Saturday, May 31, 2014

Tomboy Style, Plus One: 28 Weeks


This week is a little bit of a celebration. We bought a car! Like, for real! With money!

The problem with my old Cougar, which I have driven faithfully for about 10 years now, is that it's a two-door with bucket seats. That's great for 18-year-old Katie, just heading off to college and needing a vehicle that isn't a borrowed farm truck that we weren't 100% sure could do the four-hour drive from my hometown to my college town, but less great for 28-year-old Katie, who is going to have to figure out the gymnastics of getting a car seat in and out.

Sooooo we bought a four-door. Luckily we've been saving up to be able to pull this off, so I did not panic as much as I would have otherwise.

This is not to say there wasn't panicking.

There is always time to panic in my house.


I'm pretty excited. It's the first car I've ever owned that wasn't a hand-me-down from a family member, which seems impressive until I point out that the Cougar is the only car I've ever owned before. The truck was just a borrowed thing, and my friends filled it with Mt. Dew bottles and I put girly Disney keychains on it and to the best of my knowledge at least one of my keychains is still on there today.

So, just in case you didn't think we were insane enough, we not only decided to have a baby this year, we decided to take on some car payments, too.

I'd raise a glass to responsible adulthood, but I'm not allowed to raise a glass with anything fun in it anymore.

I'll raise a glass of tea!

That's kind of like fun.


My mother, in her infinite generosity, sent me a box of maternity clothes from Old Navy. Full of striped shirts of various formations. I am stripin' it up for the rest of the summer folks, and that is a fact. I'm not a belly-clutcher, because I think that makes you look like you're about to give birth to the chestburster from the Alien movie, and I'm also deeply uncomfortable when anyone I don't know tries to talk to me about what's happening over here - and even uncomfortable when some people I do know talk about it - and I love stripes for the sheer fact of (mostly) camouflaging things still if you look at me head-on.

I also received my swimsuit (I ordered this one from Target), so I can actually experience this weightless relief that people discuss needing so badly at the tail-end of preggers-time. Which I am already starting to think sounds delightful.

I'm wearing one of the Old Navy shirts, and honestly I am not a fan of ruching but everything for pregnant ladies is ruched and... well, okay, I get why now. Because it is super comfortable. It is the most comfortable thing in the world, next to sweaters.

I even have a pair of real actual shorts now. I haven't worn shorts that with a hemline higher than my knee in years. Things are going to get crazy this summer, people.


In Case You Want to Recreate This Mess:
Cardigan: Target, here
Shirt: Old Navy Maternity, here via my mom
Jeans: Old Navy Maternity, here (size up! They run small) via my mom
Shoes: Skechers, JCPenney, similar
Necklace: I have no idea. This turquoise necklace is like twelve years old or something. Probably from a trip to the mall with my friends in high school. Similar.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Special Yankee Tea

Tank top available on Look Human.
 
 
I was at a party Saturday night. In fact, it was a friend's dad's crawdad boil, in the most glorious sense of that word; crawdads dumped live into a pot of boiling water, heavily seasoned, with potatoes, sausages, corn, shrimp, and whole heads of garlic. Cooked until done, then spread out over tables covered in plastic, wet wipes, butter, and gluttonous guests.

You eat until you can eat no longer; and then you have some brownies and ice cream.
 
If you're everyone else at the party but me, some awesome drinks as well.
 
(See? Told you I timed this pregnancy badly. I missed out on the best drinks, the Painkillers my friend's mother makes. Normally I devour them. Sigh. Mine is the saddest of existences, clearly.)
 
 But none of that has anything to do with the point of this post. I just wanted everyone to be jealous of the delicious food I ate on Saturday.

In any case, when Jason and I first walked into the kitchen I hugged my friend Sherrie, who had a bit of a weird look on her face. I asked her what was up, and she replied, "Someone asked for unsweet tea."

"Pfffft, where are they from?" was my reply.

I gave up on asking for unsweet tea a long time ago. Sweet tea is blood in the veins of a born Southerner; to ask for unsweet tea is to ask for something pale and tepid in their imaginations, to ask for the inferior product. You might as well look a jar of good real mayonnaise in the face and then ask aloud if anyone has any Miracle Whip. 
 
