Hey, Baby!

I came home from work one hot June evening to find JT on the deck, soaking in some sun and calming down after a busy day. I went out to join him, and he filled me in on all the chaos he’d dealt with - juggling multiple assignments, interviews, deadlines and meetings.

“Blah,” I said. “That’s a lot. But you did it! Gimme a hug!”

He did and as I pulled away, a throbbing scorched across me as if I’d just taken a wrecking ball to the chest. The surprise of pain paused my breath, but it quickly subsided.

“What the hell was that?” I wondered, as JT continued his story. I hadn’t done any pec exercises since, well ever. Why was I so sore?

I knew with absolute certainty.

I was pregnant.

******************************

The next day, I stopped at the drugstore on the way home from work. Twenty minutes later, the digital reader on the test spelled it out for me: Pregnant, 3+ Weeks.

A smile I couldn’t even try to conceal slapped itself across my face. I wanted to tell JT right away, but I knew he’d had another doozy of a day and needed some downtime after work to get into a good headspace.

So again, I  joined him on the deck, though I won’t even pretend that I listened to a word he said as he recapped his stressful day. I waited until I could tell he’d relaxed.

“Well,” I started sitting upright in my chair. “I hope you won’t mind finishing that nice bottle of wine in the fridge.”

He looked at me quizzically. Allowing him to tap into my stash usually required much more than a stressful work day.

“I’m pregnant.”

He froze. Then, as realization washed over him, he broke into the biggest smile and rushed over to me.

“Careful!” I exclaimed and guarded my chest as he scooped me up into a hug.

*********************

 

After weeks of waiting for doctor’s appointments, privately filling in our closest loved ones, and nearly bursting from wanting to tell every person I encounter, JT and I have reached a point where we’re comfortable going public about the pregnancy. And it’s been so wonderful to share our joy.

Since finding out, I’ve been keeping notes on how things have been going. I’m 19 weeks right now, so some things have changed since I started the following recap. Stay tuned for a second trimester check in coming soon.

And thank you to everyone who has shown JT and I so much kindness as we prepare for this amazing change in our lives. We love you!

First Trimester: Round One!

How I Feel:

Contrary to every chick flick I've ever seen, I did not immediately start vomiting during inconvenient moments ( important business meetings, celebrity interviews, etc.) the instant I peed on a stick. I actually never got nauseous at all, except for once when I was working on a story about butchers and found myself in the middle of a narrow freezer stuffed with moldy chunks of aging beef hanging from metal hooks. And I'm fairly sure that had nothing to do with pregnancy.

This was good because had I been getting sick, I would have likely not had the energy to drag myself to the bathroom. Or hold back my own hair. Because while I was not sick, I was EXHAUSTED. I permanently felt like I'd pulled an all-nighter. Which was ironic, as most nights I was in bed by 10 or, if I was forcing myself to stay up, asleep on the couch by 10:03.

Other than becoming a functioning zombie, I felt pretty great. The realization that what I put into my body actually really mattered now meant clearer skin, less eye puffiness and a sharpened focus. Plus, prenatal vitamins are magic. Within a week of introducing them into my daily routine, I had shinier hair. And for the first time in my life, my nails grew past the quick. As a chronic biter, I never dreamed of nails strong enough to be manicured minus an acrylic applique. I felt a little like Bella in that one “Twilight” movie – not the one where the baby crushes all her bones from the inside (that comes later, right?). I felt like Bella after Edward turned her and she woke up looking like herself, just more alive, despite technically being dead, but whatever. Lusher hair, laser-sharp eyes, general sultriness she definitely didn't have before. I felt like that but without all of the I-hate-everything attitude that seeps into every Kristen Stewart performance.

How JT feels:

I would never presume to speak for him, but he seems cautiously happy. He keeps saying the goal for this stage is to keep me healthy and him sane. I think he’s afraid he’ll end up breaking the baby, but I’ve tried to reassure him that he will be fine. I’m thinking giving him diaper duty for the whole first month should eliminate any initial fear on his part, right?

How other people feel:

So many people had such lovely reactions to the news of my pregnancy. We got lots of well wishes, thoughtful cards, assurances that we'd be great parents. It was so fun to tell our families and all our friends, see their genuinely sweet reactions and bask in all the love and joy.

