"Z" Is For Zeal

I've been having the feeling that I've devoted my life to something that I have no control over.
I'm still struggling with the little guy.
He had a series of good days.  And his grandparents were here over the weekend.  That helped.
Then, last night, when he was so tired (at 6:30) and throwing everything and screaming at me, I felt like throwing up the white flag.
Instead I sunk into silence.  I followed the routine for Kolester and didn't add any special zazz or try to make it fun.  I just wanted him in bed.  Asleep.  Quiet.
Of course that didn't happen.
He screamed for an hour.  Then I went in his room and laid my big heavy over-stretched belly out on the floor next to his crib and held his hand for another hour until he feel asleep.
I kept thinking, "He is too old for this."

I really felt like I was losing at life.

I used to not be bothered by his "bad days."  I could focus on the big picture.  I know it's worth it.  And time takes time.  But... that eagerness and excitement I used to feel in raising him has blown out.  Big time.  Playing trucks from 8 in the morning until 7 at night with a 2 hour nap-break has lost its shimmer.  Reading and re-reading and re-reading "Animals at Play" doesn't really light me up.  I can't even think of clever things to say about the pictures.  I'm just in a rut.

I feel incredibly guilty about it too.
The love for my child is still there.  In full force.
But the zeal is wavering.  Not what it used to be.

"Y" Is For Yurt

Ken wants to live in a yurt full time. He's never been in one and neither have I. But I know I don't want to live in one. It's basically an oversized tent with a wooden floors and a mini wall that would reach about hip height. Not impressive. They are set up as if they are cabins out there in the wilderness. Like, for some reason because there's a wooden floor a bear wouldn't rip through the canvas and eat you, all your food, and your family. Ridiculous. That's the only reason I am anti yurt. Bears snd other animals scare me. I like nature and I do my fair share of hiking. Camping is alright. I do better when I know the local wildlife doesn't have any bears, lions, or snakes... And it's light out. So, yeah camping maybe isn't for me. And living in a yurt is non stop camping. Yeah. No. Ken seriously wants to live out there in no mans land with no phone, no mail, no electricity, and no running water. With the kiddo ma griddos. I can see the appeal lasting maybe a week. Unplug. Reconnect. But just roughing it for pleasure? In this day and age? For this girl? Ain't happening. What's the point? And you know what? Me and ken go round and round on this. Like once a week! He's serious. And I'm a softie. I'm worried I'm going to cave and say I'll try it and we'll sell all our worldly possessions and live like the pioneers. Oh, please. Please no. This post needs a yurt picture but I'm posting from my iPod touch because my computer is being argumentative. And u am not technological enough to get a picture off the Internet and put it on here using this iPod touch. Which I call my iPatty.

"X" Is For Xiphoid Process

Xiphoid process is one of the only words I remember from 10th grade biology. It is the bone that makes up the tip of the sternum. Didn't even have to Google that biotch! Still remembered. That's probably the only one I got right on the human anatomy test we took. Biology isn't my ace in the hole. And speaking of Xiphoid processes: I've had it about up to my Xiphoid process with April already. Make it May.

"W" Is For Wasted Time

Over dinner Ken normally asks me, "What did you do today?" I silently get over the fact that he hasn't noticed all the floors are vacuumed, the furniture is polished, there aren't any fingerprints on the TV or glass or mirrors, the kitchen floor has been swept, Swiffered, and mopped... The hamper is empty, all our clothes are folded and put away, the dishwasher is empty and there is ne'er a spoon left in the sink. I bite my tongue as I think that all the beds are made up with clean sheets, the bathrooms smell like bleach and they are sparkling (all that pee that I KNOW is not mine is wiped off the floor), the fridge has been cleared out of all the moldy leftovers, and all food smudges have been washed from the exterior. I slowly blink as I hold back my anger from Kenmo not noticing the windows have been washed inside and out, the couch cushions have been vacuumed, all picture frames and baseboards are dusted. This place is a temple! The bills have been sorted and paid, dessert is in the oven, I've picked up a movie for later, and I did up my hair. He must of thought I was say dreaming (and not fuming) because he asks again, "Hun, What did you do today?" I smile and say, "Just played with Kole and wasted time." Because we all know I didn't do all that crap I said. I'm pregnant after all.

"V" Is For Vices

I can't confess that I have any vices in the moral fault category.  I am just awaiting my sainthood.  But I have a few trivial faults.  I know.  I know.  When you meet me (and read me online) you wouldn't believe it.  I'm just so cute, squishy, and lovable. 
Easiest to make a list:

1. I stereotype girls who wear bobby pins.  And the bobby pins show.  I don't know what the stereotype is besides "Girls I Generally Will Not Like."  I get the use of the bobby pin.  And I have one (of my three) hair styles that requires 2 bobby pins.  But they are hidden and discreet.  I don't have 38 bobby pins holding my bangs back or my ponytail up. 
2. I never say, "Thanks, you too" when someone tells me to have a good day.  Normally a cashier or a bank teller.  I, rudely, respond with an "I will"  or just the plain "thank you."  And I always walk away feeling like less of a good citizen.
3. I can't read a "dragon book" or a "learning book."  I think dragon books are more officially called fantasy?  Or nerdy?  Ken just bought the Game of Thrones series to read.  He's never read any dragon books either but is overly excited to read it.  I just shake my head... not the man I married.  And as far as learning books- phst.  Nonfiction is not my thing.  I read a ton of nonfiction in college and I feel set for life.  I occasionally read an excerpt from The Intellectual Devotional and feel smarter.  I just hate being quizzed on it when I tell someone I read about Socrates or The Amish or sections of the heart or The Panama Canal.  My memory isn't what it was when I was younger.
4. I feel extra pretty and become slightly cocky when I am wearing dangle-y earrings and makeup.  Unless I am tan.  (Then I feel super-glam without makeup.)  And the last time I was tan was in 2004. 
5. I wait by the window for the mailman. 