The room goes silent. 
 
People stare.
 
Conversations end mid-sentence as everyone turns to look and see what sort of freak would ask for that.
 
There's a foreboding, a knowledge that in asking for the wrong thing you have given yourself away for what you are; not from here.
 
Greenville is a place a lot of people move to. We come from all over; some of us, like me, are coming with their native-born spouse and at least have some help on learning the South from scratch. Many move for work; there are a lot of Germans in this town, thanks to BMW, and a lot of French people thanks to Michelin. There are the older Northerners, retired, moved down for the mild winters and gorgeous, blisteringly green springs and summers. The proximity to both the mountains and the beach - the mountains only really an hour or two away, the beach a mere four or five - makes it a perfectly placed location for someone not from here to move to.

But there are far more people from here than people who have moved here. And there are certain ways things are done, and no one will let you live here too long without making sure you understand.

One: There are two kinds of mayonnaise, and which one your family uses will tell strangers as much about you as any words you could ever use. We use Duke's. I stood in the grocery store aisle the first time I bought mayonnaise after moving here with Jason on the phone so I could make sure I bought the correct brand. There was a woman nearby, looking at pickles, who damn near lost her mind laughing while listening to me trying to explain that I wanted to ensure I had the 'right' mayonnaise just in case any in-laws ever wanted a sandwich at our house. "I've already screwed stuff up about living here!" I said, worried. "I can't mess up the mayonnaise!"

Two: In Greenville, I have found, you like Clemson or you like USC... or you're not from here and they'll give you a pass until the annual Thanksgiving game, when you're still expected to pick one. I pick USC, mostly because my father-in-law ends up vastly outnumbered by orange-wearing people yelling at the TV screen every year and I feel bad. Also I like red better than orange as a color. I watch football the way a toddler might watch Doctor Who; I have no idea what's going on, and it's nice that everyone keeps trying to tell me, but I'm just staring at the shiny moving objects and wondering when more snacks will arrive. I might as well cheer for the red shiny objects.

Three: If you go to a party, there will be sweet tea just the way there will be water. If you ask for unsweet tea, you have branded yourself immediately a Northerner, or at least not from here, and everyone will look at you with a sort of sad resignation. The hostess will probably make you some tea; a Southern hostess is nothing if not ready to help her guests at any moment's time. But everyone in the room will know that is your tea, because regular tea is sweet here and regular tea apparently wasn't good enough for the Yankee. (Do not, by the way, attempt to clarify that Midwesterners are not Yankees in the traditional sense of the word. It... won't help. Just accept it, buy a T-shirt, and start wondering how long you have to live here before it stops. Also I can answer that question; it never stops.)

Four: You can screw every single one of these things up, and the Southerners are liable to love you anyway, if you are even remotely lovable. They will forgive you - but that doesn't mean there won't be some snickers the next time you show up for a party and there's an entire pitcher of unsweet tea next to your plate with your name labeled on it, to ensure you'll have exactly as much special northerner tea as you need.

It also means that after a few years of living down here, you'll find yourself being sort of incredulous hearing about someone asking for unsweet tea.
 
You'll hear yourself say, "Well, where are they from?"

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Tomboy Style, Plus One: 27 Weeks


Yes, yes. There's the "bump". It was going to start sticking out eventually, we might as well get this part over with, right? What's funny is that my stomach looks gigantic and I honestly haven't gained much weight yet. So I've become an anomaly of physics. I'm enjoying that.

Also, you may note - we're skipping week 26. I know, I know, it's tragic. But I had told you it was unlikely I would wear anything I thought was particularly interesting, and you know what? I didn't really wear anything interesting.

I know myself so well.

Not that today's offering is necessarily what anyone would call 'interesting', except that I really like this shirt and I wanted to give myself some kind of way to wear it to work. It's a sleeveless button-up from Boden, in a super-summery yellow plaid pattern.

It's basically the perfect summer shirt.

... I'm basically too pregnant to wear it in the manner it was intended to be worn.

So... there needed to be some inventiveness.

