned a stand mixer. It was a Sunbeam, but it worked really well. I lost it in the second divorce. Let's just say that my ex and his "roommate" Rich were probably more likely than I to whip up a batch of midnight cookies at that point. You learn to make concessions in divorce proceedings.)

Adding the wet ingredients seemed to help, but I have to admit my dough didn't look exactly like I'd intended it to. It was sort of...crumbly. I know there are some baking experts who read this, so if they have any tips, I'd appreciate it. Once I'd wrapped it up and put it in the freezer to chill, though, it seemed okay. I had 20 minutes to crank out some truffle filling while the dough chilled and then we could bake!

Except a friend stopped by (totally cool, don't think I'm complaining) and 20 minutes turned into nearly an hour. The dough in the freezer was frozen into a giant hockey puck. So I just threw it (gently) on the counter and moved on to the truffles, which are so easy Sarge could make them. As long as you don't eat all the dark chocolate chips before you've melted them into ganache. That is a serious risk around here, which is why I got nearly eight pounds of chocolate chips yesterday. The risk of eating so many I yarf is higher that way, but at least I won't run out. Once the ganache was in the fridge, I turned my attention back to the great cookie experiment of '09.

At this point, I should probably admit that I've only used a rolling pin a few times in my life and the last time was about 10 years ago. In fact, it was exactly 10 years ago, when I made gingerbread men for Christmas. I had to go out and purchase a rolling pin yesterday (Tip: Paula Deen has a nice one at Wal-mart for around $10.) So this whole endeavor was a little tricky. But, I floured and rolled and cut (don't ask why someone without a rolling pin has fistfuls of cookie cutters) until I had two gigantic sheets of cookies. Into the oven, out of the oven, and they aren't that bad, really. I think they need to be thicker, but beyond that, I think they taste vaguely like the sugar cookies I've eaten accidentally in the past. Add some lemon and powdered sugar frosting, and they are almost worth the calories. Tony liked them, too, so I figure they are fit for human consumption. One recipe tested, 32 to go.

However, since Christmas presents have already been purchased, I've started my wish list for our anniversary in February:

1. A Kitchen-Aid stand mixer. In red. With all the fixin's.
2. Take me someplace where I can use my hand mixer for target practice.

Home Alone

I'm home alone today. (Here's hoping that no one is stalking me and will show up in my yard this afternoon. Perhaps I should say that I'm home alone WITH WEAPONS.)

Tony had to go do an inspection of a customer's warehouse in Cleveland. The FAA is so picky about who they let ship cargo on airplanes these days. Jeesh. So he and our air guy are driving all the way up to Cleveland this morning and back this afternoon. I don't envy them that trip, but I kind of envy the companionship. The office is terribly quiet without him.

But don't misunderstand me. I'm taking advantage of the fact that the cat's away for the day - I'm going shopping! Well, grocery shopping, but money will be spent and bags will be brought home! So that counts.

(We return to this blog after a brief interruption while I sprinted into the street in heels after my gigantic trash can. Why can't the trash can ever blow away when Tony is home? Oh, and thank goodness for neighbors who call and let you know when your trash can is headed for the lake.)

Anyhow, this morning was very interesting - Tony had to leave before sunup, so I was left to wrangle the dogs. Sarge is easy - pick him up, throw him out in the yard, open the door 10 minutes later, stand to the side as he sprints in the house, you're done. Beau is another story altogether. I have as little to do with him as possible because he smells and is licky, so when my face was the one outside his kennel this morning, he was stumped. He didn't even know what to do. I told him "Outside" and he promptly ran me over and charged outside without his Invisible Fence collar on. Super.

I figured he wouldn't go too far because he's a giant chicken, but I still didn't want to leave him out too long. Around 9, I opened both the garage door and the door to the house and left a trail of Beggin Strips from the door to the kennel. Success! He's going to yarf from all the treats later, but I'll let Tony clean that up.

I feel kind of the way I imagine many new parents do the first time they are left alone with the kids. I have no idea how they will react or what will work. Tony handles the dogs, I complain about the way they smell. That's pretty much it. So I'm going to fumble through today and hope I can get Beau's collar on him before afternoon potties. And that Sarge doesn't blow away in the 100 mile per hour winds we're having.

Speaking of which, there are some dog bowls I have to go retrieve from the lake.

Freestyle Dishwashing!

I realized yesterday that Tony is a freestyle dishwasher.

See, the arrangement in our house is that I cook and Tony does the dishes. Most of the time, that just means that he's the one loading and unloading the dishwasher, but occasionally, I'll use a non-dishwasher safe pan and the scrubbing gloves have to come out.

When it comes to the delicates, the hand-washables, Tony is pretty pedestrian. He gets the hot water going, puts some dish soap on the scrubby cloth we use in the sink, and goes to work. It's when the dishwasher door opens that he truly becomes an artist.

I have never seen my husband load the dishwasher the same way twice. Most people, having loaded and unloaded the same dishwasher a few times, develop a system. My mother is the best example - the racks in her dishwasher are practically labelled and if you put something in the wrong way (knives tip down, for example), she becomes like that cross-dressing football kicker in the Ace Ventura movies - "LACES OUT!" - although this time it's more like "SHARP END UP!" (Her contention is that the sharp knife tips cut through the vinyl rack over time. My rebuttal is that the sharp knife tips cut through my hands immediately, so that's the greater good. I lose every time - the argument and some blood.)

But Tony approaches every dishwasher loading as a unique event, as though he's never done it before. The plates go in facing left one time, right the next, the front, the back, sideways. Sometimes he breaks them in half and washes them that way. The glasses and mugs are the same. When I load the dishwasher (which is never or very close to it) the coffee mugs go on the left and the glasses on the right of the top rack. I think there is a lovely symmetry to that. Tony just tosses (sometimes literally) all of them in together. It's like a big, beautiful beverage-container mixer dance in there. No discrimination. He is beverage-blind when it comes to these vessels.

We also load silverware differently and this is where it gets technical. I hate opening a dishwasher and seeing that two spoons or forks have nested in the wash cycle, resulting in them still being dirty. Therefore, I'm really particular about how the silverware goes in the basket (It puts the silverware in the basket) I place a spoon in every slot until I have to double them up, and then I make sure they are facing different directions so as not to "spoon." HAR HAR. Okay, I couldn't resist. Same with the forks, etc. Tony just grabs great handfuls of silverware from the sink and jams them into the basket willy-nilly. It could be one section of just spoons next to one of (tip-down) knives. Makes me so nervous.

At the end of the day, though, it works. Our dishwasher is so powerful (which is why it sounds like a jet taking off during the wash cycle) that it seems to blast any thought of dirt or food from the dishes. And if Tony's going to keep doing the dishes, I'm not going to complain. I find that a loathsome chore, and part of the reason I never cooked when I lived alone or with a less-responsible spouse.

But I do think I'm going to start photographing his dishwasher creations. It's art.

Total Panic

Sometimes I wonder just how well I know myself. I'm typically a pretty relaxed, laid-back individual who rolls with the punches, takes the long view and doesn't get too wound up about things.

Until I start to plan a party. Then I lose my ever-loving mind, freaking out from the time the invitations go out until the party is over about food, drinks, decor, what I'm going to wear, who is going to come, etc. Every time I plan a get-together, I end up in a month-long flop sweat. I lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, envisioning every possible outcome of the party. I mentally try on different outfits - some of which I own, some of which I don't - trying to find the one that perfectly expresses my ability to host a party, entertain all of my family and friends, cook, flirt, laugh, tell great stories, and keep everyone's drink full. I'm not sure what that outfit looks like, actually, but I bet Martha Stewart owns a couple.

So most of the time, I don't host big get-togethers. I do better with small dinners. But this weekend, I had a few too many cocktails out with the girls and suddenly, I thought it would be a marvelous idea to have a party the day after Christmas. (Keep in mind, I'm responsible for Christmas this year for the first time ever, so I'm just adding to my list of anxieties for the holiday season.) Once I started talking about it, I envisioned this glamorous night of cocktails and desserts, with all my friends floating from room to room in my house, sipping tasty drinks and nibbling on delectable desserts, all of which I'd make from scratch. As the weekend went on, the guest list grew, as did the menu, the bar, the decor, and especially the bill. Tony went blithely along, knowing that his participation would be limited to opening the door and hanging people's coats in the hall closet. (Which is jammed, top to bottom, with office supplies. We'll have to find somewhere new to hide that stuff.)

When I finally sobered up this morning (it was a good weekend, what can I say?) the full reality of what I've committed to hit me. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm super excited and can't wait to have a house full of people partying it up. I have always wanted to host parties and dinners and feed everyone I know. HOWEVER, I have not done it often, and I've certainly never hosted a party with this level of expectation. It is one thing to open a case of beer and a bag of Doritos and throw some burgers on the grill. It is quite another to invite close to 100 people to your house for a dessert buffet, signature cocktails and mingling.