"U" Is For Uncertainty

Kole took off the nice boy mask he's been wearing his whole life and revealed another boy.  A boy I don't know.  And, frankly, really dislike.
I'd say it started Saturday-ish?  I offered the lad a cookie.  Which is uncommon for him... I thought he'd be ecstatic.  He was really happy-  until he dropped the cookie and a corner broke and hell broke loose.  He flailed and wailed.  Kicked the floor, the fridge, and me.  Real tears.  At first, I sympathized.  Poor kid.  Gets a special treat and drops it.  It'd be tough to be that little.  The sympathy ended when I offered him another cookie and he threw it on the floor and stomped on it. 
Awwww Hell No!

These riots have consistently presented themselves since.  For the stupidest, STUPIDEST things.  His shirt has a boat on it and not a dinosaur.  He wants to sit on the middle stool not the end stool.  His hot dog is too hot.  His sandwich is sliced wrong.  He wants to eat on the couch (<--- big time uh uh.)  His milk is too cold.  His hair is parted on the wrong side.  His bath was too short.  Bed time came too fast.  His book was boring or sad or dumb or something that got it thrown on the floor.  ALL of these end with Kole throwing the object on the floor and then throwing himself after it.

And all I can think is "What happened to you?"

He's not sick, tired, or hungry.
He's just being a stinking pill.  That screams and cries a lot.
And today, for the second time since his birth, I yelled at him.

After hauling him in over my shoulder from the park (where he obviously DIDN'T want to play) and getting kicked in the stomach the whole way home and getting my hair pulled.... I set him on the couch, grabbed his hands, and said, "KNOCK IT OFF!!"  (And, yes, two exclamation points were completely necessary.)  He was so shocked I yelled that he got quiet and fast.  Then, his lip shivered and he cried again. Probably because I hurt his feelings and his self-esteem and he's always going to remember me as the ugly ogre mom he never liked.

I just can't.  take it.  anymore! 
I have an immense reserve of patience. 
But this seems like some kind of mean joke on me.

Koley Canoli... before he was possessed.

"T" Is for Thirty-Two

Do I get double points for using two Ts?  I think I should.  That would put me in the lead.

I'm not thirty-two years old.  But I am greatly looking forward to my thirties.  Lots of people (husband included) are dreading turning the big three-oh.  Maybe it's because I still have 2 years left so it hasn't settled in... but I think the thirties are the best years of one's life.  So, all you thirty-something-ers.  I so wish I was you.

Thirty-two is actually for how many weeks I am measuring.
Now, before I get into all the medical diagnoses and what not- I would like to state that the devices of measurement used in an ob-gyn office are fairly primitive and I would take a gander and say mostly wrong.  Take the ultrasound.  I love seeing my baby on the screen.  I loved it with Koley Canoli and I love it with JBP.  But they told me 13 days before he came that Kole would probably round off to a nice even 8 pounds.  Using the ultrasound as their guide of course.  He must off been packing an extra 3 pounds in the back where they couldn't see it.
This time, using my previous practitioner's mistakes, they continue to tell me how big the baby is currently and is going to be at birth.  And while I smile and get excited... I feel a little jaded.  I can't say I fully trust their opinions.  And fear this one may come out on the opposite end of the spectrum.  They say he'll be a big lug and then be preemie size. 

I am officially 29 weeks.  I put on 7 pounds since my last appointment two weeks ago.  Go Patty.  Thank you gallon of Neapolitan ice cream.  Before they listen to the baby's heartbeat they get a paper tape measure and measure your stomach.  Every time they do that I suppress my grins because all I can think of is, "We can put a man on the moon but we can't think of a more advanced way to measure babies?"  The rule of thumb is... how ever many weeks you are- that's how many centimeters you should be measuring.   So I am 3 centimeters over.  Which looking at a ruler... is so small.  I don't get how that means big baby.
I told Ken and he said, "That means we only have 7 weeks until the baby comes!"
Which isn't true.  They'll take him according to his due date... of course.
And the doctor reassuringly told me today, "It doesn't matter how big he gets.  I can cut him out no problem."

Somehow... that wasn't as comforting as she thought it would be.  I mean- backaches, trouble breathing, rib pressure, heart burn, swollen feet. Let's not get carried away. I don't want sliced in half come July.

"S" Is For Stands of Lemonade

Me and my two younger sisters, Julie and Andi had a lemonade stand one summer.  We didn't live on a busy road but we were ambitious sales reps.  We stood at sign at the end of the road to "draw in traffic."  We had chalkboard art that advertised our price.  The usual 25 cents.  We had neighbor girls come make up cheers about lemonade and dances to perform for our customers. 
We even had a sales incentive.
You see, we took our stack of cups and randomly drew stars in blue (mostly worn out) Sharpie on the bottom.  We then mixed those cups back into the stack.  And if you were the lucky customer that stopped and got a star on the bottom of your cup.... your lemonade was on the house.  Oh yeah.  Try not to think about the fact that three little girls touched every single cup in the stack and held them and drew pictures on them... all before we served them to people.
I vividly remember a white truck full of construction workers stopping for lemonade.  What a sale!  We're talking $1.25 in one stop.  My sisters and I frantically rushed around our fold out TV dinner table.  "You get the cups!"  "You get the ice!"  "I'll take the money!"  "You always take the money!"  "Don't be mean they can hear us!"  "Just do it!" "I'll pour the lemonade."  "I get to hand it to them."  And in between all the mayhem Andi says, "There's a star on your cup!"  The truckload of dirty men didn't know what that star meant and didn't know they were about to save themselves a whoooooole quarter.  
"Wow!  You get your lemonade for free!"
To which the lead guy... most likely the foreman said:  "Oh that's okay.  You take the money."
"No.  No.  You got the star.  You're the winner.  We can't charge you for it."
"Well, take the quarter anyway."
"Nope!  We put the stars on and the people who get them get free lemonade.  Draws in more customers. We can't take your money."
"Take it as a donation, then."
"Oh, no.  No.  No.  Just consider this your lucky day!"
"It should be your lucky day.  I'll give you the quarter for keeps.  We can just forget about the star."
There was quite a bit of back and forth of the quarter.
Eventually, we won the guy over and he got to keep his quarter. 
They drove away and we settled back in to wait for the next car.