Despite the temperatures South Carolina is already aspiring to (we had a really nice like four days of cool weather! I want to do that again!), my office means that I can wear cardigans whenever. Since cardigans are basically the thing I wear more than anything else in the world (see examples A, B, C, and D)... this kind of works for me.



I ended up wearing it buttoned until the idea of continuing to do so became pretty seriously ridiculous, then threw the cardigan on over it to cover up.

Are those jeans insanely huge? Yes. Are they insanely comfortable? Yes and yes. And let me tell you, style bloggers can teeter around on their four-inch heels and their pencil skirts and their skintight skinny jeans all through their pregnancies and I will never envy them, because I'm wearing glorified pajamas, ladies.

Beat that.

I am officially entering the three-month countdown. This means I shall only grow more gigantic and uncomfortable from here on out. The upside is that one way or another, it's going to end eventually.

The downside is that I haven't gotten a full night's sleep since week 22, which by the way if you're going to be sleep-deprived for years you'd think your body would at least let you enjoy the last couple of months, right?

Nope. Not a chance.



 On the other hand, last night I had a dream about listening to one of my favorite professors from college talk about winning the lottery and then helping one of the characters from Boy Meets World decode a love letter a different character had written him. And I remember all of it, in every boring pointless detail. Maybe I'm not sleeping through the night, but at least my brain's putting on a show when I do sleep, right?

Right now I spend most of my time hiding from the evil sun monster. I don't know what possessed me to have a baby in August. I cannot figure it out. It's like I forgot what state I lived in, or suddenly became convinced we had a summer house in Sweden or something.

Nope.


I may just lie on the hardwood floors for the next couple of months.

With an ice cube taped to my forehead.


In Case You Want to Recreate This Mess:
Cardigan: Target, ancient and threadbare - similar here

Shirt: Boden, here
Jeans: Gap, here
Shoes: Old Navy, old - similar here
Necklace: Bought from a local artist out of the gift shop I run. 

Monday, May 19, 2014

Definitely Something


I have hit that exciting milestone of three months to go.

I was told there would be nesting.

THERE HAS BEEN NO NESTING.

Unless 'nesting' means 'filling my house with absurdly useless scraps of paper and twigs.' If 'nesting' is the same thing as building an actual birds' nest, well, this household definitely has that covered. Although the pets are the ones bringing in the twigs. I'm just the one cursing in quite the unladylike manner while sweeping it up every two days. And then going to bed at 9 pm because oh good, the fatigue is back. Although that might have something to do with the part where I've begun waking up five times a night, sometimes for no apparent reason. Which is always a party.

On the other hand, I appear to have upped my ability to speed-read in a serious way. It's like I'm desperately trying to read anything and everything that is remotely interesting before August when the sleep-deprivation will probably mean I no longer speak English, let alone read it. I am looking forward to discovering what new and interesting gutteral caveman-language I come up with when I haven't slept in two weeks. Anthrpologists will no doubt want to study me.

So there you go.

Delight in the magic and wonder that is my life.

I had a to-do list for today around here somewhere. I suppose it tells you something that it's 4 in the afternoon and I just realized I have no idea what I did with it after I wrote the stupid thing on Saturday. I'm not sure what exactly it tells you, but... definitely something.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

On a Long Weekend, Part 2


Because we are masochists, we decided despite the terrible low-hanging dark gray clouds that greeted us Saturday morning to try for a hike anyway.

We drove up to the Road to Nowhere, a spot inside the park where a highway was meant to be built and just... wasn't. It dead-ends at this tunnel, which leads out onto a series of trails maintained on the other side. We weren't the only brave souls out that day, although everyone else we saw was either extremely dedicated joggers or serious hikers with backpacks the side of their own torsos. They did not speak to us. They were Serious Hikers and had their Serious Hiker Faces on.

The tunnel was spooky, full of dirt and horse tracks and graffiti. We walked through it with our voices echoing, and I thought to myself (and, uh, said out loud to Jason because I rarely keep thoughts to myself) that I could really see why so many horror movies have tunnel scenes. It really is spooky to be walking, just the three of us, in near total darkness.