I've spent the last two hours, between taking phone calls and trying to get some work done (because in addition to this party, I also have this JOB thing, this COMPANY to run), in a total panic, flipping wildly among web sites, looking for cocktails that will work with desserts, recipes for miniature desserts that I can make with my limited pastry skills and kitchen equipment, decor ideas and my evite page, where my mood is entirely decided by how many people are attending and how many guests they are bringing. (My self-esteem depends on being liked by everyone, so the guest list is a measure of my self-worth.)

I think much of this would be easier if Tony and I had entertained at all in our new house. But we were waiting to get enough furniture so that we wouldn't have to host a "Bring your own chair" party. Now that we are at that point (thanks, Mom!), I'm ready to stock the bar and open the door to the hordes. In theory.

In reality, I'll spend the next 18 days testing recipes, frantically counting glasses, calling my mom every 20 minutes for advice, trying on outfits, buying the Party Source out of vodka and champagne and laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, sweating it out.

But maybe the flop sweat will help me lose the 25 pounds I need to before the party.

'Tis the season

It's Christmas shopping time again. Around our house, that means one of two things - either we have money and we get to blow it out (that has happened once) or we're on a budget and we have to be extremely careful with what we spend (that would be the other Christmases we've spent together.)

With Tony, the problem is that he's really good at buying expensive gifts and doesn't do that well with the budget stuff. I have some truly extraordinary gifts from the flush years - jewelry, handbags, scarves, clothing. I also have some truly bizarre gifts from the lean years - key chains, plaques, etc. It is a running joke around our house that with a buying limit under $50, Tony gets kind of lost.

This year is a lean year. I already bought Tony's gifts online while I was at my mom's. I'm having them shipped to her so he doesn't peek and she is going to wrap them for me as well (she's a full-service mom.) Mom also told me what she wanted, so I'm going to get that for her and that just leaves Jack (no freaking idea what I'm going to buy him) and Levi (hello, gift card!). The dogs are getting some toys and a bag of Beggin' Strips. I know, I spoil them.

Tony, on the other hand, has done no shopping at all. He's terrified of buying me the wrong things. Let's just say I had a bad, hormone-induced reaction to a REALLY NICE gift a few years ago and he's never recovered, poor guy. So mom and I have decided to help him. The budget is $100, so we've both been going to my favorite clothing store web sites and sending him link after link of tops, skirts, pants, etc. The best part is that he showed me what my mom sent him and gave me veto power over her choices. (They were all lovely, mom. Don't worry, I didn't veto a thing.)

But at a certain point, I realized that it would be easier for him to just hand me the $100 and send me to the mall, but then I wouldn't have anything to open on Christmas and that would make me sad. You don't ever want to be the person sitting there with nothing to open. Gives the impression that you've been bad that year, or something.

So instead, I carefully orchestrate my Christmas gift options, choosing only items that I know will fit, match and look great together, so if Tony chooses wisely, I'll have a matching outfit under the tree. And if he doesn't, I'll have a great selection of separates to work into my current wardrobe. The best part is that I know how much it means to Tony to buy good gifts and this will give him the opportunity to do that, and not worry that I don't like something he bought for me and then have a repeat of birthday '07. Oh, the horror.

Here's hoping your shopping is going as well as mine and that I figure something out for Jack before Christmas Eve, when I freak out and buy everyone a Snuggy.

Hey, that's not a bad idea......

Whew, what a downer!

I just re-read my post from yesterday and I think I owe everyone a great big apology! What a big pile of moodiness I was yesterday!

Obviously, I shouldn't write while hungry. From now on, I commit to only write posts after a large meal or snack.

Speaking of which, we went to the grocery store today, so my hunger pangs should be held at bay for a while.

However, today was sprint-shopping, the most nerve-wracking kind. Tony and I left the house at 11:40 to go to Sam's, knowing that I had to be back for a phone conference at 1:30. Which would have been plenty of time, except we stopped at a neighbor's for 10 minutes to chat and invite them over for drinks and stuff on Saturday (adding a few more items to my grocery list at the same time!). By the time we got to Sam's, I had approximately 20 minutes to shop, check out and get everything loaded in the car. It normally takes me that long just to reach the back of the store.

Add to that the fact that Tony got a call from a very chatty customer 30 seconds before we pulled in to the parking lot and we had what I like to call "a situation." I abandoned Tony in the car with nary a glance over my shoulder and sprinted through the parking lot to the store, shoving old ladies and SUVs out of the way as I went. (Sidebar - why is it that people in SUVs backing out of parking spaces inevitably have to stop and start over? It's not a semi, people, it's a Jeep Liberty. I've had dogs bigger than that.)

As soon as I hit the store, I was in the zone, digging out my list, tossing my coat to the doorman (what, your Sam's Club doesn't have a doorman?) and speed-walking toward the dog food. Only to realize when I got there that there is no way I can pick up a 50 pound bag of kibble. Well, not if I want all of my internal organs to stay internal. I picked up dog Christmas presents instead, including Beggin' Strips (the dog equivalent of Combos, I'm convinced) and some chicken-scented chew toys (I'm hoping they smell like COOKED chicken and not BARNYARD chicken).

After that frivolity, I scurried off to the food section, desperate for some sort of acceptable, grown-up appetizer for Saturday's cocktail gathering. Normally, I'd serve pizza rolls and Doritos, but I think this get-together requires more finesse. Our neighbors seem fairly sophisticated and spray cheese on Ritz Crackers just doesn't seem appropriate.

Dashing wildly from aisle to aisle, I filled the cart with a random collection of frozen and not-frozen bites, hoping a theme would emerge besides "Lacy's Desperate Attempt to Seem Cultured." Sadly, none did. We'll be eating chicken sausage, bruschetta, frozen shrimp and whole apples, I guess.

Once Tony joined me, I force-marched him all over the store, making him pick up the heavy stuff, yelling at him to keep up and at one point, stomping my foot in the dairy section because he wouldn't shut up about his customer and help me figure out if we had enough food for everyone. He's so selfish sometimes.

Twenty minutes after sweeping through the front door, we were on our way back to the car in a driving rain, only to be foiled when Tony put all the groceries in first and forgot about the dog food. This is how we ended up with our legs sticking out the front doors of the Mini, trying desperately to jam a bag of dog food the size of a fifth-grader behind the front seats. We did it, but it wasn't pretty.

As we rocketed home, I realized we'd forgotten the wine (kind of important for a cocktail party) and the trash bags, but that was collateral damage we'd just have to live with. I've done too many surgical grocery strikes to believe that everyone comes back alive.

Dis-Ordered Eating

I was reading a magazine article the other day about people with eating disorders, and one sentence really struck me. The woman, a former bulimic, said that she knew she had a problem with food when she stopped thinking of it as something to be eaten and enjoyed and started only thinking of it in terms of how many calories each food item held.

Uh-oh.

Now, don't get me wrong. I know I don't have an eating disorder (despite what Mrs. Mansfield, my first-grade teacher, told my mom, I never did develop anorexia). But I have realized over the past few months that I have disordered eating. My relationship with food is uncomfortable, difficult, fraught with guilt and remorse and very rarely, successful. I love to prepare and eat food and I hate myself for doing that. Well, I love myself when I prepare food and I hate myself when I eat it.

Every bite I put in my mouth is calculated, as are all the bites I DON'T. I have done enough reading about nutrition to know approximately how many calories are in the foods I eat. What I don't know, I find out by reading nutrition labels. Obsessively.

I think all of this started my junior year of high school, when I had to keep a food journal for a week for chemistry class. The rush I felt when I could restrict my calories to 1200 a day (keep in mind, I was 16 at the time and 45 - count 'em 45 - pounds lighter than I am now) was incredible. Since then, I have always been interested in how many calories I'm consuming and burning and wasting, etc.

It all got much worse about a year ago, when I realized I'd gained a lot of weight in a short period of time - 20 pounds in about six months. That is horrifying for me, because although my weight has fluctuated over the years by five or 10 pounds, my clothes have always fit. Now I'm reduced to borrowing clothes from my mother (with the promise that in a few months, I'll be small enough that I can give them back to her because they are too big) or wearing the same two or three outfits constantly. It is demoralizing to walk into my closet only to see lots of beautiful things that won't fit over my ass. Add to that the great boot blowout of '09 and I'm mortified every time I think about my size.

So, I obsess about my food intake. Over the past year, I've tried all sorts of things - exercise, diet, extreme exercise, diets that made me cry, eating only whole foods, eating only processed foods, crying, you name it. None of it has worked. I weigh the same amount now that I did in January. Which is to say 25 more pounds than I want to weigh. The frustration, self-loathing and anger are incredible.