We made $17 dollars that day.
Which is pretty good for a couple of girls who didn't understand adults stop at lemonade stands to donate money to kids... not for the actual ice cold, refreshing lemonade.

We were so proud of our earnings we crunched some numbers and figured if we sold lemonade every day for a week and made $17 a day.... that would be $85 come Friday.  Split three ways was just over $28.
We went to DiStefano's and stocked up on Country Time, Dixie cups, and bags of ice.  Using most of our $17.  We didn't calculate the expense of running a lemonade stand each day into our business plan... and, luckily, were young and didn't realize that.

The next day we made $2.00 and our days of young entrepreneurship ended.

Julie, Andi, Patty

"R" Is For Recently

Kole is a soaker.  He gets in the tub and sits there while we clean him.  He's never been into splashing or blowing bubbles.  Or toy boats, rubber duckies, or alligator toys.  Or even getting bubble hairdos.  (Though I've indulged myself with him a time or two.)  His bath time matches the rest of his personality.  Rather serious.  Especially for a toddy.
Last Saturday we went swimming at our local aquatic center and it must have triggered something in Koley. 
He can't wait to get in the tub and doesn't want out.  We started draining it... thinking when it's empty it'll feel gross and cold.  Nuh uh.  Doesn't work.  He just lays on the bottom in little sudsy puddles.  And says, "More?"

"Q" is for Por QUE?

I'm a mother against television.  We don't have cable and our selection of DVDs is pretty minimal.  Ken and I just aren't into it.  We like to read.  And I'm pretty big on puzzles.  I like Sudoku as well.  We're average hermits.
I've never put Kole in front of the TV to go do something.  Aside from it being a black screen-  in my masterful opinion it's bad for brain development. 
But...
...last week I was not feeling good.  And Kole was being a stink cranker and I caved and for the first time in his 21 months of life I put a movie on for him.  Disney's CARS.  His attention held for about 15 minutes which was all I needed to recharge.  I sat there with him and watched it and something was really irritating me about the movie.  I'd seen it before.  And I didn't fall in love with it.  And this time watching it was like nails on the chalkboard.  Really disturbing.  But I couldn't figure out why.
After Kole went to bed I watched the whole thing.  The whole 2 hour kid movie.  And I was on edge the whole time.  I pin pointed that it was something mismatched about the voices.  Not all the voices.  Just Lightning McQueen and Sally the Porsche.  (Don't love that they named her Sally.  It's Mustang Sally and Patty Porsche.  I mean, come ON!  Everyone knows that.)  I knew Owen Wilson voiced Lightning McQueen.  Nothing wrong there.  I had to rely on Wikipedia to tell me who voices Sally. 
And therein my problem was solved.

Bonnie Hunt.

Paired as the love interest of:

I just don't see that as plausible.  She's only 7 years older than him.  But for some reason she seems and SOUNDS more like a mother than a girlfriend... or a sexy car. 

I wish I knew why they picked her.  It's ruined the movie for me.
And Kole's chances of ever watching it again.

"P" Is For Perm

The birthday before I entered 4th grade (August 1993) I got my hair permed.  It was my present from Mom and Dad.

I was beyond excited to go to a Salon.  And have my hair done.  I'd seen girls on magazine covers in the checkout lines at grocery store lines with thick long curly hair. 
I was going to look like them.
I was about to be beautiful.  Disregard the fact that I was turning 9.  Not quite magazine cover material at 9.  No curves.  Or womanly complexion.  Just a 9 year old with knobby joints and crooked teeth.
But!  In my mind.... this perm was to be a transformation.

The only thing I remember about the day is my mom taking me in and then staying in the waiting area.  (So I felt more adult.)  The stylist asked if I wanted tight curls or loose.
Being a young, uneducated girl I said, "Tight!"
I'm pretty sure that's where I went wrong.

"O" Is For Off and On

Is pregnancy in general a big oxymoron?  Or am I just a big foxy moron?
One minute I am feeling delighted with life.
Like, last Friday, I was sorting through all Koley's old clothes (and throwing out the ones with blow out stains).  I was holding up leetle outfits and imagining that there would soon be another cuddly cubby who just wanted held all day filling the arm and leg holes.  (I am imaging him with dark hair like me.)  Kole played next to me and picked up a couple onesies and said, "Baby!"  It was fantastic.  My heart felt light.  My smile wouldn't cease.  I felt like I couldn't control how happy I was.  My excitement was concrete.

A mere 12 hours later, on Saturday morning, Ken went to take his last round of midterms and I was bawling.  Why, you ask?  Oh- I don't know.  Because soon there will be another cuddly cubby filling up leetle outfits and needing held all day and throwing off the whole routine we've got going here.

It's with everything:

One minute I look in the mirror see that I am looking ripely pregnant and smile until my ears hurt.
An hour later I look in the mirror see that I am looking ripely pregnant and mourn my lost thighs, butt, ankles, and lovely lady lumps.

The baby kicks and kicks and kicks and I just lay there with my hand on my stomach beaming like a clown.
The baby kicks and kicks and kicks and I start pushing him down away from my ribs and arching my back so he lays off my spine.  I grunt and groan and tell him to take a nap in there.

And then someone comes along at church and asks "How are you feeling?"
And all I can say is, "Weepy." before nodding and turning to look for some Kleenex.

I don't want to send out the wrong message.  But there is NO consistency in the emotional body of Patty right now.

"N" Is For Number 1

I!  Am!  Number 1!  Two is not a winner and 3 nobody remembers. Eh.

Remember that song?  All time fave.
Yeah, I'm a big country music fan.
... But I'm gangsta at heart.

Well poppy-gangster.  I can't do the real heavy stuff.
I'm just too white.
Give my iPod a quick scan and there's every 50 Cent, Nelly, Outkast, Nappy Roots, and Snoop album.
Toss in some Ciara.  A lil' C-H-I-N-G- to the Y.
Mmmm!
No Usher.  Can't do Usher.
But I would like to be someone's "boo."

Does that take you back to pep rallies or what?

"M" Is For "Moot Point"

I'm really bad at knowing what sayings actually are.