It was spitting rain the whole time, but we figured if spitting was all it was going to do, that's not such a big deal, right?


Wrong.

We made it out the other side of the tunnel and about half a mile down a trail when the skies just opened right up on top of us. I mean, we went from spitting to absolutely drenched in a couple of minutes. There wasn't any good place to hunker down under a leafy tree for shelter or anything, and the dog and I were both 100% done as soon as we were soaked through. We turned and went back for the tunnel.

Look at that dog's sad little face. I don't think he's ever been rained on like that before. He kept looking back at us while we ran back for the tunnel like we could magically fix the wet, and we couldn't, and I felt like the worst owner ever. Seriously, Indy, I would have turned the rain off if I could...

I tripped on absolutely nothing inside the tunnel (stupid center of gravity) and took a wee bit of a tumble. Like, I had that horrible thing happen where you trip, and you start to fall forwards, but you kind of catch yourself and then you don't catch yourself at all and down you go and if we hadn't been in near-darkness it would have been terribly embarrassing. I had a delightful impact; first my left knee made contact, then my hands, and then of course the left side of my stomach and all parts of me went sliding along the ground. I ended up coated from collarbone to ankle in gritty tunnel-dirt.

At least I hope it was dirt.

After some frantic texts to my friend Sarah to be assured that having 10% of my fall be on my stomach meant absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of pregnancy - and her calling me just to make sure I wasn't just sitting in the car freaking out (spoiler alert; I totally was. secondary spoiler alert: NEVER ASK GOOGLE THESE THINGS), we declared an end to our Hiking Adventure and decided to go back to the cabin and figure out what to do with my clothing. At this point, I was actually just wearing dirt with strips of cotton mixed in, so it seemed like a good time to get clean.

I ended up only having to throw out my orange hoodie up there, which is like a decade old and the zipper broke something like seven years ago so it's not like it hadn't earned it 10$ Walmart price tag. God speed, little hooded sweatshirt. May you enjoy your afterlife in that great Walmart in the sky.

Jason was able to hand-wash and save my jeans and T-shirt, and since these are one of my two pairs of maternity jeans (and therefore 1/2 my clothing uniform right now), that's a good thing. Because I WOULD go out and buy more maternity jeans. And he knew it.

We left the dog to pass out on the couch after making sure he was dry and warm and went down into town to find some lunch.


This was seriously Sandwich Weekend, you guys.

I am not a sandwich eater, really; I rarely choose them or actually want to eat sandwiches in any way, shape, or form. This is a sad, sad turn of events for Jason, since he loves sandwiches and would happily choose them all the time. Like a crazy person.

This weekend, for whatever reason, I could not stop eating all the sandwiches. I had at least one sandwich every single day of our vacation.

On our way up, when we stopped in Cashiers, I had a smoked-salmon, cream cheese, and capers hot panini sandwich at Buck's Coffee Cafe that was amazing. That sandwich you're looking at up there came from the Filling Station, a neat little 50's-style place in Bryson City, decorated with all kinds of classic car memorabilia. It's chicken salad with tomato and lettuce and it was good. Jason had half a BLT with a cup of chili that was also awesome - I know this because I stole some.

I'm allowed to steal his food. Pretty sure that's in the wedding vows somewhere.

There was a shop called Wild Fern downtown that we had walked past Friday after our arrival, and I had seen a basket in their window. "How much do you think that basket is?" I asked Jason, pretending it was an idle question.

Jason, who was not fooled, gave me a suspicious look. "I don't know," He said. I continued to look at it.

"What if it was 60 dollars?" I asked, innocently enough.

"Then I would say it's probably too much," Jason replied. His suspicions clearly were deepening.

"What about... forty dollars?"

"... well, we could check and find out."

"No, I don't want to go in there today."  Jason's mouth opened hung there, confused at my intense interest in something I wanted, and yet my unwillingness to actually go in and get it. Despite it being right there. And the store being open. "If it's less than $40, though, I think I'm going to get it. You know. When we come back by here tomorrow." Jason's mouth closed. One must not question insane women, after all. Especially not insane women all hopped up on hormones.