Yet when it came to telling some people, there were a few reactions that sucked the wind out of my sails faster than you could say “diaper genie.” A quick glance at a few mommy-to-be blogs proved I was not alone in not loving some common responses people (usually relative strangers) have when first hearing your big news. Some universally loathed reactions include:

Reaction #1: Your life is over.

 

Generally delivered by parents we barely know who still remember the carefree existence they had before the days of early mornings and children's programming.

Here’s the thing: I've heard this a million times. I know my life is going to change in ways I can never even begin to understand right now. I know whatever that new life is will pale in comparison to my current situation in many ways, particularly in the arenas of sleep and social life. I also know that I’m nearing my mid-30s, have had a really great life so far, and am ready for a new chapter that’s not so much about me. Bringing something I love more than myself into the world will be scary, for sure. But I don’t see it as an ending. To me, it’s the beginning. (God, I can hear the people who love to say this laughing at me right now. Again, I know you're right. Just do everyone a favor and quit saying it, OK? It's a huge bummer. K, thanks.)

Reaction #2: Thank goodness! I was starting to think something was wrong. It's about time!

 

Mostly from people who also asked me about how many children I planned on having before I'd even had my engagement ring sized.

 

To these people, all I have to say is relax. No one on this planet will ever do things the exact way you want them to, when you want them to, in the exact manner you would. People do what they want to do, when they want to do it. I know you want people to be happy. But they’ll get to that happiness when they’re ready, not when you decide they’re supposed to. OK? We good? OK.

Reaction #3: I knew it.

This reaction was my least favorite, as it dissipated any excitement at the news. And made me feel like I looked like a whale when I was barely showing. When you’re abundantly aware that your body is gearing up for some major shape shifting, vanity is king, people. A bit of advice: even if you’re not surprised, fake it.

Other than those few less than pleasant moments, it’s been a really sweet experience so far filled with little pockets of extreme excitement and anxiety. I met a student doctor at my first appointment, who seemed genuinely pumped to tell me they’d be taking me in for my first sonogram that very day.

 

“You’ll get to hear the heartbeat!” she squeaked with an enthusiasm I hope she doesn’t lose during her career.

I was so happy, I couldn’t form words so I opted for a goofy grin instead.

“And,” student doc said, leaning in toward me. “You’ll get to find out if there’s more than one.”

Silence.

The hell? More than one? I felt my grin flip over as the realization washed over me. More than one? Why had I never thought of that? Oh, this does not bode well. I’m going to be a terrible mother! I’ve been so busy being happy at the thought of one, I never let myself think there could be more!

Student Doc saw my expression and immediately backtracked.

“I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you! I just thought…..”

I know what she thought. She thought she was talking to a competent human being who would, I don’t know, have at least a passing thought about the possibility of multiple births.

Ugh.

But then, just as I was making a mental list of all the baby books I should buy seeing as how I knew literally nothing about being a suitable pregnant person, the ultrasound technician scrolled over my belly and a quick whooshwhoosh came through the speaker. It was my baby’s heartbeat, strong and healthy and right there where it was supposed to be. I looked up and saw my (single) little Love Bug for the first time, right there on the screen above me. I couldn’t have kept the smile from returning to my face and after the tech printed out a picture of the sonogram, I carried it around all day and stared at it, already so so in love.

And that’s pretty much how I felt through the entire first trimester. Happy, content, tired, overjoyed, anxious. Round Two started a few weeks ago, and it’s been equally wonderful and scary. (post on that coming soon)

For now, I’m just really trying to savor every moment both because I know how fast this beautiful experience will go and because I know my life will never be the same once it’s over. For right now, it’s all about enjoying what I can, when I can.

Assuming I have the energy to stay awake.

The Odd Couple

You know how sometimes, when you meet a couple for the first time, you think, “Wow, these are two really cool people. How great that they found each other and can enjoy being awesome together?”

And you know how sometimes you meet a couple for the first time and think, “Sweet Jesus, how can so much evil exist in one person, let alone two and for God's sake, what kind of demon spawn will enter this world when these two procreate?”

If you answered no to that second question, you've obviously never met Carl and Audra (names changed though God willing, I will never see nor speak to these people again in my life).

It all started on the first night of our honeymoon. JT and I were already in love with Aruba and excited to have our first dinner at the resort's hibachi restaurant. The place paired you up at a table with another couple so we also were looking forward to making some new friends. Well, JT, the far more social of us, was. I, being Queen Introvert, figured a pre-dinner cocktail would immensely improve my mood about dining with strangers.