And this has brought me to the point where even though I'm so hungry I want to cry right now (although a great deal of the tears would be shame from admitting any of this) I'm afraid to eat anything because I'm trying so hard to lose weight before we try to get pregnant again. (Yes, a part of me thinks that if I were thinner, I wouldn't have had the miscarriage.)

I know I'm not alone in my frustration and anger about this. I know many, many people struggle with their weight. However, when you are standing in the pantry crying, it is a solo endeavor. And when you can't get your favorite boots to fit, there is no one who can help you (except if you get stuck, and then husbands can usually be recruited to cut them off.)

It doesn't help that, intellectually, I know that if you eat fewer calories than you burn, you will lose weight. Try telling that to my face when I get so stressed out about paying the bills that I order Chinese food and then silently berate myself with every bite. (That would be yesterday.) Tell me that when I cook chicken and brown rice for the 42nd time in a month even though I find it soul-killing to cook and eat such boring food all the time. (Beyond that, I don't even like chicken and rice.)

I'm not sure what the solution is. I refuse to buy any more big clothes. I refuse to be happy in this body because I know it isn't good for me. And I find it impossible to feel attractive when all I see in the mirror are my imperfections. And knowing that everyone in my life likes me better when I'm thinner doesn't help much either.

So I think I'll go stand in the pantry and cry.

Thanksgiving

Okay, I know it is technically AFTER Thanksgiving, but I had a very busy week of interviews, bad Internet connections and stuffing my face. So, I thought I would push back my Official Thanksgiving Blog until Cyber Monday, when everyone is trawling the interwebs anyhow, in search of a good deal.

Today, I've decided to make a list of things I'm thankful for in the spirit of the holiday. Brace yourselves:

1. My family. Every time I go to a family function, I am reminded why I love my family so much. They are wonderful, warm, loving, funny people who make a mean turkey (and gravy, stuffing, potatoes, rolls, noodles, sweet potato casserole, devilled eggs, roasted chestnuts, no-bake cookies and many more dishes too numerous to mention.) Every year we all bring less food and more seems to show up. It has become a running joke that dinner is scheduled for one p.m. and we've NEVER eaten at one p.m. AND there is always too much food for the 30 of us to possibly consume.

2. My health. If the last month has taught me anything, it is that being healthy is really important and that if you are, you can bounce back from anything. So beyond a few (20) extra pounds and an irritating knee, I'm doing okay and I'm happy about that.

3. My doggies. I almost rescinded this when we picked them up from the kennel this morning, only to find that they had to be separated because of bad behavior. But frankly, I wouldn't expect any different. My brother and I had to be separated at the kennel when we were their age, so I guess the furry apples don't fall too far from the tree. And anyone who gets so excited when they see you that they pee is worth being thankful for.

4. My mom's pantry. She has the most deluxe snack food in the world and I love it. Gourmet candy, gelato, exotic cheese dips, etc. Of course, I gained four pounds while I was at her house, so it is more of a love/hate relationship with the pantry.

5. Board games. Jack and Mom bought a new board game that involved lots of shouting, gesticulating and singing. We played on Saturday until way past curfew (they go to bed at 8:30 or so) and we had the best time. Even if they beat the pants off us.

6. Alcohol. It makes everything better, doesn't it?

7. The hubs. He is a trooper. He doesn't blink when I suggest spending a week with my mom, five hours at dinner, screaming-singing board games, six a.m. wakeups so we can get on the road at a reasonable time, gelato for dinner, etc. He gets along with everyone, makes great conversation and even packs the suitcases when it is time to come home. He's a dream.

All in all, it was a wonderful week. I ate a ton of sushi, shot some guns, ate turkey, played board games and had a great time.

Hope your Thanksgiving was at least half as good.

Resume Tips

Okay, it is a down economy and I know lots of people are out looking for jobs, perhaps even some of my readers. So, as a service to you, I'd like to provide some of my tried-and-true resume tips, culled from the hundreds of resumes I've read and thrown out over the years. I'm currently in the process of hiring a few sales people for our business, so I'm freshly reminded of all the faux pas committed by those hungry to be hired.

1. Don't put your GPA on your resume UNLESS it is actually something to brag about. I received a resume today with the listing: "Blah Blah University, Pre-Med 2.00 GPA." Really? A whole 2.00? Wow. Nothing says "Hire me now!" like an unflinching C average. Just leave it off unless you can put the words Magna or Summa somewhere. Trust me, no one more than two years out of college cares what your GPA is, was or would ever be.

2. Under memberships and associations, things like the AAA are not really relevant. If anyone can be a part for a $35 membership, and if they provide 24-hour roadside assistance, these might be "memberships" you can leave off. This includes Sam's Club, Direct Buy and the Hair Club for Men.

3. A related note: membership in political or quasi-political organizations might also be the wrong thing to put on a resume. First impressions are important and no matter the political leanings of the interviewer, membership in organizations like the NRA or NOW could be a little inflammatory....I'm just saying. We all have stereotypes in mind when we hear these abbreviations, and they come right to the forefront when splashed on a resume in black and white. By all means, wear your "You'll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands" or "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle" t-shirt to the company picnic, but only after you've been hired.

4. Don't ever use the word "penetrate" on a resume. Bleah. Here, I'll use it in a sentence just so you can understand the full horror: Acquired and penetrated new customers, resulting in 15% increase in business. Are you a prostitute? A male prostitute? Because that is the only time you should be penetrating customers. Well, I guess if you are an assassin, but you get my point.

5. Don't refer to the person interviewing you by their first name unless they give you permission. I receive so many emails starting "Dear Lacy." No. I am Ms. Coutsoftides or Mrs. Coutsoftides, if you are feeling frisky and know that I'm married. I'll give you permission to call me Lacy eventually, but don't assume I like you well enough to do it out of the gate.

So here's hoping these tips help you in your job hunt. Oh, and if you want to sell sea and air freight, drop me a line. I'd be happy to talk to you....if you'll just send me a resume.

Tales from the Home Office

Working from home definitely has its advantages. I wear giant pink fuzzy slippers all day, there is no commute (which means I get up at seven every day instead of six, which is so wonderful I can hardly express it), and I get to pick the music playing over the sound system (unless Tony is in a country and western mood, which I tolerate once a week, tops).

However, there are a few pitfalls.

1. Weight management. The fridge is way too close. If you get hungry or have a snack attack, you can just waltz to the kitchen and find any number of snacks, free and there for the eating. This has made grocery shopping a little more strategic - basically, I don't purchase snack foods, ever. Protein, fruit, vegetables and that's it. The last time Tony and I had a decent snack, it was at my mom's house, where she lives by the opposite creed - she doesn't cook, so all she has is snack food. Her kitchen is a minefield of cookies, chips and cheese.

2. My dog. I love him, he makes me smile, having him sleep at my feet while I'm working is wonderful and sweet. What isn't wonderful and sweet is that he's figured out that every time Tony or I get on the phone, if he stands next to our chair and barks, we'll pet him to get him to shut up. So we are petting defensively most of the day. Oh, and he's slowly shredding the leather arm on Tony's chair with his little toenails. (It is one of our dining-room chairs that cost an obscene amount of money back when we had money.) Oh, and the big smelly dog just licked the small of my back and I can guarantee you THAT never happened at the office.

3. Lunch dates. Eating hot dogs at the kitchen island with Tony is about as lunch date-y as I get. I used to have weekly lunches with the ladies I worked with, both in my office days and my cosmetics days. Now, I heat up some leftovers and scarf them down with one eye on my Blackberry and one ear to the phone in the office down the hall. Not exactly the glamorous life of a company president I'd envisioned.

4. The bathroom. I used to be able to use the restroom in peace when I worked in an office. No furry beasts followed me in, only to want to sit on my lap or claw at my exposed legs. No co-worker ever ignored me for three solid hours, only to decide that the minute I left to take a tinky break was the only time he could possibly talk to me. It doesn't help that the half-bath is adjacent to the office, so he can shout from his desk to the toilet with ease. Bleah.

But, I can't complain too much. I have a fantastic view. (I took the desk next to the window overlooking the lake.) I can go upstairs and watch TV when I get a break. I can go to work with wet hair and no one says anything. I get to work with my best friend every day - and he totally understands when I need a Panera Bread sanity lunch. Which I do today!

Thank You.

As you know, the last week and a half have been very difficult. There have been buckets of tears, lots of naps and several prescription medications that make me want to carve my stomach out and never eat again. At many points, I just wanted to pretend the previous three months had never happened.