Well, on Saturday we went back into Wild Fern, a little art studio and store that supports local artists and sells their work. I pretended I wasn't there for anything specific, but you can guess how long it took me to pull the little basket out of its window display to check the price. If you guessed approximately thirty seconds, you win a cookie.

I pulled out the little tag on the inside and looked.

Twenty-six dollars.

Full of excitement, I marched the basket over to Jason and showed him. I was triumphant. I had won the game of prices, and I would not conceal my victory. "Twenty six," I announced. His shoulders did not slump in defeat, exactly, but he knew I was taking that basket home.

I bought a necklace as well, a pretty pendant made out of recycled wood and piano keys. This is when Jason had his revenge.

"Happy Mother's Day," He said, not-quite-loudly, as the debit card was swiped. Which led the shop owner to ask me about that, and I had to acknowledge it, and there were congratulations and a discussion of how far along I was and did I know what it would be and what her name was and it was generally an uncomfortable several minutes for me - as I am still deeply unsettled by random people talking about the Wee Baby Faulk. I suppose I have to get used to it eventually.

I'm thinking somewhere around the time the Wee Baby Faulk makes her appearance.

That's when I'll get used to being pregnant and having people know about it.

Anyway, the basket.


It's a very nice basket. I fully intend to make it the first of a collection.

And, despite my fall and the rain, it was a pretty nice Saturday, too.

There was napping, after all.

Any Saturday with that much napping has to be at least a little nice.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Tomboy Style, Plus One: Week 25


Yes, yes, I realize we're in week 26, but I wore this dress last weekend while Jason and I were on vacation to dinner one night, and since I was at week 25 when I wore it, I figured you'll just... hopefully get two Tomboy Styles this week. Assuming of course I wear something I like at some point, which... is looking semi-doubtful. I'm having trouble with that whole body-shape-changing-thing.

I told you Jason and I decided to stay again at the Fryemont Inn, an historic hotel located inside Bryson City, although up a winding drive on a hill so you're kind of above the town as well as within it. There are cabins and bed & breakfast places further out of town, but Jason and I really enjoy being able to just walk down the drive and be a block off downtown, then walk back up and feel like we're nearly in the mountains themselves from the view. Or, well, we enjoyed that before I was pregnant and therefore against the whole concept of walking uphill.

There are two things that really sell us on the Fryemont - if you stay inside the actual hotel, the rooms are old-fashioned in a way we love; no wifi in the rooms, no TV, just you and a writing desk and a bed and a bathroom. When we stayed two years ago we slept like logs for nine hours a night because everything was so quiet (except for the people in the room next to us, who brought an entire bar with them, but they settled down by 10:30 every night which was awesome. Which is why going to a hotel where lots of older people stay is awesome, because you can sleep.)

Well, that was a long parenthesis.


The other thing that sells us on the Fryemont is that breakfast and dinner both are included in the cost of your stay; you only pay extra for the tip and for any drinks you get from the bar (although I was obviously somewhat bar-less during our stay. Darn it.)

I always end up eating my own weight in trout during the dinners (there are usually several kinds of trout to choose from, a chicken dish, country-fried pork with gravy, lamb chops, steak, etc), but they come in courses; you get rolls, soup, salad, your entree with family-style sides, and then dessert all included. And I discovered they will happily give you your own bowl of applesauce if you are craving apples.

For the last two nights of our stay we got three rolls in our basket instead of two.

I asked Jason if he thinks they did that on purpose, and his reply was "No comment."

Staying in the cabin is different; it's pricier, but you get the building all to yourself, there's a TV and air conditioning and whatnot, and you get your own private drive. Honestly, except for climbing the steps up to dinner every night we could easily have felt perfectly isolated.

We didn't sleep as well this time, but that had more to do with a dog who was just so damn excited he couldn't sleep past four-thirty than it did anything else. One day I got up with him, one day Jason did, and the last day he slept until six-thirty so we both just got up and figured we'd go ahead and start our day.


Anyway, I wore this dress one night to dinner. I recently wrote about it in a Five Things post, and I did end up ordering it; Land's End was doing a 30% off sale! What was I to do?