For instance, I just found out the term was "moot" point not "mute" point.  Moot means having no practical significance.  Thus, in an argument, when someone says that's a moot point it means it doesn't matter.  I always thought people were saying it's a mute point.  Meaning soundless.  Along the same lines.  I'm just embarrassed for all the times I was trying to sound smart and make a point and telling people their points were mute.
Another one I've struggled with up until i was 26 is: Nip It In The Bud.  I thought it was Nip It In The Butt.  Like, give that bad habit a little spanking on it's butt and that'll set it straight.  Nip It in the Butt!  It's apparently "bud."  You nip the bud before it flowers into a real problem.
I'm also horrible with song lyrics.
There's a country song.... hey now... don't judge.  Don't "x" out of my blog just because I listen to country.  I'm still hip.  Anyway, country song by David Lee Murphy.  Called "Dust on the Bottle."  I never knew that's what it was called and would always sing along:
"There must be a little dust on the bible.  But don't let it fool you about what's inside."  I never really liked the song because I thought it was a little too Christian Contemporary to be playing on "Today's Hottest Country."  I get the Bible is good scripture and sound doctrine and you shouldn't judge a book by it's dusty cover.  But...uh... glad I never called in to voice my complaint.

2 more:

Sheryl Crow's Steve McQueen.
"Like Steve McQueen!  All I needs a fax machine."
Why does Steve McQueen need a fax machine?  Oh!  He doesn't need to fax anything he needs a fast machine!

Shakria's SheWolf
"I'm starting to feel just a little abused like a coffee machine in an oven."
That would be abusing a coffee machine.  But who puts coffee machines in ovens?  Are they just burning them?  Does someone want to put Shakira in an oven?  No.  It's coffee machine in an office.  Which makes 6 million times more sense.

I gotta' thank Ken for always setting me straight on these.  And judging me as minimally as he can.

"L" Is For Longevity

Everyone wants to live a long time.  Me especially.  I've always had this deeply planted fear that I'd get plagued with cancer or heart attacks or some no-cure, never heard of, illness.  Sometimes it seems like everything goes so well for me... disaster is just around the bend.
Sure the old brain tumor threw a wrench in the hand basket.  But I don't think it will kill me.  I'll keep taking my medicine just in case. *wink*

Lately, I've been thinking (and sharing with friends and strangers) that I think the perfect age is 60.  I'm really looking forward to being 60.  I mean.  Think about it.
Kids are out of the house.  No more waking up in the middle of night just to go in there and find out NOTHING is wrong.  No more getting a stuffed doggie, and monkey, and a toy bus, and 3 blankets, and a dump truck to get a kiddo to take a nap.  No more making a piece of toast- buttering it just how he wants it, putting jelly on all the right spots... and then making the terrible mistake of cutting it in half.  Because, of course, now it's broken.  And who will eat broken toast.  No more car seats and strollers, no more truck sounds! 
I realize that in 5 years a lot of this will be different and I'll only be 33.  But at 33... there will be school work and homework nagging and sporting events.  There will be friends coming over and needing food.  There will be resistance to chores and not wanting to make the bed.  The kiddos will be able to tell me what they don't like and WHY they don't like it.  They will be reasoning with me.  I don't like the sounds of that.
60 is the prime age not only because the kids will be moved out... but the house (that we don't have, haven't looked for, and won't own for a couple years) will be paid for.  I mean, do people in their 60s even HAVE bills?  I think they can use all their money to go out to breakfast with their girlfriends.  And buy shiny new decks of cards for the weekly game of Canasta.
At 60 you can wake up at 9:30, put on your track suit, and walk through the park.  Really slow.  By yourself.  You can sit down on every bench to take a break and no one will think you're out of shape.  They'll just figure you're old.  I get all kinds of sour looks when I stop every 50 yards for a gulp of Powerade and to catch my breath as I hold my knees.  Pushing a stroller is HARD work.  Even when there aren't any hills.
Plus at 60 you can wear crazy colors and big bold scarves and pins and people tell you that you look great.  When I wear that stuff now, Ken says I look like an old lady. 
Well?!  That's what I wish I was!

So...
Let us raise our chalices to Longevity.
L'Chaim!

"K" Is For Knockout

Which my sister, Andi, totally is.  Her secret is eat what you want and don't exercise.  Yeah- I tried that.  Somehow I didn't turn out so hottish.  Works for her!

She lives in Monterrey, Mexico right now where she teaches 9-graders how to use Mac. 
Because the girl can rock a Mac.
She's a bit of a visual enthusiast, an amazing photographer, and an expert at Photoshop.  (Actually scoring the coveted PhotoShop GURU Award last year in Vegas.)
She runs her own company too.  DoublClik Productions.

She specializes in "Magazine Ready" pictures.  So you can give her a picture of you when you first wake up and you're all zitty and blotchy and she'll make you look ready for the cover of Cosmo.  (Or Ladies Home Journal... whichever you read.)

She finds these "models" in Mexico.  Some are real models and some are just beautiful women that Andi becomes friends with.  She envisions a photo shoot.  And in time, carries it out.  The process really is amazing.  My favorite part is when she makes a video as a teaser for what is coming next.  All video and editing are done by her.  The girls got talent.

Here's her latest teaser.  There's something very Victoria's Secret commercial about it.



And the shoot did NOT disappoint.  You can see it front to back at http://www.doublclikblog.com/.

Allow me to reassure you that Andi is the goofiest girl I know.  The whole beautiful photography and amazing editing and seriousness of her work is a bit of a juxtaposition to who she is personality wise.  Though beautiful, smart, and charismatic... Andi... is one of a kind.
Here's a gem of a video she to my e-mail 2 years ago telling me about a failed attempt at making gravy.

Eat your heart out.

"J" is for Justified

Being 27 weeks pregnant (that's nearly7 months... which is just under 200 days... which is 54.7% of a year) I feel completely justified in the following:

1.  No longer finding it amusing when someone says "You're not really even showing."
Really?!  You don't think so?!  You think I always look like I stuffed a beach ball under my shirt?  How thoughtful of you!  And I suppose the accompanying back pain is from all the pianos I move.