But the entire experience became bittersweet when I told all of you about what had happened. The floodgates opened and I realized that, far from being alone, I was surrounded by women (and their partners) who had been through the same situation and were unbelievably generous in sharing their experiences and knowledge with me. Without these incredible, strong and compassionate people, Tony and I never would have made it through this.


The cards, emails and Facebook messages were all different, but held the same theme - I've been there, it hurt like hell, but I got through it and you can, too. One woman reassured me that having a miscarriage was, for her, much more painful and frightening than actually giving birth (a fear that I had been holding without actually acknowledging). Another expressed so eloquently how it felt to put all the maternity clothes and baby books away and know that the months would continue to tick by but at the end, I wouldn't have a baby. The writing was beautiful, sad, impassioned and sometimes angry, which is what made it perfect.

And even though my first instinct was to throw everything that reminded me of this experience away, I'm keeping all of it. Because even though it hurts to look at it, I know that in the future, whenever I feel alone or abandoned, I will be able to look at this outpouring of good will and know that there are people out there who care about me.

I'm also slowly coming back to myself. I've gotten dressed the last few days, gone to the grocery store, even had dinner at the home of dear friends who tolerated me talking way too much about the miscarriage without stopping or judging me. Am I completely better? No. Another friend said it best - you are never really over this experience until you get pregnant again, successfully. So I have many months until I feel whole again. But for now, I'll settle for being able to see a commercial on TV with a baby in it and not sob for an hour after.

Bad news.

The past five days have been the longest and most terrible of my life. And for those of you who know me well, you'll know that I've had some pretty terrible days before.

Tony and I lost the baby this weekend.

And I know how it seems to post this on the blog, but we were foolish enough to tell everyone we knew and some strangers, so this seems the most expeditious way to get this over with, like taking off a band-aid. Writing hundreds of personal emails right now would take emotional reserves I don't have.

We went out of town on a vacation this weekend, some long-planned fun in the sun before really cracking down on work and the holidays. We spent most of the weekend making frantic phone calls to the emergency line at the nurse-midwifery practice and all day Saturday in a strange hospital in a strange state, waiting for them to tell us what I already knew instinctively: we were having a miscarriage. I didn't think it was possible to cry for five hours straight, but I did.

After that, we returned to our hotel room, ordered pizza and stared at the wall. We watched bad HBO movies and didn't really talk a whole lot. I compulsively cleaned the room, ate half a pizza and an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's and felt humiliated by the fact that we'd spent the last six weeks telling everyone we knew a secret that we should have kept and that now we'd have to spend at least six more weeks making sure everyone knew and keeping ourselves together while people asked about the baby.

Sunday we endured the agony of killing eight hours in a strange city (I'd booked a late flight to allow for more sightseeing which turned into a nightmare) and then flying home coach while I was in terrible pain and bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. I only saw Tony cry once, and that was while on the phone with his mother. Funny how talking to mom allows you to forget being strong and go ahead and be emotional.

The last two days have been a blur of doctor's visits and trips to the hospital. Things didn't go well and I ended up in the hospital this morning at 1 a.m. We got home today around 10:30, completely exhausted physically and emotionally. To be the only person walking out of the birthing center without a baby was wrenching.

Out of all of this, I've learned a few things:

My capacity for pain is much higher than I thought. My capacity for incompetence while in pain is just as low as I thought.

Tony is an incredible husband. He has been a trooper through all of this, often the only person in the room with me for hours and hours while I struggled with pain and heartbreak and he struggled with me. Without him, I'd feel horribly alone. His ability to be tough for me and to save his tears for when he knew I was calm enough to handle them shows every ounce of the maturity he has. He kept it together for me when he was just as sad and terrified as I was.

When they tell you to wait until 13 weeks to tell everyone, do it. The feeling of losing a baby is enough of a horror show without the additional pain of having to tell everyone or try not to make other people feel bad when they ask how things are.

With that all said, I'm going to take a break from blogging for a little while. I have to heal my heart and my body, and figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do from here.

It's a marathon, not a sprint

Lately I've been drinking a lot. Especially in the morning.

My morning routine now consists of hearing the alarm, ignoring the alarm, rolling out of bed about 45 minutes after the alarm goes off, walking/jogging on the treadmill for 30 minutes and then heading downstairs to eat. And drink.

You see, I find myself with a lot more nutritional needs lately, and some of them can only be met through the ingestion of massive quantities of fluids. Which is great at the time and terrible for the next 12 hours, when I'm dashing to the bathroom every 30 minutes. (I nearly peed my pants in Sam's Club this week because I forgot how long it takes to get from the frozen foods to the bathrooms up front. I ended up ditching my cart and sprinting. I'm sure it looked super sophisticated. Especially when I body-checked someone's grandma out of the way in front of the pharmacy.)

My breakfast beverage lineup is the most impressive. I have a 30-ounce bottle of water while I'm working out, but it doesn't always get finished, so I have to bring that down to breakfast with me. When I get down there, I have a mug of hot water with lemon juice (keeps the digestive tract in line, from what I've read). Then, I have a big glass of milk and half a cup of coffee with my bowl of oatmeal and my banana (this is the only reliably healthy meal I eat all day, so I really go for it.) Oftentimes, the coffee and my water bottle have to follow me around for another hour or so, until the coffee has gone cold and the water warm. I haven't finished a full cup of coffee in six weeks.

The other day, I complained because Tony finished his breakfast (oatmeal and no beverage - he has a weird rule about not drinking while he eats) and started to get up before I'd even finished my hot water and lemon. He looked at me and said, "I'm not sticking around for this! It's not breakfast, it's an endurance test!"

And he's right. I try really hard to front-load my day with nutrition because I know the rest of my day might go like yesterday, where I had two hot dogs for lunch and two Soft Taco Supremes for dinner. Not exactly the fully organic health-food experience I envisioned for myself when I got pregnant. Turns out I don't like salad that much. Who knew? Recently, I've given in and started chugging at least one glass of V-8 every day, just to try to make up for my nutritional deficiencies. I feel healthier already.

But mostly, I drink a lot because food doesn't taste that good to me right now. I used to be a person who got food cravings at the drop of a hat and dreamt of food at night. Now, I think about my options and mostly say, "Meh." The last meal I remember that was really tasty was a burger and fries at Five Guys. That was transcendent. But even thinking about that doesn't make my mouth water. I get about five bites into any meal and think, "Okay, that's enough. I'm done." I even made a really good pork roast the other day (the first serious cooking I've done in months) and I could only eat a little bit. Which left three pounds of pork roast for Tony. He wasn't complaining.

Drinking my calories and nutrients just seems easier. So I just keep a glass of something with me all day and when I'm feeling nutrient-deprived, I take a drink. Seems to work. And, as I was sprinting through Sam's, I saw some adult diapers, so that might solve the bladder issue.

Now if I can just find a way to puree a pork roast, I'd be set.

Resolutions...

Okay, I know it's not January, but it is time for some resolutions. Let's call them my November Resolutions.

I've been wallowing around a bit lately, not knowing what to do with myself or how to order my days. The business is starting to bustle, but I can still get my work done in about an hour or two every day. In the future, I'm sure I'll be swamped, but right now, I have a lot of free time.

Mostly, I've been spending that watching "Man vs. Food" on the Travel Channel. Not perhaps the best use of my time. I have, however, gained a new appreciation for how hard it is to eat and digest two gallons of ice cream in less than an hour. (That has always been a goal of mine.)

So last night I made some resolutions. (Our motto here is "Why wait until January to make unreasonable goals that you'll try to reach for a week and a half and then ignore in disappointment the rest of the year?")

So here's the list:

1. I will do the dishes every day (this was Tony's job, but I'm feeling generous.)
a. I will not hand-wash dishes. That is gross. Tony can still do that.
b. Basically, I will load and unload the dishwasher every day.

2. I will fold the laundry within 24 hours of it leaving the dryer. I will put my laundry away immediately after that. Tony's laundry will sit on the kitchen table until such time that he puts it away. I'm his wife, not his mom.
a. I will no longer get dressed in the laundry room.
b. I will no longer sprint through the house in my underwear, hoping the neighbors don't see me on my way to getting dressed in the laundry room.

3. I will exercise for 30 minutes every day.
a. Even if this is just 30 minutes of very slow walking on the treadmill while I clutch my stomach in nausea.
b. Except Sunday, which I reserve as my "lazy day."

4. I will put some kind of real clothing (not workout clothes) and makeup on every day. If I don't have clothes that fit, I will manufacture some with rubber bands and prayer. (If you've ever been pregnant, you will understand this.) Zipping is optional at this point.
a. Except Sunday. See above.
b. Some days, moisturizer counts as "makeup."