I fully expected it to look sort of ridiculous, as most dresses do on me, but I found it was... pretty flattering, actually, although without access to an iron or dryer it was pretty wrinkled when I wore it and you know what don't judge me. The color is a brighter, spring-ier color than I expected from the website but it's pretty good with my skin and hair color. I'm eyeballing the blue color as well, now, although that whole "having a baby soon and should probably have some money to pay for that" slows my itchy buying-fingers somewhat.

"Do you think I look pregnant in this?" I asked Jason after putting it on.

He just stared at me for a long moment, slowly looked down at my (ever-expanding) stomach, then back up at my face. "Yes, Katie. I think you just might look pregnant."

In Case You Want to Recreate This Mess:
Dress: Land's End, here
Starfish Necklace: Fiore Boutique, similar
Sandals: Minnetonka via TJ Maxx last year, similar
Cardigan: Motherhood I think? hand-me-down from my sister

Monday, May 12, 2014

On a Long Weekend, Part 1


This weekend, Jason and I took a couple days off work apiece and went up into the mountains in North Carolina. Our goal was just to relax and be us for a few days, no pressure, no schedule, just existing.

A couple of years ago, we went up to Bryson City (which I wrote about here and then our hike at Deep Creek nearby here). We had a great time during that visit, so we decided to make it our location again. We stayed once again at the Fryemont Inn, although this time we decided to utilize their cabin; set slightly away from the rest of the hotel, it's very private. It has its own drive, you can kind of keep to yourself, and most importantly, the cabin allows dogs - so we could bring Indy with us and didn't have to worry about finding someone to take care of him.

He's kind of passed out on the couch right now. It was a very exciting weekend for him.

Bryson City is not for people who need their vacation planned to the last second; it lends itself to meandering, lingering over your drink, taking your sweet time. And take our sweet time we did.

Even our drive up was a little less planned this time around; instead of going up towards Asheville and then over like we did before, we went up windy little country highways, heading basically straight north until the last possible second and only then heading west for the last few towns.

We stopped at the overlook above shortly before exiting South Carolina and entering North Carolina, and stopped for lunch in a little town called Cashiers, which appears to be North Carolinian for "we have all the tax money and we know how to use it". Even the tiniest little shop was designed within an inch of its life, carefully painted and kept up. Very few chain things even seemed to exist, except for what has to be the single classiest Wendy's I have ever seen in my life. Pedestrian walks were all over the place. There were golf courses and lakehouse realtors as far as the eye could see, cheerfully offering us our choice of mountain view cabins for only $400,000! Clearly a steal!


Now, Google Maps steadfastly maintained that Cashiers has a Starbucks. The thing about that is that Google Maps is a dirty, dirty liar.

What Cashiers did have was Buck's Coffee Cafe, a little local place that operates both as a coffee shop and as a seller of unique, rustic/country-theme style art and home goods. We snagged some sandwiches for lunch and some coffee of sorts (one of the best lattes I have ever had; the milk steamed to perfect sweetness, the espresso nice and mild and not overpulled), took the dog on a nice walk around a little town trail they had just behind it (perfect for letting your dog stretch impatient legs a little bit). Jason and I decided, shortly after leaving to finish our trip up to Bryson City, that we should figure out what Cashiers is up to and come see them sometime.

We took our windy little roads up through Sylva and finally over onto the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway, which took us to Bryson City. It didn't really take any longer than the more 'direct' route, and it was definitely about a thousand times prettier. There is a lot to be said for country highways in the mountains. They might make you earn it with switchbacks, but they definitely give you a scenic ride.

We had some time to kill before we could check in, so we took the dog on a walk around Bryson City's park and then through downtown, where the coolest part of the day happened. Well, actually, it was kind of the coolest part of the whole trip.


That building is the old courthouse, and is the future site of the Swain County Heritage Museum. Now Jason and I had looked at the old courthouse on our visit two years ago, at the time clearly a construction site but terribly unclear as to what it was being reconstructed for; broken glass and piles of construction debris had been evident inside, the windows were pretty badly messed up, and we ended up walking away deeply curious as to what they were going to do with a building that big.