Had I known what was about to befall me, I would have downed an entire fifth of the strongest island rum I could find. Anything to numb me against what was to come.

JT and I were the first of our table to arrive, so we ordered some wine and sipped and chatted while we waited. Within a few minutes, I saw a man and woman – both in their twenties, both tall and lanky, both supremely pale – making their way over to the table. I nudged JT. First honeymoon friends! Woo hoo!

Carl and Audra introduced themselves, Carl shaking JT's hands and Audra giving me a shy nod. An awkward silence started things off, but then it was JT to the rescue.

“So Carl, what do you do?”

Mistake Number One.

Carl and Audra exchanged a quick smile. “I'm an information technology support specialist for the department-wide computing system of a multifaceted education advancement institution.”

A brief silence while we took that in.

“That's got to make for a hell of a business card,” JT joked.

They were not amused.

“Forgive me,” I pushed on. “But what exactly does that mean?”

Audra beamed and butted in. “It means he handles all the calls when people in human resources at the university can't figure out how to use their computers properly.”

“Ooooh,” I said. You're a tech. Got it. I mean, that's a good job and all, but calm down.

“Yeah, it's really stressful and Dan always gives me a hard time, but like I tell Alan and Nick, you just have to take it one problem at a time,” Carl said as Audra nodded vigorously.

Can I just say that I HATE when someone refers to people I've never met like I should know who they are? Like I was going to say to this stranger, “Totally! Dan can be rough, but your advice should really help Alan and Nick. Those two! What a pair!” No. Stop it.

Carl followed this up with a 20-minute monologue about the trials and tribulations of an IT tech juggling the daily demands of a department of 12 in a medium-sized mid-Western no name school. It was just as exciting as it sounds.

I about died of relief when the waiter returned with hot towels for the table. I grabbed mine and remarked on what a nice treat the towels were, how restaurants rarely did that anymore, whatever. I was desperate. Towel talk would have to do.

Mistake Number Two.

“It's just weird because in Japan they usually give you cold towels,” Audra said as she and Carl executed a tandem eye roll.

“Oh, you've been to Japan?” I asked. Finally, something non-IT support related!

“Um,” Audra arched her eyebrow and smirked. “Only about ten times. I mean, because of my job?” 

Silence.

“Oh,” I said, because, really what else was there to say?

Another eye roll.

“I'm an automotive engineer,” she said slowly, like I was four and she was explaining quantum physics. “For Toyota.”

Yeah, you NEVER SAID THAT AT ANY POINT PRIOR TO THIS INSTANT! Is what I wanted to scream. Instead, I went with my old standby.

“Oh.”

Then Audra talked for another eternity about her job, which somehow managed to equal her husband's in the Interesting Things To Talk About category.

Mind you, at no point did they ask a single question about JT or me. That is until Audra grabbed my hand and brought it within an inch of her face to inspect my engagement ring.

As I've written about before, I love my diamond engagement ring for many reasons. It's been on my hand for almost two years and I still find myself staring at it at least once a day.

I told Audra all about its history, how special it was to me and how incredible it was that JT was able to do that for me.

“Well, mine's in the safe in the room. I just didn't feel right wearing it out and about here,” was her whispered response.

“Oh? What does it look like?” I asked.

She beamed again. “It's a one-carat emerald cut sapphire.”

“Oh, cool!” I said, actually meaning it. “Do sapphires have special meaning to you or do you just love the color?”

“No,” said, looking me dead in the eye. “I just can't stand when people wear diamonds. It's so thoughtless and tacky.”

I honestly didn't know if I should slap her or laugh.

JT shot me an incredulous look, and I was about to give him the peace sign indicating it was time to peace the eff out, but then the waiter returned with our food (and mercifully, more booze for JT and I), so I was willing to stay at least until we had something to eat.

We scarfed down our hibachi and when it was time to bid our dinner companions adieu, I about cried with joy. But then the waiter returned and asked if anyone would like anything else.

“Should we?” Audra asked, shooting her beloved what was meant to be a naughty grin but came off more Creepy Clown.

“Let's. We waited all day, after all,” he said, then turned to the waiter. “We'll have a glass of moscato.”

“Lovely,” the waiter said. “Two moscatos.”