2.  Laying off the fruits, veggies, yogurt, kale, hummus, spinach, and all other mildly average healthy food Ken insists on feeding me and pigging out on whatever I want. 
The only thing I want to eat every day is Tampico Stuffed Chicken from Garcia's.  I've even started dreaming about it.  There is simply no substitute.  Though, I'll take pizza for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dinner number 2.

3.  Wearing scrubs.
This morning I put on a pair of scrubs.  They are big and flowy and cover my massive ass-ive.  We have a little Tot Lot at our apartment complex and a mom there asked if I was a nurse.  "No."  She then ran down the list of other people who wear scrubs; a medical assistant, a dental hygienist, an actual dentist.  When I told her I was a retired accountant that was pregnant she was shocked.  So shocked she couldn't think of anything to say.  Nice recovery lady.  Word to the wise:  Next time you see someone in scrubs just say "Good Morning."  When I see someone out in public wearing sweats- I don't ask if they are a bum.

4.  Having a Mom Butt.
Yeah.  It's the ugliest thing in the world when a butt sags to the back of one's knees.  Reminding me of some kind of old worn out horse.  But- last night... I saw that my once perky peach-shaped tushie... looked like saggy old grocery bags.  In my defense, maternity pants place pockets on the weirdest angles.  But, even without that excuse, it's demoralizing.

Not my actual hiney.

5.  Wearing the same 4 outfits in a cycle.
Just get used them everyone.  They are what I feel the best in.  And in case you didn't know one maternity shirt cost $35.  And that is steep.

6.  Not counting the weeks anymore.
I wrote them on my calendar so i didn't have to retain that information (and so I had something to put on my calendar).  Plus, unless one has had a baby, the whole weeks system is pretty pointless.  Same with when someone asks how old Kole is.  I always round and say a year and a half.  Not 21 months.  The math is too hard for some people.  ("21 months.  Okay 21 minus 12 is... .... well 21 minus 10 is 11... but... what does that mean... I'll have to subtract one more.... So that would give.... 11 minus 1... 10.  10 what?    There's 12 months in a year.  Why am I dealing with 10s and 11s?  Okay 21 minus 12 for one year is... ... ...it's hard to carry in your head.")

7.  Wanting to buy new stuff for the baby.
Kole has so many clothes left over to pass along to Cub #2.  They are in good condition and perfectly wearable.  But I just love going over to the baby section and looking at cute new outfits.  And, I mean, will he have the same taste as Kole?  Will his preferences lead more towards punk rocker or more towards preppy?  Will he want to wear the All-American boy themed wardrobe Koley had?  Don't know.  Don't know.  I'd hate to start off on the wrong foot with him.

8.  Taking a nap.  Every day.
I can.  I do.  I don't feel guilty.  At.  All.

9.  Not telling the name.
It's the one we picked.  And some people like it and some people just say they like it.  But it's what he will be called.  Nothing you say, nor any look you give will change my mind.  But a shifty look or an extra long pause between blinks on your part might turn me into a crying hormonal mess.  Because I'm pregnant.  And need all kinds of acceptance I don't normally need.  So, please.  Just believe the lie when I say, "We haven't picked a name yet."  And do yourself one further.  Don't give any suggestions.  He's my baby. 

"I" Is For Intellectual, Inventor, I Thought of That

I...being me.  As in Patty.
Meaning I am the intellectual inventor under discussion today.
Well, the game I invented.
It's called The Alphabet Game.  (I could have been slightly more creative on that title.)
It's a great time killer.

You pick a letter of the alphabet.  For instance, "I."  And you and your group of friends pop some popcorn, pour a round of Cokes and all take turns naming an "I" word.  No repeats allowed.  And it's my personal rule that adding a suffix (-ed or -ing) to some one's word should be illegal but that is always met with a lot of resistance.

So, to demonstrate a practice round:
I might start with "igloo"
         to which one might respond "impostor"
                       and the next would chime "investment."

As mentioned, if you repeat you're out.  And cast into Loserdom.  Which is pretty much where everyone who would play this game started out...
Are your blood cells just tingling with excitement to play?
When you first try getting people exciting to play, you will be met with opposition.  Perhaps outbursts of "That sounds lame" will be heard.  But, trust me, once the ball is rolling... WATCH out!  People are going to get crazy and I will wish you "Good Luck" at getting them out of your house before dawn.

The Alphabet Game (TM) 
Great For:
Birthday Parties
Bar Mitzvahs
Painting Projects
Funerals
Hikes
Long Car Rides
Waiting in Line
Getting Through Contractions (Ken suggested we play The Alphabet Game while I was in labor.)
Putting Yourself to Sleep At Night

So.  Who wants to play?  A word of caution, you are going up against the reigning champ here.

I'll start:
Interplanetary

"H" Is For Hirable

I was a paper girl when I was 13.

I applied at USA TODAY.  I was rejected. They sent me a formal letter stating they needed a courier who could drive.  Ouch.  What about inner-drive, man?  Doesn't that mean anything.
I still have the letter. I laugh at my younger self for even applying.  Though, deep down, I am proud of her ambition.
I got on with The Daily News.  My route covered about 35 homes and a 5 mile radius.  I delivered the papers after I got home from school.  I can't imagine not getting the paper until "after-school."  What did these people read over breakfast?  Yesterday's news?  The job lasted less than a month.

For... several reasons.
1.  People have mean dogs.
2.  It rains.
3.  Come on.  A Sea World hat?  I couldn't be seen wearing that every day could, I?  Yup... apparently I could.  And this was Vicky's hat.  Though neither of us have been to Sea World.  I'm sure I asked her if I could borrow it every day.  That had to get old.
4.  Those paper totes are way heavier than they look.
5.  I had to provide my own gum bands.
6.  My mom ended up driving me a lot.
7.  My mom said, "I quit."

The guy who hired me, Jim , totally cheated me out of my money too.  He gave me $8 and made up something about child labor laws.  Hmm.  I gave half of my $8 to my mom.  So I had $4.  And in our house growing up you gave 10% to church for tithing and half of whatever was left in the bank.  So, I ended up with $1.80. 

