This is a Not a Dramatic Pregnancy Blog. Except for the Parts About Pregnancy and Drama.

This did not start as a pregnancy blog,but it could very well turn into one, seeing as how I am (guess what?!) three months pregnant.  I am not sure why I haven't felt the need to post until now; I suppose it has been a lot to process.  That and the fact that the last few weeks have been spent feeling the shittiest I have ever felt in my entire life, all day every day.  Who wants to hear about that?  Not even other pregnant ladies.  And definitely not non-pregnant people, including my husband and anyone else still capable of eating foods that don't come from the children's menu.  So I guess I just keep trying to keep all the bitching in, but then it comes out in big piles of bitching. Maybe if I just kept up low-grade bitching at all times, I would be better off. 

Honestly, while I have felt, and still do feel, so terrible that I can barely function at work or keep up on household chores, I also do feel very lucky.  This happened very fast for us, faster than we'd anticipated by far, and I am so excited to become a mom. 

I feel like P may have different thoughts, but he is just one to take some time to warm up to things. Right now, I feel like he wants nothing to do with me, which is actually kind of heartbreaking because I am scared and vulnerable and kind of need him right now, and I wish I could get him to explain what is bugging him.  I realize that going down to once-every-1.5-week sex probably sucks, but then when I go to try to initiate it to make sure that he is getting his needs met, like this morning's back and butt-rub.  He ignores my touch, and then hops in the shower to jack off.  And there I sit, useless and chubby and queasy. Just a baby incubator for a baby that maybe only I want, worrying about horrible things like cheating and divorce.

Bleh. Drama, I guess.  I hate drama, and now I am creating it on my own blog, which should be drama-free to match my spectacularly drama-free lifestyle. I guess I just thought things were supposed to be really happy between us right now, and instead, I am just worried about it all.  I guess that is what pregnancy does to you. Makes you worried and sad about what is probably nothing, but what could be something. I'm sure it will pass.

More happy, fun, hilarious pregnancy and life stories to follow. No more of this sad sack crap. I mean, seriously, I could be Octomom. Now that is drama.

Asia on My Mind

I have been away for a couple weeks, but when you have a super-secret blog, where very few people depend on you writing every day, you are allowed to take breaks without feeling pressure. So I did.  No pressure whatsoever.

Today I was vaccinated for our upcoming Asia trip.  In just over two weeks P and I will be arriving in Bangkok and exploring much of Thailand and Indonesia and possibly Laos for 16 days.  I am excited, but the nurse who vaccinated me today managed to scare the crap out of me along with making my arm hurt like crazy. I am basically convinced now that I will be ridden with malaria and rabies by the time I return.  Remind me not to pet any stray Thai dogs. Because I can promise you I will want to.

Does malaria make you lose weight?

I finished my last pack of birth control pills, which is kinda of funny and freaky and weird.  Spent my first 35 years trying successfully not to get pregnant, can't imagine it is that easy for your body to just switch gears.  I will be 35 in a couple weeks, which, in baby-making land, is considered advanced age. In addition, I have polycystic ovary syndrome.  I have a feeling that this is either going to happen super easy and fast for us, or that we're screwed and should consider picking up a baby girl or two whilst in Asia.  Either way, I feel suddenly very grown up and as if my being suddenly has purpose.  I am not used to having a purpose.

Week in Review

Ho. Lee. Crap. That is my full review.

This week has been insanity, starting last weekend with a 150-mile bike ride (um, 120 for me).  I am off work tomorrow, but agreed many moons ago to take my six- and seven-year old niece and nephew for the day. 

What the hell am I going to do with two kids for 9 hours? 

Maybe we can just take naps all day.  Kids like naps, right?

Leaving on a Jet Plane

P's business trip this week is just a short one-nighter with him leaving this morning.  Although I miss him when he is gone, I was kinda hoping for three or four days. Or maybe even five days because, you know,  that's a good, solid number of days.  No seriously, I miss him. I do.