“No, no,” Carl said sternly and shot JT and I a disapproving look. “Just one. We'll share.”

Audra giggled, clearly appalled at how very bad she and her new husband were being. I looked at JT with eyes the size of saucers. We were at an all-inclusive resort, for God's sake. And on vacation. OK, that was enough judging for one night. I downed the last of my (scandalous) glass of wine and nodded toward the exit.

We exchanged our goodbyes before their illicit moscato arrived and made our way across the resort to the pool area bar. I collapsed on it, head down in my arms, shoulders bouncing as I laugh/cried over the whole disastrous dinner.

“I mean, who in the world acts like that? On purpose!” I screamed into the bar.

“I know,” JT said, shaking his head and signaling for the bartender.

“They are very easily the most annoying people I’ve ever met. No! That anyone has ever met!”

“I know.”

“I mean, to act all high and mighty is one thing. To insult me directly to my face is one thing. But the sharing of the moscato?! That threw me right over the edge. Have you ever heard of anything more lame in your life?!”

“No, I haven’t,” JT laughed and leaned forward to grab our drinks just as I lifted my head.

Directly behind him, saddled up at the two bar stools directly to his right, were Carl and Audra.

“Ahem!” Carl cleared his throat as the bartender approached him. “We’ll have two virgin mudslides.”

JT and I remained perfectly still, as if that rendered us invisible. It seemed to take the bartender two years to whip up their virgin mudslides. But finally, chocolate milkshakes in hand, Carl and Audra left, probably to return to their room for some light Sudoku.

“Do you think they heard me?” I asked JT sheepishly.

“They have ears, so yeah, probably.”

I grimaced. Ugh. I did feel bad. I never want to make anyone else feel bad about themselves. I prefer to mock people behind their backs. Like a lady.

“Oh well,” I told JT. “At least we never have to see them again.”

Yet another mistake.

From that point on, we saw Carl and Audra EVERYWHERE. At breakfast each morning. At dinner each night. On the beach. On the bus. At the special honeymooners dinner our resort planned for us. ON THE FREAKIN PLANE RIDE HOME.

There was no escaping them. And it never got any less awkward. That’s karma for you. I was never allowed to forget how mean I had been.

There’s a lesson here. And I believe that lesson is: Fake food poisoning as soon as possible when seated at dinner with a-holes.

The Addiction

I knew about a little about them before I ever even met my husband.

I had tried them in high school, but even though all my friends liked them, I didn't really get the appeal.They made me look bad, like a weirdo who had no idea what she was doing (which I didn't).

As an adult, I started to like them better. I’d try them on the weekends from time to time, usually when I had nothing better to do.

As my relationship with JT grew, I began to truly understand the depth of his infatuation with them. He never lied to me about it. He was always upfront.He had loved them long before he loved me, and he had no plans to stop. I got it. Sort of.

It wasn’t really even until this past year when I really started to dislike them. For weeks on end, they were all he could talk about. There was no escaping them. I’d try to read or listen to music to distract myself from them, but I just couldn't.

Granted, it was the playoffs, but still. 

My husband, as many of you know, is a sports junkie. He works in the field, but far exceeding his professional obligation is an intense passion for anything in life involving competition, preferably when the fate of a football/baseball/basketball/puck/spandex-clad man is involved.

His obsession was tolerable at first. Fortunately, many of the teams he holds most dear aren’t what many analysts would call “good.” Therefore, some seasons (coughfootballcough!) were kept pretty short. His favorite teams are from another state, so most times, the games he wants to see don’t even air here. Which all worked out just fine for me. (JT is probably filing for divorce over this paragraph at this exact moment.)

However, a few weeks ago, a culmination of events led to what can only be described as a seemingly unending torture-fest for me.

It all started when the projector in the Man Cave died. That was JT’s preferred sports watching arrangement, which had always been A-OK with me. A dead projector - and the ridiculously high repair cost - meant a couple weeks of saving up money and relying solely on the living room TV for entertainment.

Unbeknownst to me, several factors were aligning that would render my home life unbearable for the duration of those weeks. (An aside: Fans of the following teams, do not hate me. I wish no ill will toward your beloved team. I support the local teams, though I will never pretend I watch every game. I’m happy when they’re doing well and when I do get to go to any live sports event, I always love it. It’s just that, like I said, I prefer to watch sports in small doses. Not every waking minute of my existence for weeks on end. We good? OK.)