Since then I've worked as a hostess at Hoss's Steak and Sea House. (They have an amazing salad bar.  Which on my Salad Bar Ranking Scale simply means they have Spanish olives and hard boiled eggs.  And Ranch.)   My first check there was for $118.68.  It covered two pay periods and I thought I was rich as Roosevelt.
I worked at The Gap.  I worked as a waitress at Winger's.  I was a computer tech adjunct teacher at ISU.  I was an Au Pair. I worked as a Bridal Consultant at a wedding store.  And right up until I had Koley I was a bookkeeper at an accounting firm.
Now, these jobs have literally nothing in common. I can't imagine why anyone would want to hire me.  Or why I was even hired then.  I'm a hard worker, sure.  I'll keep my nose to the old grindstone... but....  The only thing I offered at each job was "no previous experience."

Must be my "can-do" attitude and billion dollar smile.

"G" Is For Giant Baby

Does 11 pounds qualify as a giant baby?
To me?  Yes.
To Hagrid?  Probably not.

But 21 months ago I birthed Giant Baby Kole.  At 11 pounds he was certainly the catch of the day.  All the nurses came in to see him and doctors stared in awe.  It was the first proud mommy (<-- hate that phrase) moment of my life.  Kole remained large.  His first Christmas, when he was 5 months old, he weighed 29 pounds.  His second Christmas, when he was 19 months old, he weighed 24 pounds.
He's becoming less rolly and more Koley.

I've been surprised in circles of other moms.  Apparently, it's common porch talk to discuss child birth and the weight of your babies and your rearing techniques.  When I first answer that Kole was 11 pounds no one says anything.  Like, I am telling a ridiculous and absurd lie that isn't even fathomable.  Then, I am accused of gestational diabetes.  Then, everyone congratulates me and tells me what a powerful woman I am.  (I leave out the part about crying through labor and telling everyone in the hospital I was about to die.)  And then everyone EVERYONE knows someone with a bigger baby.  "My mom's, old neighbor's, aunt's, third grade teacher had a baby who was 13 pounds... and a twin."  And then it's my turn to be amazed.  And skeptical.

With JBP on the way (due in less than 3 months... aaaahhhhhHHH...FREAK OUT!) I am feeling bad.  Everyone called Kole the "Miracle Baby."  Even before he was born- because supposedly I can't have kids.  So, what a blessing Kole was.  And then to be so rotund!  I mean the paparazzi wouldn't leave him alone.  But with this baby... there hasn't been nearly as much doting or miracle talk.  (Maybe people think I'm the Girl Who Cried Infertile.)
The doctors say he is measuring big again... I just don't believe it.  I'm getting the feeling they say that to everyone.  I mean the chances of having two Giant Babies are pretty slim.  (Though, I'm sure you know someone who has.)  And I'll just feel awful if this baby boy is like 6 measly pounds.  Already living in Kole's gigantic shadow. 
Does the poor kid even have a chance?

"F" Is For Fluffer Nutter

One of our favorite games to play growing up was Trivial Pursuit for Juniors.  The age levels were like 6-10 and we played well into our teen years and prided ourselves on our intelligence.  For knowing things like the proper name of the Big Dipper (Ursula Major) and all the characters on the Rice Krispies box (Snap, Krackle, and Pop).

One of the questions that would really get us rolling was:
What do you call a sandwich that's made with peanut butter and marshmallow cream?
Answer:  Fluffer Nutter.

This made us laugh. 

You see, in our house (of 5 girls), if someone...passed gas... we called it a "fluff."  Or if you smelled something you'd say, "Who fluffed?"  In the house I grew up in the "f-word" was "Fart."  I didn't even know there was a much, much worse f-word.  Swearing was completely prohibited and besides the basic run down of bad words... we weren't allowed to say "Stupid," "Hate," "Kill," or "Shut Up."  And when "Suck" became popular we weren't allowed to say that either.  And, as ladies (of the 17th century), we called the  foulest of bodily movements... a fluff.  How dainty.

"Fluff" has always stuck with me.  Maybe because NO ONE uses that word or knows what it means when you say it.  We originally called passing gas "Bursting."  Someone bursted.  Which, if you think about it, yeah.  Someone did literally burst.  Out of their bum.  But then Cinn-a-Burst and Fruit-a-Burst Gum came along.  Sorta bursted our bursting bubble.  We came back to earth and renamed the function "Fluffing."  No idea why.  But, after Dad watched a game on Saturday, we'd go down to the TV room and cringe our noses and say, "It smells like fluffs down here."

Since then it has evolved into "tooting."  Which is likely the best of the three and what I will call it until my dying day.  I use "toot" in my home when one of the boys fluffs and laughs about it.  Yeah, even 20 month old Kole will fluff and smile.  He wants to be just like Ken. 
I just get uncomfortable saying "fart."  It sounds so dirty.  And stinky. 
I find burst, fluff, and toot to be much more likable alternatives.
Though the terms have stopped me from ever trying a Fluffer Nutter.  Or becoming a big Fruit-a-Burst gum chewer.
Just can't do it.

"E" Is For Everything As It Should Be

Uh... except for it's not.
...for anyone really.
And I get so angry reading these blogs where life is portrayed that way.
You know the ones:
The housewife is slim (from stupid old Zumba classes) and has a great butt and a perfect complexion (made so by layers of makeup.... or Photoshop).  Wears either skinny jeans or dresses every day.  Even just GETS dressed every day.  She takes pictures of herself and three kids on the web cam.  She makes up her own recipes and eats all organic and sets a fancy table every night.  With, like... name tags made on her Cricut machine.  They have parties for no reason and are moving into an even bigger house.  Nothing costs too much money with the killer job her "hubby" has and even trials "aren't that bad" or she considers them "a gift from God."  (Oh.  And she uses words like "killer," "awesome," "radical," and "angels."  I just don't like those words.)  She probably wears those patterned rained goulashes to the play ground on Spring days in case there is mud.  And takes lots of pictures of her feet/shoes.

