"The Case of the Missing Tomatoes" - a Tree Guy Narrative

So fourscore and seven years ago (the last time I posted), I mentioned a pregnancy tantrum story that my husband wrote down in Nature Boy's baby book.  Here it go:


The Case of the Missing Tomatoes

By Tree Guy

Early one evening I went to Taco Bell because Danielle wanted a couple Taco Supremes.  These were always her favorite because she loves sour cream.  I came home with three for me and two for her just like she ordered.  I set the bag of tacos on the table and went into the kitchen for drinks.  

Next thing I know, Danielle is yelling about how "These aren't Supremes!!!  Idiots!!!  They can't do anything right!!!!!  I....they...AARGHH!!!!!

And off she ran to the bedroom crying all the way.

Well, there I was, standing in the kitchen with two glasses in my hands wondering what just happened.  I checked the tacos and found that they had just forgotten the tomatoes.  So I added some tomatoes from the fridge and approached the bedroom.  After explaining the situation, Danielle simply said, "OK," and came out and ate her tacos.


So there you have it.  My shining pregnancy moment with Nature Boy.  And he hates tomatoes.

I have no riveting taco picture to add to this post.  (Sorry to disappoint.)  But I do have a crafty Pinterest-y one.

 

My husband likes to make his own salsa.  It's really, really good.  Better than store bought, fo' sho'.  He sometimes whips some up for gifts.  So it happened that we have 5348953408596356 Mason jars just sitting around.  Since I am a lady o' leisure, I spent 534534 hours finding 5456340564064563 things to do with Mason jars on Pinterest.  The painted jar above is my first project.  It reminds Nature Boy of my grandparents, so I call it a win.  Here is the link, in case you like it too.  (EASY!)  I'm going to do a bigger jar next in antique white to hold the flowers that my husband doesn't bring me nearly enough.  (Ahem!)  (Not that he reads my blog...)

I also plan to do this project with silver paint and glitter.  (Glitter!!!!) 

And this one too.

 Craft ALL the jars!!!!!!!!

Hi blogosphere. It's me, Pregzilla.

Happy 2014, y'all!  I'm behind the times, I know.  Haven't got my bloggin' mojo back, and might not ever.  Blame Facebook.  There's actual interaction there!  It's perfect for attention-whoring.

I'm reporting to you today from about mid-pregnancy.  In short, less indigestion, more bitchiness.

Really.

I'm off my mood stabilizer and down to about half the usual dose of my beloved Zoloft.  Most some days I see glimmers of the old unmedicated me.  It's scary.  It makes me think, Maybe I'm not as nice and self-actualized as I like to think I am.  Maybe it's all medication!

The crazy's all real though, I assure you.

The good news is, in a few more months, I'll be back among the fully medicated.  I am totally believing I'll have another round of Postpartum Euphoria.  I had it after having Nature Boy.  It was awesome.  I was walking through Walmart, whistlin' all the while.  Smiling at people in their fuzzy jammie pants.  Not turkey necking anyone.  Just so happy to be a mom.

Which is in sharp contrast to my typical daily interactions right now.

I posted the following story on Facebook, but I think it deserves a spot here as well.

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I've had a few cranky days. Ain't gonna lie. I had my first pregnancy-induced food tantrum two days ago. Over pizza. Papa John's to be specific.

I couldn't even eat pizza when I was pregnant with Nature Boy (red sauce!!!!) But with this new one, I want the sauciest pizza I can get.

I spent 30 lovely minutes planning my (frugal online coupon supported) order. Mushrooms. Onions. Extra sauce. Garlic dipping sauce.

I downloaded Papa John's app only to get the pop-up that no store delivers to my address. What? So I called the store and asked the squeaky voiced pubescent boy if they deliver out my way. He said yes. So I tried again with the app. (No pizza for YOU!)

The boy lied. Lied, I say!

45 minutes into my meal planning, I called again and was told by a different Papa John's worker that they only deliver to one block east of my house. And that I couldn't get the awesome online deal if I ordered over the phone for pickup.

I was all, "That's only one more block! I've been trying to order from you guys for 45 minutes! That's it!!! I'm not ordering from you!! Bye!!!"

And I hung up on the poor girl.

Because certainly she has power over Papa John's delivery routes and was purposely withholding pizza from me. 