5. I will eat at least five servings of fruit and vegetables every day. I don't want this baby born with scurvy.
a. Sometimes, an Edy's Real Fruit frozen treat will just have to count as a "fruit."
b. Ditto V-8 juice as a "vegetable."


6. No matter how much it scares me, I will increase my caloric intake when I reach the second trimester.
a. Tony has to resolve to take back any comments he has made about divorcing me if I gain too much weight.
b. My mom isn't allowed to mention calories, weight, fat or her own ridiculous pre- and post-pregnancy weights (oh, you know, like 100 pounds, soaking wet) in my presence.

7. I will suck it up and grocery shop on my own. (This is a major anxiety trigger for me, for some reason.)
a. I am allowed two panic calls to Tony and/or my mother per shopping trip.
b. I reserve the right to leave a full shopping cart in the store and run screaming to my car at any point.

8. At 14 weeks, I will stop taking my daily nap. The time that I was using for that I will fill with constructive baby preparations. Like watching "Man vs. Food."
a. I reserve the right to re-introduce the nap at any time.
b. I also reserve the right to attempt to eat two gallons of ice cream at any point. See point 6.

So that's what I have so far. We'll have to wait and see how it all works out, but I'm feeling optimistic. This morning, I've already exercised, folded laundry, dressed myself and done the dishes. Frankly, I feel like Superwoman. Tomorrow, I probably won't get out of bed.

Memories.....

Tony and I ran out to the bookstore this morning for a coffee break (we get 10% off at the Starbucks inside Barnes & Noble, no doubt because they know we will be lured into buying $30 of books we don't need the minute we walk in the door) and while we were there, we decided to look at the baby books.

Not the pregnancy books, of which I already own more than my share. Not the childbirth books, five of which I just checked out from the library. And not the baby-name books, of which I own one that I've never really used. (I knew from the beginning my child was going to be named Fiberglass Cadillac Aurelius Coutsoftides. What can I say? I'm an NFL fan.) No, we were looking at the "baby's first year" books. The pregnancy and baby journals. The sticky-sweet Peter Rabbit-illustrated books with little lines to fill in and pockets to fill with hospital wristbands and other baby detritus.

As you might have guessed, I'm not a fan. I find this kind of forced remembering to be a bit false and treacly, but it seems to be expected of parents, especially first-timers like Tony and me. After the first one, you seem to get a pass on any journaling or even photography. I know this because I have my baby book. (I was third and last in my family order.) It has two things written in it. My date of birth and the fact that I stood up at seven months. Anything beyond that, I'm on my own.

We also have a hard time finding photos of me either at birth or in the immediate time after. Mom and I are always digging through boxes, looking at photos of my oldest brother and of my other brother. There were 10 years between them, so mom had plenty of time to start photographing again. For me, she had three minutes a month to document anything, because when I was born, Levi was only 18 months old and we had a farm to run. If aliens landed on earth and had only my baby pictures upon which to base their understanding of child development, they would expect all babies to be born and then, 10 minutes later, be walking, talking and breaking a cat's neck with their bare hands. (I have actual photo documentation of this event. I've never been a huge animal person.)

And honestly, I don't care. I've never been the girl who has her camera strapped to her hand at all times. I'm irritated by people who feel the need to see the world through the viewfinder of a camera. I'd rather experience things as they happen rather than take time to pose everyone so that future generations can know by looking at the photos that we were having a great time. Tony and I are kindred spirits in this. We have been known to take our camera on vacation, only to get home and realize we never took it out of the suitcase. There are approximately 12 pictures of our entire three-year relationship, not counting the wedding, where we hired an amazing professional to make us look much better than we do in real life. (If I could, Steph would follow me around every day, making me look amazing.)

(The paradox to this is that I love looking at photography. I feel that a good photographer can speak volumes about what is happening. I'll go to a photography exhibit at a museum any day of the week. Just don't ask me to be the one who takes the pictures, and for Pete's sake, don't slow down my sightseeing by snapping 42 pictures of a building that looks better on a postcard in the gift shop.)

But I understand this is part of the job of parenting. In addition to the awesome stuff like teaching them to read and how to create snakes from Play-Doh, I also have to extensively photograph my children doing these things. And then preserve these photographs in albums or something. (Now all my photos are digital, and in a giant file on whatever computer I used last.)

I find that this is actually the most daunting part of parenting for me. One of us, me or Tony, will have to suck it up and start snapping photos. (And we all know what that means. I'll have to suck it up and Tony will get to live blithely on, photographing nothing.) We even agreed today at the bookstore that we will probably have to get a video camera, heaven help us. The thought of being stuck behind that lens while everyone else gets to have a great time, unencumbered by technology or documentary responsibility makes my stomach hurt. But I also don't want to take the chance that my kids will feel somehow cheated if their mom is the only one who says, "What camera?" at every special event.

So I've come up with a workable solution. My mom is going to have to attend and photograph every special event. We'll consider it payback for my undocumented youth.

How do you know that?

I've decided people know too much about me. And not the good stuff. The stuff that comes back to mildly embarrass me. (The really embarrassing stuff only my drinking buddies know. And they are too kind to bring it up when we are sober.)

Yesterday afternoon, I received two phone calls in a five minute period that convinced me that I spread the ugly details of my life around a little too freely. (As someone who writes a blog about my life, I suppose I should have realized this sooner.)

The first call came from a friend of ours. He works in the biz, so we've had several phone conversations and met a few times. I wouldn't count him among my BFFs, though, so what he said caught me a little flat footed. After our hellos, he asked me, "Isn't it your nap time?"

Well, yes, it was my nap time, but I was astounded that he'd remembered that I take a nap every day. I told him this over lunch weeks ago and more as a joke than anything. But here it was, an embarrassing detail of my day, right in front of me.

Five minutes later, one of our vendors called. Again, we've talked on the phone many times and met once, but after our hellos, he asked, "Did you get your daily dose of ice cream yet?"

Again, gob-smacked. How do these people remember this stuff about me? I told him, in a meeting more than six weeks ago, that I was eating ice cream pretty much every day. And then I promptly forgot that I ever told him that.

I find these interactions a bit unsettling, but actually kind of charming. Most guys wouldn't even remember that I'm pregnant, let alone that I nap frequently and eat ice cream like it's my job. Tony has days when he doesn't even remember that stuff, and I'm doing it in front of him. He seems surprised every day when I head upstairs for my nap. (He's never surprised when I eat ice cream - that's not a pregnancy thing, just a Lacy thing.)

I understand that these guys are salesmen so it is their job to remember details and forge personal relationships, but really, Tony is the one they have to do that with, not me. So I am flattered when they remember this stuff. I just wish I had the wherewithal to tell them more self-promotional stuff, like that I jog five miles every day or I teach underprivileged children to read in my spare time. No, instead I tell them that I'm lazy and addicted to high-fat foods.

So as a result of these conversations, I've made a new resolution. I will only share the best, most flattering information about myself with everyone around me. No more blogs about my weight or my frizzy hair (which, by the way, Bambi did a marvelous job on yesterday, and I only got a mini-bubble). From now on, you will have to endure lengthy self-promotions about my charitable work and involvement in self-sustaining local agricultural concerns.

Now I just need to find a charity and a local farmer.

Will I stop having more fun?

I have a confession to make.

I'm not a blonde.

Well, at least not anymore. For years, I've tiptoed that fine line between blonde and brunette, covering my natural dirty-blonde hair with enough peroxide to kill a horse. I've high-lighted, low-lighted and straight-up dyed my hair regularly for the last 15 years. And I've decided that enough might just be enough.

It started off innocently enough. When I was in high school, I went to the salon for a few highlights. No big deal. In fact, a huge treat for a 15 year old. I totally recommend it. However, once you get started, it is really hard to stop. By the time I was a senior, my hair was approaching platinum blonde.

(A side note, and something that is probably just in my head. I seem to drive hairdressers insane. Every single time I've found a great stylist and we've worked out an arrangement on how I want my hair cut and colored, we get along famously for about three sessions and then her whole life implodes. Unwanted pregnancies, divorces, nervous breakdowns, you name it. And along with her life, my hair takes a turn in the dumper. I cannot tell you the number of times I have sat in stylist's chair, watching hair that previously looked just fine turn into straw-colored, poorly-cut sticks while she sobbed and told me all her problems. I have implemented a three strikes policy to help everyone. Three styles and I'm out. I simply find a new stylist and leave the previous one to her happy, healthy life and my hair intact. I'm on my fourth stylist since moving to Cincinnati, but that's okay with me.)