You know the blogs that make you throw up a little in your mouth?
I gag because there is no way that's all true.

One of my best friends told me, "Everyone smiles in pictures."
Which is true.  We all put our best face on when we hear the word "Cheese." 
But... when do these women get relief?  When do they face reality?  Or is life a game to them?

I've got my uppers and my downers for days. 
I find liberation and reinforcement when I share what is really going on. 
When I say "This blows"  I inevitably feel better.  Maybe it's the whole taking ownership.
It doesn't make me weak.
It doesn't make me less or more likable.
And it doesn't make me better than those woman who write blogs that I hate.  (Point of Interest:  I don't hate those women... I just can't read their blogs.  It's not personal... it's blog-onal.)

I will give myself points for being more honest than them though. *wink*

It's not a competition.  Life is never going to be a competition. 
Which is good. 
Because the score would be something like:
Patty:12         
FEMBOTS: 4,899,673,456,165,098

"D" is for Didn't Know That

I've been married to ol' Kenner-roo for almost 7 years now.  To me, that's a long time.  That's the longest I've been married to anyone. 

Didn't know he sleeps in the middle of the bed every night.  Even when I try to nudge him out of the way.  Even when I politely whisper for a little space.  I don't get an inch.  The only thing I ever get is an elbow to the rib cage and some muttered nonsense about leaving him alone.

Didn't know he'd be so good at the volume control on the TV.  I'm young to be hard of hearing- but I am nonetheless.  And I (like my Dad) constantly adjust the volume through a movie.  So those bright green bars show up on the screen.  And linger.  Ken can grab the remote, set a number, and I can hear the whole movie without ever adjusting the volume.  Even when I set it to the same number (our magic number is 22)... it doesn't work for me.  So if I am watching a movie sans Ken... I still have him come down and set the volume for me.  It's the only way I can truly enjoy a cinematic feature.

Didn't know boys were so stinky.  I grew up with 4 sisters.  So I didn't fully comprehend things like sweat and "swass" (also known as Grumbus) and stank... to the level it reaches... until I married Ken.  Nor did I know how vital baby powder is.  For a grown man.

Didn't know he hates the way I drive.  We dated and I drove lots.  He never said anything.  Now I hear it all the time.  "Give that driver some space."  "Slow down!"  "Use your brakes."  "Don't use your brakes, just coast."  "Turn the steering wheel smoother."  Aye Aye Aye!  How did I survive on the wide open road without him?

Didn't know I didn't know how to cook.  Ken cooks every night.  In the seven years we've been married I think I've made 10 dinners.  All of which were mediocre.  3 of which were pancakes.  I really thought I'd be that all-star housewife.  Turns out I prefer to be cooked for, served, and cleaned up after.

Didn't know there'd be ups and downs sometimes several in the same day.  Living and coping with another human being, even someone you love, is trying.  For both of us.  And it's hard to talk about everything and be honest about feelings and maintain sexiness and figure out who does what and not be offended about the bed hogging and the grumbus and the driving remarks and the tickles that hurt more than they tickle.  And the chubby jokes.  I'm pregnant, remember?  I can eat all these Cool Ranch Doritos if I want to. 

Didn't know it would always be alright.  No matter what.  I figured it'd be a little more like the movies.  Call it naive.  But I figured there's be a few lamp-throwing fights.  One or two nights with one of us on the couch.  A few days of silence.  But there hasn't been.  Ever.  It's always been alright.  We smooth it over.  Talk it out.  And reassure each other that we're in it to win it.  Our Marital Motto is:  Team Work Makes The Dream Work.

Oh come on!  You don't have a marital motto? 
Phst.  Slackers.

Check out my double chin.  I'm sexy and I know it.

"C" is for Confrontation

If I was to alter my name slightly, it would become Patty PeaceMaker Poulsen.  I never pick a fight and go out of my way to avoid people who do.
Maybe I should add intentionally to that sentence.
I never INTENTIONALLY pick a fight....
... but it seems like every time I'm out in public there I am face to face with a stranger...fighting.
There's the Winco Bagel Non-Tongs User Confrontation
The University Bookstore Confrontation of 2011
The Summer of the Wireless Internet Debacle

They just come up.  I can't help it.  Something about me must scream "PICK A FIGHT WITH ME!"
It happens every single time I go into our Blockbuster.  Which, by the way, is about the lamest video store I've been in.  They actually have bare shelves.  Ken says they are bankrupt and going out of business- so maybe this store is just like what's left.  But it's so sad in there.  And smells really bleach-y and butter-y.  Which is the perfect recipe for vomit-ty bile.

A couple months ago I went to get Captain America.  (You can cross it off your rental list if it's on there.  Not that great.)  I went over to the scanty New Release wall and just saw all these Captain America post cards lined up.  I picked one up and stared at it.  Maybe they are keeping them behind the counter?  Is this movie that good?
Beside me was a woman in her 60s also examining a postcard.  She asked, "Do you know what this is?"  I told her I didn't but certainly would find out for us.  So!  I marched up to the counter and asked the clerk.  "We put those there when a movie is totally checked out." 
I was a little confused.
"Oh.  So we can like go on a waiting list?"
"No.  Just so you know we do carry it."
Still thinking it's a dumb idea I said, "Oh!  Cool."
See how non-confrontational I am?
The clerk then says, "I did just get one back though.  Do you want to rent it?"

At this moment I felt torn.

Yes.  I did want to rent the movie.  I also wanted to let that old lady know what the postcards were for.  But there were people in line behind me- I didn't want to hold up the whole store.  So I just told the guy 'yes' and figured I'd stick the movie in my purse and explain it all to the granny when I was done.
But wouldn't you know it....
...she came walking right up next to me.
Like we came in together or something.
"Did you find out what it was for?"
"Yeah.  It means they are sold out."
The woman looks at the counter, sees a copy, and realizes a transaction is happening.
She says, "It looks like you managed a copy."  And she said it with all this gooey emphasis on you.  Real snobby, you know?
"Well... um... I came up here to ask him what it was.  And he told me.  And then he said he just got one in."
"And you think YOU should get it?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Well, I want to watch it too."
"Well I was here first."  (I felt myself stooping to a kindergarten playground fight over who gets the tire swing.)
"Well we both had a post card."
"Well you just stood by the wall.  I'm the one who came up here and turned my postcard in."
"You practically raced up here!  You didn't give me a chance to say I wanted to come and find out."
"Uh!  Yeah right.  I was doing you a service.  Trying to be helpful."
"Stealing a movie I want to watch is helpful?"