The Capitals had not even made the playoffs, so that hell was avoided for yet another year. But the Pens were still in it, so JT shifted his attention to them. At the same time, the Wizards were also suddenly playoff-worthy. Between the two teams, I swear there was a game a night for two weeks. Add his weekly ritual of watching Monday Night RAW and the Orioles randomly popping up on local channels and I can honestly say I did not watch one thing I wanted to watch on TV for a solid two weeks.

I did, however, listen to A LOT of screaming. JT screaming. Announcers screaming. Players screaming. Fans screaming.

I also read, watched stuff on my computer (though my computer is very old and very sucky so quality was lacking at best), read some more, ate dinner alone in the dining room, moped around, sighed loudly, and went to bed by like 8 p.m. every night, annoyed and wondering what I’d missed on any number of the shows I actually looked forward to watching. You know, non-screamy ones.

This went on and on until one evening, as JT climbed into bed after his nightly shouting fest with the TV and I decided to say something. He’d always been honest with me, right? Time to return the favor.

“Baby,” I asked, rolling over to face him.

“Yeah, babe?” he asked, snuggling toward me.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you t-”

“I’m not done. I love you, but unless you want me to murder you in your sleep because I can’t get the sound of thousands of people screaming out of my head, you will FIX THE GODDAMN PROJECTOR. OK? OK. Kisses. Love you. ‘Night.”

I don’t really know if it was my pillow talk that night, or whether teams stopped playing sports, or what, but JT never asked me to watch a game in the living room again. The projector still isn’t fixed, so I assume the latter.

My intervention is working for now, but I know it's just a short summer before football season starts again. Of course, he'll relapse, but that's OK. At that point, I'll be the fixed projector's biggest fan.  

 

A Place for Everything

I originally wrote this in the summer of 2011, just a few months after JT moved in with me in the little farmhouse we called home for a few years. I recently sat down to write an essay about how insane I am about keeping my house in order, then realized, oh wait, I already did. Three years ago. And nothing’s changed. So, other than referring to my now-husband as my boyfriend, I’m pretty much in the same place. Yay for consistency! Oh well. The good news is JT now has his own man cave, so I never have to see his endless piles of clothes/papers/receipts/wires/cables/wrestlingchampionshipbelts (not even remotely kidding) unless I intentionally go down to the basement. Which I only do to do laundry. Which I do a lot. Because I freakin’ love to clean. Sigh. The cycle continues…...

I'm a neat freak. I have been since I was a child. I can remember coming home from school, walking into my bedroom and gasping in horror because the dolls I had lined up atop my wardrobe were not in their proper order. My mother had dusted, and now the world was nothing but chaos. I actually yelled at her her, if I remember correctly, and schooled her in the ways of organizing them to my liking. I still always knew when they had been disturbed.

That need for neatness has never left. The first thing I do every morning is take a lap around my house and make sure everything is exactly where it should be - or rather, where I want it to be. It always is, never fail, as before I go to bed each night, I take the same lap, straightening magazines so they're in a perfect stack, putting dishes away in their designated shelf spots, making sure photo frames are in line with the edge of the table so as to not appear askew.

I clean if not daily then damn close. My theory is this: if you do little things everyday - a vacuum run here, a polishing there - then you never have to have one of those days that people dread when they're stuck in the house all day, frantically scrubbing everything down in anticipation of some guest or holiday event. I, on the other hand, never dread those days, and do them sometimes just for fun.

Now that the bf lives here and this is his home too, I've really worked on getting over the whole "a place for everything and everything in its place" mentality - to a degree. All my stuff is still where it belongs. His stuff has taken up residency in odd places, like the dining room - a room I'd never really used much before but now serves as his storage space for work bags, paperwork, and the occasional pair of sunglasses. Do I think those things belong in a dining room? No. Do I think it's nuts that something like that would bother me? Yes. So I don't let it get to me. I just move his stuff out of my line of vision so I can't see it when relaxing in my living room. Problem solved!

He also tends to use the bowl in my entryway, whose sole purpose was to hold my keys so I never lose them, as a catchall for everything in his pockets. His keys ends up there, but so does his wallet, loose change, receipts, ticket stubs, Chapstick, more sunglasses and hats. Of course, that all does not fit in the tiny bowl, so it has taken over my entryway. Along with three or four pairs of his shoes. This is another thing I really have to push past to not let it bother me. So the first thing people see when they walk into our home is a pile of junk and three pairs of sneakers? Hell, there are worse things. This is what I tell myself every time I walk in the door and instantly begin to feel to onset of a panic attack.