The problem with hair color, though, is you have to maintain it. I'm lazy when it comes to these things, and terribly cheap. I hate that I have to spend $100 to get my hair cut and colored. And that, in order to look like a normal human who cares about her hair, I have to go at least every two months. (Really, I should go every six weeks, but who has that kind of money or time? Or discipline?) The bottom line is, as I get older, my natural hair color gets darker and I become less motivated to do anything about it. I walk around most of the time embarrassed by my reverse Mohawk but unwilling to shell out the cash to fix it. Which kind of hampers my social life. It's bad enough that none of my clothes fit properly and I have the acne of a 13 year old boy. Add regrowth to that and you might as well sign me up for Meals on Wheels, because I'm never leaving the house.

So in order to facilitate a little more socialization AND save money and time, I've decided to just embrace something closer to my natural color. It can't be that bad. Some of my best friends are brunette and they seem to have a lot more fun than I do. My mom is a even brunette now and it looks great. (And she was platinum blonde her senior year, too. So there.)

I've scheduled an appointment today with Bambi (she of the August bubble-do - she's got one strike down and two to go) and I'm going to tell her to make my hair darker. It won't be easy, and I'm sure it will take an adjustment, but between these crazy dark roots and the fact that the pregnancy has made my hair grow like one of those dolls whose arm you turn (you remember those, right? You could cut their hair and stuff) I just can't keep up with this regrowth anymore. I get one week of decent highlights and two months of wearing hats. And I don't look good in hats.

The really interesting thing will be when the baby is born. Chances are it will have dark hair like Tony, but if it comes out blonde and both of us are brunette, the rumors are really going to start. I'm going to tell everyone my personal trainer is named Sven and let them draw their own conclusions.

The great boot blowout of '09

I love shoes. You know it, I know it, there is no sense denying it.

I have a rather large shoe collection (okay, it is ridiculous, but I've had some of those shoes since I was a freshman in high school, so I'm not apologizing) and I will admit that there are days when I go into my closet and see a pair I'd forgotten even owning. It's like Christmas!

And there are times when I have made sacrifices in other areas of my life to buy the perfect shoe. I'll eat grilled cheese for a week if it means I can get the perfect pair of pumps for a special event or purchase those to-die-for boots on sale at DSW. (I am aware that this makes me a cliche, but I balance my overwhelming chick-ness with the knowledge that I can chop firewood and roof a house. So suck it.)

When I was working at a restaurant in early college, I once spent an entire paycheck on the most beautiful pair of black knee-high full-zip Doc Martens boots. I was 19, living with my mom and paying for college with a minuscule paycheck and scholarships, but those boots called to me. They were sublime.

I still own them, but something tragic happened last week. Since I've gotten pregnant, none of my clothes fit. I mean nothing. It's not that I'm showing, it's that I've gone from a 34C to a 36DD in four weeks. For the menfolk, this might sound like a good thing. Heck, for the less-endowed ladies out there, this might seem like a dream come true. But, if you've spent your entire life wearing size medium shirts, this is a living hell. I went shopping with a girlfriend one Saturday and before I could leave the house, I spent two hours trying on every shirt in my closet. I only found one that fit. Barely. I looked like Jayne Mansfield in it, which is not a comfortable look for me. I don't like to look like a pair of boobs strapped to a piece of plywood, covered by a sweater. Not my thing. Not to mention the havoc this has wreaked on my underwear drawer.

The worst thing, though, is that I seem to have put on weight in my calves. After weeks of feeling dowdy and lumpy, I finally found a cute outfit in my closet last week - a mini, the largest sweater I own, tights and my Docs. This worked until, as I was pulling up the zipper on my boots, I BLEW IT OUT. That's right, I blew the zipper on my boots clean out, leading to many tears and recriminations. Perhaps I shouldn't have been using a pair of pliers to pull the zipper up (sometimes I can't take a hint), but it was still the saddest moment of my sartorial life. I know I can get them fixed and I know I will, but I still won't be able to wear them while I'm expecting. Which makes me sadder than all of it. (They are flat-soled. The only other black boots I have are stilettos. You can do the math on that.)

This morning, it happened again. I've broken down and bought some "roomier" clothes, but it seems my calves are out to defeat me. The first pair of boots I put on this morning - sweet, kitten-heeled brown ones - wouldn't zip. I had to resort to four-inch black stiletto boots to get any sort of outfit to work. Which wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I'm grocery shopping today, for Pete's sake.

So it seems I have a few options. I can wrap my calves in saran wrap and hope they sweat into a smaller size, or I can go buy those "plus-size" boots that have room for my newly enormous lower legs.

Keep your fingers crossed for the saran wrap.

Five weeks and counting....

I need a break from this whole pregnancy thing.

Just one day or even half a day to run wild, drinking a glass of wine and taking a Tylenol without doing the complex calculus of how badly this is going to screw up the other life I'm now responsible for.

I'm sure every woman who has been pregnant has felt the same way at some time, either in the beginning or more toward the end, when you are as big as a house and have been dealing with not really owning your own body for eight or nine months. The surreal feeling of making all your decisions based on some other life inside you is very strange, indeed. Especially when you've spent your entire adult life with a complete disregard for your own health and well-being.

This week is the perfect example. Tuesday morning, everything was humming along beautifully when I was felled by a migraine. I've been getting migraines for almost 10 years now, and I never know when or why they will hit. I've always envied people who knew exactly what triggered their headaches. (I have a girlfriend who has it down to a science - no mushrooms, cranberries or sharp cheddar cheese. No joke.) I have no idea. It could be the weather patterns in Peru, for all I know.

Tuesday morning, I had oatmeal and a glass of milk, the same breakfast I've had every day for two weeks now. An hour later, I was sent reeling into a dark room, clutching my head and knowing there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. No prescription migraine medication is safe for pregnancy and Tylenol, the one thing I CAN take, doesn't even touch that kind of pain. I might as well swallow a handful of Tic Tacs. So, I slunk off to the TV room and consoled myself with lukewarm water and reruns of Law and Order. (And not even Criminal Intent. The infinitely lamer SVU.)

Tony did a nice job taking care of me, given our limited resources. My lunch choices were baked beans and yogurt (I chose yogurt) and for dinner, he got be Taco Bell. (PS, the new Loaded Nachos are to DIE FOR! Guac, two kinds of cheese and pico de gallo. Super awesome good. But I digress.) I went to bed that night convinced I'd wake up the Wednesday a new woman.

Instead, I woke up in more pain than the day before. Have you ever tried getting up for your pregnancy bladder break at three in the morning when you feel like your head is going to explode? I couldn't even turn on the light in the bathroom, so I was convinced the whole time that snakes were going to come out of the toilet and grab my butt. (I'm not kidding, this is why I have to turn the light on every time I get up during the night. Overwhelming fear of toilet snakes.)

So, I spent yesterday glued to the couch again, watching Top Chef reruns. (At least it was restaurant wars, so that was fun. But it made me hungry.) We had fish sticks for lunch - Tony cooked! I pretended each fish stick was an amuse-bouche.

Today, I'm back to myself, mostly. There is always lingering pain after an episode like that, but I'm well enough to get back to work. But the whole episode drove home for me just how little control I have over my body now and for the next seven months. Or actually, how much more control I have to exercise than usual. I've always been pretty loose and free with the booze, the ibuprofen and the raw foods. No more. I've had to give up over-easy eggs, the good sushi, Advil, beer, unpasteurized cheese, all of that. I'm actually not sure what I've been eating the last month, given those restrictions.

Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled about being pregnant. Tony and I tried for months to get this way, so it is a little disingenuous for me to complain now. But like any blessing, this has some consequences wrapped up in it. Like me not being able to eat a Spicy Tuna Roll or wash down a great medium-rare steak with a beautiful glass of Shiraz.

Oh, great. Now I'm hungry. Way to go, Lacy.

Where's Linda Blair when you need her?

I need a young priest and an old priest.

My house is possessed. Or perhaps infested is a better term.

Here's the deal. I hate bugs, creatures, jumpy things, birds, frogs, snakes, mice, vermin and too many other parts of "nature" to mention here.

Those of you who have known me for a long time know that I grew up on a farm and might find this a little odd, but here's my explanation - I got enough of that before I turned 13 that I'd prefer not to deal with it now.

When we lived in the condo, it was fine. The only nature I came into contact with was the occasional bird on the fire escape. Oh, and one cockroach that fell off a chair that had been in a storage unit for months, but Tony squished that and I spent the rest of the night rocking in a corner, mumbling.

But then we got all suburban. We HAD to move to a piece of property on a lake. We HAD to invite nature right up to the back door of the house. What the hell were we thinking?