The exchange continued for quite sometime and ended when I sorta yelled an invitation for her to come over to my house that night and watch it with me and my husband. 
And you know... SHE had the nerve to storm out.
Some ball-sy grandma.

What did I do so wrong?

THEN!  Just two weeks ago I was in there and there was a mother with like 4 dirty, sticky, yelling kids standing about 15 feet away from the register.  They were discussing which movies to get.  I was hesitant in going right up to the register wondering if that would be considering "cutting" and therefor removal from the park.  So I waited off to the side for 2 or 3 minutes.  The clerk looked at me and I looked at her and mouthed, "Are they in line?"  She rolled her eyes and motioned for me to come up.  So I did.
THAT was a mistake.
The over-tanned mom dressed in her "I Love Pink" VS lounge wear went off on me.  For... yeah... cutting in line.  For setting a bad example for her children.  Not being patient.  Collapsing the economy.  Creating weapons of mass destruction.  (The Dub MDs)  It was insane.  I was blamed and scolded for pretty much everything that seemed to be wrong in her life.  Except that dreadful hot pink outfit.  And Uggs.  If that had come up... I would have said something.  But I didn't. I didn't even have to egg her on.  She just took off like a jack rabbit. 
I stepped aside and gave the grand arm gesture to "Please, ma'am.  Take my spot.  And shut up quickly."
The worse part was... after she gave me my "talking to" she went back to arguing with her kids about which movie they wanted.  And I just stood there waiting.

Ken always tells me (and I'm starting to believe him) that I bring out the best in people.
Or maybe it's Blockbuster.  Maybe I should stick to RedBox.

"B" is for Barbies

My Barbie, Alan, was the bishop and got to conduct Testimony Meeting if we were allowed to play on Sunday.  I had a black Barbie named Kevin Mosley.  (A lot of our Barbies were name after people in our real lives.)  I bought him because Andi had a black girl Barbie and no one would date her.  (White snobs.)  My Barbies weren't the "cool"  Barbies.  Really, only Vicky and Julie had cool Barbies.  As hard as me and Andi tried- our Barbies were just awkward story fillers.
Maybe that's because I named my girl Barbies, Midge and Pearl.  Pearl played "Happy Birthday" if you lifted her arm.  Midge got her head ripped off and after her "surgery" looked more like a hunchback than a woman.  Very shruggy.  No neck.  Luckily, she was already married to Alan.  Who was mine.   

Sure, there was the off chance that if Tony (Vicky's Barbie) was out of town then Lori (Julie's Barbie) might go out with one of mine or Andi's Barbies.  But it would go no further than one charity date.  And there was never a good night kiss.
We played Barbies in real time.  Stories picked up where they left off.  As Vicky has said, "When Lindsay Bennighoff would come over to play with us and pitch something crazy like, 'Let's have a wedding,' we'd blink at her blankly.  Like, that takes development."

When I get real nostalgic and drift off to Barbie Land it kinda makes me wish I had girls instead of boys.
And then I read this that Andi wrote about her Barbie and realize... It's better this way.

I bought the 1996 Atlanta Summer Olympics Barbie Doll and named her Karen.  Karen had screws at every joint for full acrobatic use.  She was also a redhead with curled bangs.  My risky buy did not pay off.  After all, Karen did not belong to Vicky or Julie, therefore she could not be cool.  In fact, she was more of a handicapped outcast.  Her awkward joints and limbs were always bent the wrong way, and she came in a white body suit with the Olympic rings.  No shoes and no accessories except a gold medal.  I stripped her of all Olympic markings out of sheer embarrassment in the first week or so, but no party dress could get rid of those horrific screws in her ankles, knees, wrists, and shoulders.

"A"gainst Weathermen in General

I'm big on knowing what the weather is going to be for tomorrow.  I like mentally planning activities.  When it's supposed to be sunny tomorrow I sleep better.  I've got the weather app.  I'm neither super trendy or ultra techy and "app" is one of my least favorite words... but it came on the device.
And it stinks. 
Sure you can pick any no name city in the world and it'll tell you what the weather is, but I am of the persuasion that all weather predictors (men, women, machine, other) just generally don't know what they are talking about. 
I noticed this last spring while I was still living in Idaho.  I'd check the weather report.  It'd have sunshine balls for every day of the week.  With temps in the mid 50s to low 60s.  Warmed the cackles of my heart just seeing those glowing orbs.  I'd head to the garage and pump up the bike tires, consider unpacking summer clothes, and gear up for opening the windows to let some of the fresh Spring air in.  *inhale.......BIG exhale*  Things were looking up.  Monday comes around and it is sunny until like 10am.  Then it starts raining.  I re-check the weather.  Still sunny according to their dorky Doppler predictions.  I'd give it 20 minutes and bam.  The next three days changed from sunny to rainy.  And I am left to think, "How did you not see it coming... before it actually happened.  I mean I saw the clouds rolling in."

This weekend weather predictors have proved to be at their worst.  According to my Apple Weather App, Saturday was supposed to be 79 and sunny.  They were off by about 10 degrees and cloud cover.  (And immense winds... but I know that's hard to come up with a graphic for.  So no apologies needed there.)  Today was supposed to be 55 and overcast.  It's snowing/hailing and might be 30 degrees out there. 
I get that it's just a prediction.  Which is a guess.  It's what they think will happen.  But my guess is that with billions of dollars of super fancy equipment (not actual statistic) they should be able be a little more accurate. I get the feeling they go to work roll up their sleeves, put their feet on the desk, and forecast "SUN!"

Maybe they can get a refund on all that equipment and just install a window in the laboratory.  That seems to be how they "predict" it anyway.