The thing is I know I'm the batty one here. It is not normal to let these types of things bother you. I can never be mad at another person for not living up to my supreme need for organization. That would be like being a heroin addict and getting pissed that your straight-edge significant other doesn't shoot up with you every day.

I will continue to work on this, though from what I can tell, this particular trait of mine is getting worse with age. Perhaps one day years down the road, I'll be the one dusting my own daughter's room, putting everything back in perfect order just so she can tear it all apart the second I'm out the door. 

Oh well. I'll put it all back again during my nightly lap around the house.

A Snore Subject

Every night, two or three times a night, I wake JT up using a variety of techniques. I clear my voice. I sigh dramatically. I whack him with a pillow then roll over super fast so he assumes it wasn't me (logic! I use it.)

Every time he wakes up, he asks the same question. “What?”

The answer is ALWAYS the same. It’s not as if my response will vary along the likes of, “Oh, I just thought 3:36 a.m. was a good time to talk about what color you’d like to paint the bathroom,” or “Hey, I’ve been wondering, what do you think Crystal Gayle is up to these days?” It’s the same every time. I’m waking him up because he’s woken me up. And he needs to shut the eff up.

JT snores. I know he has no control over it. I’m very aware of that fact, as he reiterates it to me each and every time I wake him up.

But when it’s 7:25 a.m. and my alarm is set to go off any minute, the last thing I want to do is spend my final precious moments of allowed sleep time awake, angry and imagining what my new duvet will look like once I finally convert my office into a separate bedroom. The near alarm-time wakeups are the worst, but the middle-of-the-night episodes aren’t much better. I end up playing the, “If I fall asleep NOW I’ll get 3 hours and 17 minutes of sleep…...OK, two hours and 12 minutes… 27 minutes….DAMMIT” game all night, with JT’s log-sawing providing the soundtrack to my descent into madness.

Yes, I know one of us can go to another room to sleep, and trust me, we both have. The couch in our living room is perfectly comfortable and works fine on nights when I just can’t take it any more. However, JT travels a lot so when he’s home, I actually want to sleep in the same bed as him. I like falling asleep next to him, and I like when we wake up together (sans snoring, of course). I don’t think I’m quite ready for separate living quarters just six months into my marriage. Save that for at least year two, amiright? 

We’ve tried Breathe Right strips to no avail. They don’t do much other than leave his nose all red and blotchy in the morning. And his snoring is not quite at Scary Sleeping Face Mask Thingie level. Truth be told, his snores aren’t really that bad and probably wouldn’t be a big deal for any normal person to deal with. But, as I think I’ve clearly established here, my level of neurosis bypassed “normal” years ago.

In my defense, JT’s snoring is no mere repetition of loud breathing or even a faint nasal rumbling - something one could get used to and block out as ambient noise after a certain amount of time. No, JT’s snores are far more theatrical than that. They have the element of surprise. 

The sounds he emits each night are rarely something expected, nor do they stay consistent from one inhale to the next. One moment I will be sound asleep, the next, his ca-ca-ca-ca-CACACACCA Jackhammer Snore rips me awake, full of fear that my bedroom is being demolished. I’ll calm my racing heart with a few deep breaths and brace for the next one, when a stretch of silence will encourage me to hover over JT to make sure he’s breathing. This is when he occasionally pulls the old switcheroo from Jackhammer to what I like to call “Pa!” so named as it involves him sucking in a huge gush of air, holding it in until his cheeks pufferfish, then spitting it out in one explosive, “PAHHH!!” There’s the Single Snort. The Whistling Boogie. The Abrupt Exhale. All night long, I never know what to expect. I can never acclimate. I can never prepare. It’s like sleeping in The Hunger Games.

I will admit that I have, on RARE occasions, been faulted for the same offense. If I’ve had one too many glasses of wine or my sinus are being especially bull-shitty that day, I can snore EVERY ONCE IN AWHILE. But when I do, at least it’s just normal snoring, not this evil game of Guess Your Own Torture.