One of the hardest things about a relationship and marriage for me was that I had to give up a lot of my alone time and personal space. When P and I moved in together I had spent the previous five years in my own apartment in one of the coolest neighborhoods in Denver. I spent hours on end alone and got so used to that space in my head, that place I could go to find balance and calm and quiet.

Upon moving in with P several years ago, I initially felt suffocated by the lack of control I had regarding where things went and my comings and goings and my ability to tap out endless paragraphs on my old laptop while smoking cigarettes without any interruption or commentary, without someone inquiring about the location of his wallet or ski helmet. After a childhood sharing everything with my sisters, I had experienced the Utopia that comes with being the owner and controller of everything around you, and I wanted that back. Like a whiny little baby.  Mine! Mine! Mine!

I no longer smoke, so I don't need time alone to hide that nasty little habit from anyone. I have learned to write at Panera Bread or Starbucks when I require the quiet time, although I have to force myself to quit my endless gawking and people watching in order to actually put something on the page. I have also adjusted to cohabitation and sharing  fairly well, minus the occasional knock-down drag-out over the organization of the Tupperware cabinet. (who cares?!  The answer to that question is P. He cares very much.)  The fact that P travels for work is, however, a huge relationship bonus. I love, love, love him, but I need, crave, require some time away for a recharge. So as long as he is not using his business trips the way Tiger Woods or Anthony Weiner might, (it just occurred to me that BOTH of their names are penis euphemisms..seriously, I am on to something here) I am all for his traveling to exotic locales such as Milwaukee, Wisconsin and Montgomery, Alabama. I'll be happy right here in Denver, thank you very much.

So for my special day today, I am working from home, then I am going to walk the dogs and go to the gym to swim laps until I earn two glasses of wine. Then I am going to loiter in the steam room, pick up takeout sushi, come home and pour myself those glasses of wine and work on my Levi's. I am also going to read Real Simple Magazine on the patio with the dogs.

And the wine.

Hopefully I can fit it all in.

For those few hours, I will say very few words and spend very little time wondering what anyone else thinks of me and I won't even stick my foot in my mouth once. Eventually I will find the old Schmenver quiet place somewhere under all of the career and domestic goddess and marriage layers, and I will spend a little time hanging out there.

And then, I will use my long, tall body to create a giant X across our queen-sized bed, and I will sleep my ass off, snore- and cuddle-free.

Tomorrow evening when P returns, I will kiss his face and love him just a little bit more because of my chance to miss him, if only for a day. We will live happily ever after until his next work travel itinerary pops up in my inbox. And then it will be Schmenver-time once again.

Earn Your Alcohol

Beer makes me fat. Well, beer and wine. 

And mojitos.  And the occasional margarita.  

And a good, strong Grey Goose and tonic.

In addition, when I drink too many of those things I begin to think I am beautiful and thin and, therefore, immune to calories. So, then I eat things like french fries and chips and greasy lo mein noodles from Peter's Chinese to counteract the feelings of thinness that accompany drunkenness and the subsequent starvation and self-loathing that come with the hangovers.

P and I both regularly drink beer or wine while we hang with our friends or go to fun social events or watch football or have a nice dinner. After all, this privilege is one of the good things that come with being DINKs and living in brewery-land, USA. However, as we have aged, we have both put on some weight.  And because we are quite active, we know the issue is the probably the drinking, as well as the foods we tend to eat when our ability to choose vegetables over bacon-wrapped butter pats is impaired.

We both have about 25 pounds to lose from our tall frames. We are not fat-fat, but we are active-fat. That is a phrase I just invented that is defined by the fact that we can run far and bike far and swim far, but we have not-flat tummies and maybe a little arm flab and the occasional double chin sighting. In addition, my particular brand of thighs should be required to carry a license of some sort.  We are muscular and strong and healthy, but there is some fat covering our muscles, and beer is the culprit, and we want to get rid of it (the fat, not the beer).