My first inkling that this new house was going to be a torture chamber for me came early on. The lake is a breeding ground for frogs. LOTS of frogs. I've been terrified of frogs since I was an infant, I believe. They jump, people. Anything that jumps has the element of surprise, and that freaks me out. I constantly envision frogs jumping off the roadway into my face, maybe into my mouth, which is so horrible to contemplate that I'm going to have to close my eyes right now for a moment and visualize Brad Pitt in "Legends of the Fall." HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

Okay, I'm back. But you get my point. Mom and I made the mistake last time she was here of going for a walk after dusk, and there were frogs every 10 inches on the road, the grass and the sidewalk. I FREAKED OUT. I practically made my 62-year-old mother carry me home on her back so I would be protected from the jumping scourge.

Things got worse this fall, though. The terror came inside my house, in the form of spiders. We were invaded a few weeks ago. I was calmly watching a movie in the downstairs media room when I saw a spider the size of my smaller dog marching along the carpet. (That would be eight pounds, for those of you keeping track.) You've never seen a grown woman scale a bean bag chair so fast. For weeks, I've been doing spider patrols every time I go in the basement. I turn on all the lights, flick blankets, shake pillows and stomp and shout.

Tony finally convinced me that he could safely spray the windowsills and empty storage spaces in the basement and our baby wouldn't have tumors and the dogs, who aren't even allowed down there, wouldn't die horribly foamy-mouthed deaths from spider poison. It worked. Now my basement carpet is littered with spider carcasses, but since I can't be sure they are actually dead, I'm not touching them. They might just be trying to sucker me in and bite me. I once saw someone (okay, it was Mom) who got a spider bite on her eyelid and because it was so poisonous, she nearly lost her eye. No joke, the necrosis ate through her eyelid. It was like a horror film. (She's fine now.)

But now, to add insult to injury, they've invaded my attic. The last few nights, Tony and I have awoken to the sound of scrabbling in the ceiling of the master bedroom. Talk about waking up in a cold terror. We've figured out it is just the birds who like to sit on the downspout and have someway made their way into the attic. We don't use the attic for anything and I'm sure as heck not going to now, but it is seriously terrifying. I keep having visions of being trapped in a phone booth, being pecked to death, a la Tippi Hedren. (Google it, kids.) Birds have the ultimate element of surprise. They are silent, flying, pooping deliverers of death. You think Legionnaire's disease wasn't domestic terrorism on the part of the birds?

The only solution, I've decided, is to move into someplace really industrial, like Beijing. I bet they don't have frogs and spiders and invasive birds there. Sure, I might end up with black lung, but that is an enemy I can see and fight. Until then, I'm sleeping in a HAZMAT suit with big earplugs. Oh, and walks are definitely out. I'm only leaving the house in the comfort and safety of my Mini Cooper.

Unless someone knows a priest willing to do an exorcism. I'm open to that option.

Where's my shopping cart?

My poor husband. I looked in the mirror a few minutes ago and realized that I look like hell. And that I've looked like hell for a few weeks, with one or two days of passable hair and makeup.

Yeah, I've become that woman who, because she doesn't leave the house very often, wears the same cardigan for days on end (no matter that it's crusted with leftovers from Tuesday's lunch) and hasn't painted her toenails in a month. Sigh.

This all happened pretty suddenly. We started the business three weeks ago and it seems that my grooming time simply vanished. For the first two weeks, it was because I was working out in the morning, then cramming in a quick shower and breakfast before getting in to the office. This week, I've been missing the alarm and waking with a start 20 minutes before I am supposed to be in my office chair, leaving enough time for a quick shower, cup of yogurt and maybe (and this is not guaranteed) to run a brush through my hair. Not glamorous.

I used to be glamorous. When I was a cosmetics maven, every day started with an elaborate beauty ritual involving no fewer than 35 products. I'm not even kidding. I counted. My hair was always perfectly (if a bit stiffly) coiffed. I wore three shades of eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara, foundation, blush, lipliner, lipstick, lipgloss, pressed powder. I had a five-step skincare ritual. Nowadays, I wash my face and sometimes remember to put on moisturizer. I look like a homeless meth addict. (However, my teeth always look fantastic. I have good teeth genes and brush religiously.) The hormones are making me break out like a teenager and yet I have this perfect circle of dry skin on my forehead. I look like I'm trying to sprout a horn. Which would be typical.

My hair has completely freaked out since I got pregnant. (You women who say your hair was thick and luxuriant while pregnant? I hate you.) It manages to be oily and dry at the same time. It sticks out from one side of my head and lays flat on the other. It also doesn't help that my highlights are six weeks old and I'm afraid the caustic chemicals in the highlight mixture will turn the baby into Wolverine. I have what one friend referred to as a "reverse Mohawk." Super awesome.

Every night before I go to sleep, I look at my frowzy hair and my blotchy skin and make a personal commitment to myself and my marriage that TOMORROW, I will wake up on time, shave my legs, paint my toenails and apply some makeup. It never happens. I roll out of bed, look at my lumpy hair and splotchy skin and realize it is so not worth the effort. The last thing I want to do is spend 45 minutes getting ready in order to be overheated from the blow dryer and have the horn-stump on my head caked in powder and mascara running from my eyes because I cry every twenty seconds.

So, here's my new commitment. In seven months, when the baby is born, I'll make sure it is so stinking cute all the time, no one will even bother to look at the bushy-haired unicorn pushing it around in a stroller.

Fish Fingers

It will be no surprise to anyone who has been pregnant before or had a pregnant spouse or friend that I am cripplingly tired most days. It is everything I can do to haul my butt out of bed, exercise, and get to the (home) office by eight. (In fact, I made it at 9:30 today, but Sarge kept us up most of the night being sick, so I had a legitimate excuse.) I can usually piece together a few good hours of work before my forehead starts to drift toward the keyboard and I head upstairs for a nap.

With a truncated day and more things on my plate now with the business, I had to pare down some of my household responsibilities. For instance, I no longer carry the laundry upstairs. Instead, it stays neatly folded on the dryer and I get dressed in the laundry room every day. Which will be really exciting for our new neighbors when they move in next month. (There is a window without a curtain in that room that looks directly into their living room. I may need to modify this plan. Or become less modest.)

The second task out the window was cooking. I know, I know. Cooking is my favorite thing to do, food is my favorite thing to consume, I get it. But, when the thought of chopping an onion or sauteing a piece of chicken makes you want to weep with exhaustion, something has to give. So Tony and I broke down, got a membership to Sam's Club, and started eating like toddlers.

No joke. I've eaten more chicken fingers in the past two weeks than I have in my entire adult life. And don't get me started on the eight-pound bag of Ore-Ida crinkle cut fries in the freezer. I could barely lift that baby into the cart at Sam's, but it was calling my name. Ditto the 110-count sack of fish sticks. (Tony calls them fish fingers, which I find unbearably funny and gross at the same time - who wants to eat a fish finger?) Pretty soon, we'll be reduced to eating those ridiculous chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs accompanied by creepy smiley-face mashed potato fries.

Part of the problem is that I'm craving weird foods, like ham sandwiches and chicken fingers. (Perhaps I should qualify that with "weird to me." I understand that ham sandwiches and chicken fingers are part of the backbone of this great nation.) The other part is that I can stagger to the freezer, grab two bags and a cookie sheet, throw some stuff in the oven and have a passable meal 25 minutes later. Add a veggie tray from Sam's and you've got a three-course dining experience.

Additionally, I've gotten incredibly militant about the number of calories I consume in a day. (It doesn't help that Tony follows me around saying he'll divorce me if I'm one of those women who throws caution to the wind and gains 100 pounds while she's pregnant. Every bite of food feels like the end of my marriage.) With prepared food, I know exactly what I'm getting, calorie-wise. I can add up my 160-calorie chicken fingers in my head, throw on another 50 for barbecue sauce and I've got some easy figures to write in the food journal that accompanies me everywhere.

I know, I know, I'm bathing my unborn child in sodium and other bad stuff. Trust me, before I got pregnant, I was on a big organic-food kick. I only ate chemical and preservative-free foods made with baby vegetables and the tears of unicorns. But until I'm past this exhaustion, there is no way I can find recipes, source the food, edit, and prepare that kind of stuff and still get the rest of my day's to-do list accomplished.

So until the second trimester, fish fingers and french fries it is. As long as we keep the house stocked with ketchup and barbecue sauce, it should be smooth sailing.

Hysterical Pregnancy

Well, obviously baby news sells. I had more readers yesterday than I've ever had and doubled my previous record. But, I promise not to make this some gross blog about my pregnancy aches and pains and etc.

However, I do have to share my first moment of pregnancy hysteria. I think all first-time pregnant women have these moments. (Except those lunatics who go nine months and deliver a baby without ever knowing they were pregnant. I'm not sure how that happens. I don't even recognize my body or its actions anymore, let alone think that what is going on here is part of my normal bodily functions. If I wasn't pregnant, I'd be convinced I was dying. I'd go to the doctor either way.)