I’d been trying everything I could think of to cancel out the noise, until I realized blocking JT out has its own side effects. A few nights ago, I woke to the sound of him sawing away. It was a new snore featuring a series of short gasps and a longer exhale, as if he was practicing Lamaze. I kept my eye mask firmly in place and started to play my go-to snore situation game - pick an actress and think of every movie she’s ever made ever. Sometimes this distraction is enough for me to turn my focus away from the snoring and fall back to sleep. I was combing through my recollection of Sandra Bullock pics, but before I could get passed “Gravity,” I realized JT was not actually snoring. He was shaking.

“Babe!” I exclaimed, and reached out to touch his clammy skin. “I think you have a fever!”

“I c-c-c-can’t stop sh-sh-shaking,” he said, eyes still clenched tight.

I bundled up him up the best I could, then ran to the kitchen for some water. He took a few sips, lurched out of bed, leapt into the bathroom and proceeded to yak up everything he’d eaten in at least a week and a half. OK, probably not really, but he was in there for a while and the soundtrack was NOT PLEASANT. When he finally emerged, looking pale but at least not shaking, he climbed back into bed and within a few minutes was sleeping peacefully.

The next morning, I called my nurse mom, who identified his ailment as textbook food poisoning. I felt so guilty about not realizing right away my hubs was so sick and even more so about how initially annoyed I’d been.

Suggestions welcome. For now, seeing as how I’ve done nothing but bitch about JT for 1,000-plus words, I’ve decided to let him have his say on the whole snoring thing. (Watch how he magically makes it all my fault. It’s impressive). My comments (a.k.a. the truth) are in bold:

Yes, I snore. Everyone does occasionally. I try to do as much as possible to not disturb her with something that that I can't control. (Aha! Once again, we're going with the Not My Fault defense. Wise).

I usually go to bed after her. This means she gets some guaranteed sleep AND I just might have to settle into a bed occupied by the sound of a lawn mower. Yes, she snores, too. But when it comes to waking her up to tell her about it, bad idea. Have you ever seen a peaceful person morph into a rabid badger? Do you want to? Then wake up a sleeping Rachel. (You want to see that right now? DO YOU?)

I, however, am easy to wake up, and I go back to sleep peacefully. I’m not a fan of facing anyone who is in a bed with me (LOL! “ANYONE WHO IS IN BED WITH ME.” Hey JT – give me your girlfriends’ numbers so we can make fun of you behind your back, mmk?) so I always end up facing the edge of the bed with my back to her, rendering it impossible for me to be snoring right in her face, UNLESS she wanted to cuddle (So…never). I prefer to stick to my side of the bed and will talk to you in the morning.

All I know is this: I sleep well until she wakes me up with these tales of snoring. I guess it’s all practice if we ever have kids and our child keeps waking us up because of the monster under the bed. I just have to say, “What? It’s not real. Go to back to sleep.” (Best future dad ever.)

Question: If I snore in the forest and only Rachel heard it, did I really snore?

(Answer: YES. And why are you sleeping in the forest? Oh right, because I’ve kicked you out because of ALL THE DAMN SNORING.)

JK.

Love you!

Over the Moon

I had the following conversation with JT earlier this week and thought you guys might appreciate it. Owners of a restaurant near our house are mad at the borough's elected officials for raising taxes (or something). It's a barbecue joint with a big plastic pig as its logo. Ever since taxes went up, the pig has been turned so that its backside faces the road.

JT: “That pig mooning the borough is hilarious.”

Me: “Yes, but is it really mooning, or just standing backward?”

JT: “What do you mean? Both.”

Me: “Are pigs really capable of mooning? I mean, aren't they always pantless?”

JT: “I think it's mooning if their butt is facing someone.”

Me: “Well, that's absurd. I mean, pig butts are always facing something – a farmer, a fellow pig, a trough. Does that mean that whatever's directly behind the pig is being mooned? I don't think so.”

JT: “I think the difference between mooning and just being naked is intention. Like that pig is clearly sending a message. On purpose.”

Me: “Hm. So if I walk out of the bathroom naked and you see my butt, that's not mooning. But if I run up to you, drop my pants and wave my butt around in your direction, that is.”

JT: “What message would you be sending with that?”

Me: “I think the message of all mooning is pretty simple. I think it's just, 'Haha, you saw my butt.'”

JT: “You are obviously not a pig.”

Me: "Thanks, babe!”