We probably would have a hard time quitting drinking cold turkey, and besides, why would we want to?  Our social life is very alco-centric.  We ski, and then drink beer.  We run races and then drink beer.  We hang out on patios with our awesome friends and have a margarita or two.  Rockies game?  Beer and a dog.  Maybe two of each.  Denver is beer country.  P works in the beer industry, and we like beer.  And wine. And mojitos.  And the occasional margarita. And a good, strong Grey Goose and tonic. We like all of those, too.

Do we sound like giant alcoholics?  I assure you that we are not. We both hold down good careers, maintain a household and are responsible dog-parents. We are functioning members of society, I swear.  I am even sober right now, the wine from breakfast having mostly worn off.  (Kidding!!) We are pretty normal, drinking-wise, except for that we cannot seem to stay as skinny as our other drinking friends due to our gene pool being polluted by chubsters from both sides.  Our future kids are so screwed.

So last night whilst we lay in bed discussing said future kids and other things that may or may not happen in the next year or so, we got on the subject of how we want to lose this extra weight.  P, who is a genius, came up with a system for earning our beer or wine, so that while we do not have to quit drinking altogether, we will surely be thinking about and earning every fabulous libation that touches our lips. I think it is going to be awesome.  

He basically divided up an Olympic distance triathlon, which consists of a one-mile swim, a 25-mile bike ride and a 6.2-mile (10k) run. He decided in his brain that each element of the triathlon would be equal to one beer or glass of wine or cocktail. So if you swim 1600 meters, you earn a beer.  Or if you go on a 25-mile bike ride, you can have a cocktail after work. A nice six-mile run or an hour on the elliptical gets you a glass of red wine with dinner that night.  If you are so inclined, you can save all the drinks you earn for the weekend and get crazy with your friends.  All drinks earned reset on Monday morning and do not carry over, but you do get an extra one on your birthday (I added that rule because my birthday is coming up, and it only seemed fair)

I made this magnetic weekly drink chart following a lunch-hour trip to Office Max and Michael's:

Picture is not great, but still, awesome, right? We swam together last night, so we each earned a cocktail. It's like a drinking game for the chubby, post-college crowd, like the new Jenny Craig, although we need a better sponsor. Someone who is slender and athletic but still likes to party. Matthew McConaughey?  Um, he seems like more of a Mary-Jane guy.  Hmmmm. 

Earn Your Alcohol.  EYA: It's like CYA, but a little bit more fun.

EYA is now actively seeking celebrity sponsorship. You heard it at Denver Schmenver first.  Patent pending!

Trendsetter, Old-School Style

These are seriously perfect.

In high school my girlfriends and I used to go to the Levi Surplus store at the start of every summer.  We would dig through the racks of used men's Levis 501 button flys, looking for the ones that were as broken in as possible, always a few sizes too big so they would hang just right off of our bony hips.  We would cut off the legs and fold up the cuffs, and then we would get busy with sandpaper, razor blades, and a little bleach here and there to make them super soft and super faded.  We would basically hang out around one of our houses for the first week of summer washing, bleaching and destroying a perfectly nice pair of jeans.  Then we would put them on while they were wet and sit there, miserable in soggy bottoms like a baby with a wet diaper, eating chips and watching Oprah until they dried.  Then we would start the process over.  The end product was a perfect pair of baggy cut-off Levis that looked adorable with everything we owned.  We would wear them the entire summer, not caring that we all looked the same because we all looked so damn cool.  Long tan legs everywhere, cute sandals and belts, faded t-shirts.  Damn, we were friggin awesome.

Lately, I have gotten a wild hair and have an outfit craving (do you get those, too?) for an old pair of beat up Levis that will make me look as cool as I did back then. I like to think the larger buttocks I now have will only add to the cool factor. Plus, I have the perfect Anthopologie loafers and Gap boyfriend t-shirt and Grandpa cardi.  I just need the perfect Levis. 

I am already fantasizing about them.  Now that I am a grownup, I think that I will not cut them off, and settle instead for rolling up big cuffs for the summer.  Then I will have an equally awesome pair of warm jeans to wear with my Frye boots and a kicky little hat during the winter.  Smart, right?