Mine, embarrassingly, happened in the first week I knew I was pregnant. I took my home test on Tuesday, confirmed on Thursday and made my first call to the doctor's emergency line on Sunday afternoon. I know, I'm a champion hysteric.

The problem was (and still is, unfortunately) those abdominal cramps I mentioned yesterday. As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I started having abdominal pains. They weren't that bad, just occasional cramping when I'd lie down to go to sleep or stand up after sitting for a long time. I know now that they are referred to as "round ligament pain" and are caused by the ligaments in your body going all Mr. Fantastic in preparation for everything in your torso getting mashed to one side by an invading force (also known as a baby).

The cramps were totally manageable until Saturday night, when I awoke from a sound sleep feeling like my internal organs were trying to become external. I went into the bathroom, thinking I was going to be sick. Then I started to shake and sweat (I think this was just a stress reaction). At that point, I did what any logical woman would do. I hollered for my husband. Tony staggered into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and terrified and immediately grabbed The Pregnancy Bible and started thumbing through the pages, trying to find an answer for why his wife had suddenly become this shreiking, crying monster at three in the morning. Eventually, things got better and I went back to sleep. I think Tony was so traumatized he had to have three valium and a drink before he could rest again.

On Sunday afternoon, the pain returned and I moved to plan B. I called my mom. Her response to my questions (am I okay? can I take some painkillers?) was this: "Lacy, it has been 29 years since I gave birth and back then, I was just winging it."

Super. Always good to know your mother was playing it fast and loose when pregnant with you.

After that very helpful advice, I broke down and called the emergency hotline, where they THREATEN TO CHARGE YOU IF YOUR CALL ISN'T REALLY AN EMERGENCY. So now on top of the abdominal pain, I'm feeling anxiety about whether my doctor would classify this as an emergency or just go ahead and charge me $75 for being stupid. My message sounded something like this: "Um, hi. This is Lacy Coutsoftides. (sob) I'm five weeks pregnant and (sob) having some really painful abdominal cramps. (big sniffle, sob) I just don't know if this is normal or if I'm having a situation here. (sob sob sob) It would be really great if someone could call me back. Thanks so much!"

Five minutes later, the doctor called me back. She's my favorite doctor because she dispenses information like this: "The first thing I want you to do is take a deep breath. You are fine." and "I want you to chug water like you used to chug beer in college, Lacy."

See, awesome doctor. She also told me to schedule an ultrasound for the next morning - incidentally, the first day Tony and I were in business. Sigh.

But I did. I scheduled that ultrasound, went in and to my delight and surprise, had to have another trans-vaginal ultrasound, the kind where the ultrasound tech jams a wand up into your nethers and waves it around while you try not to cry and your husband tries not to vomit on her, you, the ultrasound machine and the other people in the waiting room. Superdeduper.

After that joyful experience, we saw another doctor, who assured me that she could DETERMINE NOTHING FROM THIS ULTRASOUND and I'd have to wait until my regular one in two weeks to know if I was okay and the baby was growing at the right pace. So, I drove forty-five minutes to the office, waited a total of two hours in the waiting room, got violated by yet another ultrasound tech and drove forty-five minutes back for exactly no information.

Needless to say, I cried the whole way home.

But Tony and I are being optimistic. We go in on the 5th for the official ultrasound (OUTSIDE MY BODY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!) and I'm sure everything will be fine then. If not, I'll just cry all the way home again. I'm good at that.

Breaking news.....

Alright, here's the deal. I haven't been blogging because some big things have been happening behind the scenes here in Coutsoftides-land and I've been both preoccupied and unwilling to talk about all of it.

But the time has come. I'm tired of the secrets, the lies, the avoiding my blog because I know I'm a big bean-spiller and there just isn't any way for me to write about anything else when all of this is going on.

I'm pregnant.

Whew, that feels better.

See, the problem is, I'm only five weeks and three days pregnant, so I shouldn't actually be telling you for seven more weeks about this. HOWEVER, as any of you who know me personally can attest, if there is something going on in my personal life that I can mine for laughs or sympathy, I'm probably going to tell everyone the minute I can.

Also, Tony has been telling everyone, from our close friends to a guy we've just started doing business with who doesn't know anything about us other than we own a business and we are pregnant. Awesome. So I figure you'll find out sooner or later anyhow.

Finally, if something bad does happen (which I'm sure it won't) I know I'd write about it here, so there is no sense in keeping it a secret any longer.

The irony of the situation (because you know there has to be irony in any situation involving me) is that I found out I was pregnant less than a week before we opened our business and I'm due the same week we are planning to open larger, much more time-intensive operations. Go me! So I'm sitting here at my computer, nodding off at 9 a.m., struggling with heartburn, leg cramps and bizarre food cravings (sauerkraut, anyone?) while trying to learn an entirely new business model from the ground up.

And let's talk a little about the "miracle" of pregnancy, shall we? You all know that Tony and I have been trying to get pregnant for the better part of a year, which in no way lessens the "HOLY CRAP" moment when there are two bars on the pregnancy test instead of the usual one. After that moment, and the ensuing two days of hysteria waiting for my chance to go to the doctor's office for confirmation (I was convinced they were going to tell me it was imaginary and send me home), the first-trimester symptoms set in.

Seriously, I've become the seven dwarfs of pregnancy - sleepy, grumpy, bloaty, gassy, weepy, clumsy and hungry. (I am also the four horseman of the pregnancy apocalypse - Craving, Heartburn, Exhaustion and Abdominal Cramp.) Thankfully, I haven't really had any morning sickness yet (although that's supposed to start this week, so wish me luck!), but might mean I'm having a boy, which would be an utter disappointment and I may have to make the baby live in the back yard. I'M KIDDING! He could stay in the basement.

Anyhow, I've read What to Expect When You're Expecting 35 million times by now and there are some things they don't tell you about pregnancy that are important to know.

1. Yeah, yeah, they tell you that you might get food cravings and aversions. What they don't tell you is that it can change your whole perception of yourself, and not necessarily for the better. For instance, I've always been a sweets girl. I love cookies, candies, cakes, ice cream, chocolate sauce, baking chocolate, raw sugar, you name it. Yeah, well, not since Junior set up camp in my uterus. Now, the smell of the bakery at the grocery store sends me running for the bathroom. I bought a brownie sundae last night and only ate HALF of it and that was a struggle. I have thrown away more ice cream in the past week than I have in my entire life, and it HURTS, people. Now all I want to eat are ham sandwiches and french fries, which Tony won't let me eat. (The french fries. I can have as many ham sandwiches as I want. Yesterday it was three. Don't judge me.)

2. Pregnancy hurts. Between the heartburn, the ginormous boobs and the gas that shows up out of nowhere to blow up your stomach to Ethiopian proportions, you think that would be enough. But no! For the past three nights, I've been waking up with abdominal cramps and lower-back pain strong enough to send me into a whimpering pile on the floor. Which is terrifying and apparently COMPLETELY NORMAL. Really? Really? I'm just supposed to deal with feeling like I'm having either the onset of the worst period of my life or amoebic dysentery every day for the NEXT TWO MONTHS. Super.

3. The weepies. Now, I understand that some people might categorize me as "emotional" even on the best day. I cry, I get angry, I know. However, yesterday, I scraped my elbow on the railing and howled like a four-year-old who just fell off the monkey bars and broken a limb. Tony thought I'd impaled myself and was bleeding to death. The day before that, I was in Home Depot looking at home decorating books for children's rooms and started to sob. I seem to fluctuate between homicidal rage and the urge to cuddle the person I've just killed with alarming frequency. And the rest of the time, I'm just crying. I've given up on mascara altogether and am adopting a more natural look, as to prevent the Courtney Love look I was cultivating.

4. You become a slave to your own body. Being the owner of a pregnant body is a lot like being the husband of a pregnant woman in a television sitcom. One minute, everything is fine, the next BAM! You need to do something RIGHT NOW to make everything better. And by the time you do that, something else is necessary. For instance, food. I wake up in the morning hungry for something in particular. Today, it was apple juice. However, by the time I walked downstairs, I wanted french fries. Once I opened the fridge, I really wanted some cottage cheese, but once the carton was in my hand, toast sounded better. Then there are the physical symptoms that blast in out of nowhere. I'll be sitting quietly at my desk when a tummy growl is followed immediately by the type of stomach bloat that makes you hurt up into your neck, and NOTHING makes it feel better. Not even walking, followed by laying on the floor while your husband rubs your distended stomach. At times, I just want to look at this foreign entity that used to be my body and shout, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I'LL DO ANYTHING, ANYTHING, JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" At that point, you can almost hear your body laughing at you, cruelly.

So yeah, pregnancy is awesome and crappy all at the same time.

And now I need a snack, a nap, a snuggle and a gun.