As if that's not bad enough, I then refused to call anywhere else or make any pizza-related decisions for the foreseeable future. I was done!

But I still wanted pizza.

So my husband, who worked all day (his 6th workday in a row) had to take over the rustlin' up of some grub. By then it was almost 7 on a Saturday night and Pizza Hut (who is much more accommodating to us country folk) was on a 75 minute delivery delay.

My guys looked at me fearfully. Could I handle a 75 minute wait? Finally, Nature Boy broke the tension by saying, "Mom, don't hurt me, but you are being really high maintenance! "

My husband busted out laughing, saying, "I totally could not get away with saying that!!!"

To my credit, I didn't frog my son or throw something at my husband. I WAS being high maintenance. So I laughed.

And the pizza, when it finally arrived, was totally worth the wait.
 
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Sadly, this pregnancy food tantrum is not my first.  My husband wrote down my previous pregnancy's Pregzilla moment in Nature Boy's baby book.  I'll post it here later this week.

When I'm not all up in my hormones, I am actually feeling really grateful.  After 10+ years of infertility, I never thought I'd be experiencing this again.  It's amazing, really.  The creation of new life is always a miracle.  But when it happens to someone who has struggled with infertility, it's magnified.  Pregnancy is such a normal, everyday occurrence for so many people, it's easy to lose sight of the wonder of it.

I love feeling the baby move.  He's kung fu fighting on a daily basis, and I love it.  I even love my big ol' belly.  Here's my latest belly pic.   (Please forgive the less than ladylike pose.) 

Mugged Again

Recently I woke up from 8 weeks of first trimester hibernation feeling decidedly frumpy.  I hadn't done my nails in months.  I only shaved because I had doctor appointments and I wanted to avoid rumors of Sasquatch sightings in the medical community.  And I hadn't had a haircut in 14 weeks.  My hair had grown out of its style and was past my shoulders.  Tree Guy told me I looked like a hippie.  And not the cute kind of hippie.

Like her.  Except I pluck my chin hair.

If you've been here awhile, you know all about my haircut issues.  About how the secret underground sorority of hairstylists has a vendetta against me.  How they've all apparently taken a blood oath to royally screw up my hair every time I dare to place my round rump in their chairs.  How they've included Nature Boy in their grudge.  

For the past year, Shrinky Dink (my artist/therapist pal) has cut my hair.  She isn't actually a hairstylist.  Which is probably why she does such a good job.  She's not bound by the pact!

Anyhoo, I woke up yesterday thinking, I must get my groove back!  I need to see some semblance of myself when I look in the mirror!

But Shrinky Dink's out of town.

So I stupidly went to a chain salon for a haircut last night.  And not just any chain salon.  The fancy one.  Inside Walmart.  Yeah.  Because hey, it was 8PM and I needed groceries anyway.

You know how you walk into a salon you've never been to before and immediately eye the stylist with the best hair in the place, hoping she'll be the one cutting your hair?  And instead you get a 15 year old with a buzz cut?

I should've run when the stylist I got suggested an asymmetrical cut.  I let her know then and there that I'm totally OCD about symmetry and if I had an asymmetrical haircut, I'd walk with my head leaning to the longer side because it would just feel that weird. 

I told her I wanted an inverted bob that falls right at shoulder length at its longest part.  And that's what she gave me.

On one side.

I asked her twice to check for evenness.  She did.  But when I got home, I realized my hair looked something like this (without the awesome color and styling).

WTF hairstylists?!  Is it really that hard to listen to what a client wants and give her that?  Most 6-year-olds can cut a straight line!

So I brought my groceries in and busted out the scissors.  I spent an hour trimming the hair on my right side to line up more evenly with the left side.  It's not easy cutting your own hair when it's curly.  WHICH IS WHY CURLY-HAIRED PEOPLE GO TO PROFESSIONALS!

Now you might be thinking to yourself, Danielle, it's your fault for going to a cheap Walmart salon!  I'll give you that.  But I have to add that I've gone to fancy salons and paid a lot more for shitty haircuts too.  It doesn't seem to matter where I go or how much I pay.  Hence my vendetta theory.

Since Shrinky Dink is a therapist, she understands OCD neuroses, and she's willing (for the 4334345th time) to fix a hairstylist's mistake when she gets back in town.

Until then, I'll be the one walking with her head slightly tilted to the right.