So because I am really tall and because I am no longer in possession of the bony hips of my youth, I ordered a giant pair of super long Levis Shrink-to-Fits from eBay for cheap and will begin my bleach and sandpaper experimentation as soon as they arrive next week.  Luckily this whole process will coincide with P being out of town on a business trip.  He would surely not understand the value of paying for a pair of new jeans and then trying to destroy them and would probably be equally perplexed at the sight of me sitting around in soggy britches.  Nor would he appreciate that this will be, by far, not even close to the strangest thing I have gotten up to when he is on a business trip. (binge-eating ice cream while cranking showtunes, crying, and trying on your late mother's clothing anyone?) But, as I always say, you can't put a price on happiness or perfect pseudo-vintage denim that squeezes your buns just right, even if it means a little sweat-equity. And wine.  Don't forget about the wine.

So I am already planning my wine-jeans-destruction party (where you drink the wine and destruct the jeans, not the other way around) for next week; I only wish that I had talked friends into ordering some, too so that it could be like old times. I guess they will just have to be jealous of my perfect jeans.  *Excited!*

Housekeeping!

We have friends coming over for dinner Friday night.  Two couples, the women of both being former co-workers from our first ever corporate jobs. When we were young and single and on track to take over the world.

Because of their impending visit, I am in stress mode over the condition of my house. With two dogs who track a constant trail of dirt in through the dog door all day and the fact that my husband and I are clutterers and we both work a million hours a week, and because he seriously barely helps with day-to-day chores, my house is a damn mess.  How do other people do it?  Why do my friends' houses look so clean by comparison?  Am I a harsher critic of my own dirt?  Can I just see it more?  Do they all have cleaning ladies?  Are their husbands better?  Unemployed? Clean-freaks?  Gay?

I actually have discovered through taking stealthy surveys of my many friends that most of them do in fact have someone come in once a week to clean.  Several have mentioned that it has saved their marriages.  And so I decided that I am going to get myself a cleaning lady.  But, first, I have to talk P into it, as he is the boss of the budget. 

He is not the keeper of the budget because he is the man, or the breadwinner; we make fairly equal money. He is the keeper of the budget because if the budget were left to me, we would spend all our money at Crate and Barrel and Sephora and would barely have enough left to eat at the end of the month, whereas he has us on a steady but generous monthly diet of saving and paying attention to where our dollars go.  Smart, that one. 

However, as smart as he may be, he is still not smart enough to notice that when my house is sparkly clean, he gets sex every time, Pavlov having apparently dropped the ball on that scenario.  Seriously, for the low price of approximately $65 a week, he could have sex whenever he wants.  Seems like a good deal to me, in a perverse wife-housekeeper-husband-prostitution-love-triangle way or whatever. It's like the whole Arnold Schwarzenegger thing without the giant love-child.  I'm not even using sex as a bargaining tool, I am just honestly in the mood when my house is clean.  And when my house is covered in muddy little dog footprints and piles of junk mail and shoes, I feel unsexy, un-horny, and like I have no will to live. I also want to kill the man who thinks it is ok to keep bicycles and tools in the dining room and pile his dirty clothing in the hallway on the floor, mere centimeters from the opening of the laundry chute instead of get naked with him. If only he got it.

So because of the budget requirements, I told my husband that I wanted to trade my personal trainer budget allotment for some housekeeper dollars.  And then I told my personal trainer that while I was truly sorry, and although I am still on the chubby side, I would be upgrading from him to a housekeeper.  (I did it over email so I wouldn't have to face him with the bad news. Good plan, I thought)

And now, suddenly as I start researching housekeepers and asking all my friends for recommendations, I am feeling, first of all, a little skeeved out about having a stranger in my house when I am not home, and second of all like I have to do a shitload of cleaning before I even begin to let said person in and third of all, even though I bust my tail to make good money, kinda guilty about needing to hire someone to do my dirty work.  And now I am stressed.  And not feeling like it is saving my marriage.  And definitely not in the mood.

Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, people have real problems. Pass me the caviar, Buffy, I'm just too tired from my massage to get it myself.