This time, we could see that it had clearly gone through quite a renovation. We wandered over with Indy to take a quick look through the front door, and both of us jumped when we saw a man wave hello on the other side. He opened the door and welcomed us to take a look around.

Where I saw one amazing museum coming together.

The reception desk alone was huge and centrally located and a bunch of other details that only matter if you're a museum nerd. The tile and carpet were both impressive and picked to complement everything on the walls. They had some of the items from their collection already up in their eventual locations, including a small schoolhouse setup with desks and a blackboard. We were allowed to go upstairs with our host and look into the second floor, where we saw a reconstructed log cabin coming together, along with a ton of graphics along the walls, the photos and prints speaking for themselves without any need for a ton of text.

We peppered our host with questions and he obligingly answered and let us take a good look at what a county can do when they've got people with a lot of good vision making it happen.

The workman we spoke to told us the opening date is somewhere around June 1st, and while Jason and I probably won't be able to get back up before the baby's here, we are nonetheless scheming to find a way to come see the museum while it's still brand new.

There you go. That's the part of my vacation that didn't involve A. hiking and more hiking, or B. napping on the couch just because I could.

I'll put more up throughout this week.

Although... mostly hiking.

I'm not sure you need a pictorial timeline of my napping. You... can probably figure out what that looked like yourself.

Monday, May 5, 2014

I've Seen Juries Accept Crazier Reasons Than This


I was supposed to do the second level of the glucose test today.

There are two tests - the first level is the 'easy' one. No food or water after midnight the night before. You drink what amounts to 16 ounces of flat Sprite syrup within five minutes, then sit around being hideously nauseous, hungry, and cranky for an hour. They take your blood. You leave and go stuff your face with food. It's a delightful way to while away the morning. You know. If you're insane or a masochist.

It tests for the possibility of Gestational Diabetes, which tends to show up around this time in a pregnancy. Because my luck generally can be held up as proof that God really, really has a sense of humor, my results were "a little high". Thus setting in motion what promises to be a really unpleasant couple of days.

I was scheduled to go in today to do the second level, a three-hour test (so essentially four hours of my day, with an hour to an hour and twenty minutes needed to get to work after that depending on traffic, which basically just means don't even bother working that day).

So I went in at 9 AM. My mother-in-law actually took time off work to come in and keep me company in the waiting room, because she is lovely.

I went into the back, where the lab tech just gave me the stuff to drink. Now, on the second-level test they take your blood BEFORE you drink the flat Sprite stuff, then you sit. And then they take your blood. And then you sit. And then they take your blood. Then you sit, THEN they take your blood and then you are allowed to go find food. Because being cruel to pregnant ladies who are already known for their irritability and need to constant ingest nutrients is just one of the glorious benefits of being an OB office.

But the lab tech just hands me the bottle. I asked him about whether or not that made sense with the three-hour test, and he tells me they're just repeating the one-hour. I shrug and figure my numbers must not have been too high in that case, whatever, it's all good. I drink the stuff like a good girl and go out to the waiting room to chat with my mother-in-law.

About forty minutes later, the lab tech calls me back in.

"This can't be good," I say as we head back into the lab room.

"It's... not," he replies.

Turns out I was supposed to do the long test today. It was marked incorrectly on my chart, so they just proceeded with the one-hour test instead of the one they were originally meant to do. They needed to reschedule and by the time I would actually be able to get in on a Monday (I don't work Mondays), I'd be outside the test window they need.

So I get to go back tomorrow! And do more fasting! And I get to be hungry and nauseous from my wake-up alarm until late afternoon for two days in a row! Yay!

Not to mention that I get to drive over there three times this week. Today, tomorrow, and I have to go in Thursday morning too - although at least I won't have to miss any more work for that one.

Thankfully, my workplace is being very understanding. I work as hard as I can to have every appointment be on a Monday, and this last few weeks has been the first time I've failed at managing that. At least I can comfort myself with it not being my fault. And also with the fact that they're already adjusting to the concept of me simply not being present for many weeks soon enough, a day won't kill anybody.

Er.

I hope.

I mean, after four hours of nothing but syrup in my stomach I might kill someone, but... I'm pretty sure I can blame that on temporary insanity, right?