I'm Not Your Baby's Daddy

Sigh...

Tomorrow is my first day of my new job and I won't have trash tv to escape to anymore.

I have no problem admitting to being a fan of Ellen Degeneres. Daytime talk shows are usually an hour of hearing a host who loves to hear herself speak (hello, Oprah). Ellen is refreshing and her quick wit kept my attention when I was too lazy to do anything else.

I'm not a fan of Maury Povich. His shows are ridiculous and absurd and pretty much a train wreck. Which is what caught my attention of course. The two or three shows I caught revolved around paternity tests to determine which of the 15 candidates could have fathered a young woman's poor child. The audience is made to feel bad for the woman, but I felt sympathy for the men, who had to be forced to sit next to a woman whose weakness for these men as well as their relatives and friends were pitiful. And just like a train wreck, it was difficult to look away.

TLC used to be my favorite channel. From Trading Spaces to While You Were Out, I was fascinated with decorating tips and how quickly I could feng shui my living room. But then they got personal. A Dating Story takes along on a blind date that was fixed up my mutual friends. A Wedding Story captures the planning, stress, and final product of said planning and stress. And finally, A Baby Story tells the story of a couple a month or so before the baby arrives all the way into the delivery room. After the baby is born, the family is shown a week later gushing and laughing at how well they are adjusting. I figured I would love this show. Prepare me for one of lifes miracles. I figured I would like this show. For one, well duh, I'm pregnant. But I used to love those Discovery Channel Shows where they took you into the operating room for breast implants or liposuction. Something about them fascinated me. But after catching a few episodes, I have come to realize that A Baby Story is the WORST show to watch if you are pregnant. It's too detailed... and it freaked me out.

So being lazy was fun and relaxing. I was able to paint the new nursery and catch up on everything I needed to do without scheduling around a schedule. So, bye Ellen. So long Maury. Til we meet again, Regis and Kelly.

Who Wants My Dinner?

There was a recent op-ed piece in the Boston Globe about how Massachusetts is looked down upon by much of the country. Of course, it's an editorial so I'm not sure how entirely true it is. Maybe you can enlighten me. Either way, I don't care. Personally, the fact that this country is more looked down upon by other countries is more to be concerned about.

A number of reasons were pointed out as to why we are under scrutiny, and why, as the article points out, so many of us leave. Political climate, rising costs of living and home values, and general stereotypical attitudes about the people, to name a few. Like our edge. How we have our own rules for driving. Case in point. A scene yesterday when I was at a 4-way stop with one other car. He had the right of way. And so I waited for him to go. He never went. I waited a little longer and when he didn't budge, I assumed he was letting me go first and so I took my foot of the brake. I guess the movement of my car woke him up from whatever daydream he was having because that is when he decided to go, too. He started to move as I passed the front of his car, and beeped at me because I apparently cut him off. And I yelled (out loud in a car where all the windows were closed), "You didn't move!" (Of course, I wouldn't have yelled if there was a chance he would hear me.) It made me feel better. And it justified my actions. To myself atleast.

That incident and my reaction to it reminded me of the op-ed piece and how maybe we are what they say we are. We can't be the only ones with an edge. It can't be just us, right? How could this state be under so much criticism when there is so much here to be desired? The history, the culture, the personalities. Our weird obsession with our sports teams that some describe as scary. Someone once said that if 100 people were plucked from around the country and immersed in our culture for a year, they would love it. And I agree. And although I would love to have the chance to experience life living in New York City or DC or Chicago, I know it wouldn't compare.

But then something happened that changed any doubts I had. A car accident that we sort of witnessed last night. Ken and I were sitting on the couch when we heard a loud screech, followed by a crash. We both looked at each other, and without saying a word, jumped up and looked out the window. Ken called the police to let them know and we headed outside and to the main road to see what happened. We joined others who must have also heard the crash and watched as police cars rushed to the scene.

Apparently (this was our guess), a car drove out of a side street without stopping and the SUV that was on the main road heading in her direction saw her and tried to stop but instead drove right into her door. We guessed the driver at fault who was coming out of the side street was in her late teens or early twenties, judging by a graduation cap tassel hanging from her rearview mirror. To call her shaken up would be an understatement. But she was walking okay (as was the other driver) and so for that we counted her blessings for her, since we didn't think she was in any frame of mind to think to do so herself. We asked if she was okay and if she needed a phone or a bathroom and so she went into a nearby house to clean up and call her parents. The older driver finished up giving his information to the policeman, used his cell phone to make a call and when the woman came back to the accident scene, asked if she was alright and if she wanted something to eat, as he had just picked up some takeout.

And it made me smile, as I was reminded of the article once again. Standing there, among an ambulance, a tow truck, and several police cars with flashing lights illuminating the sky, glass shattered all over the street, and surrounded by various witnesses and curious onlookers, it made me think of one point wasn't discussed.

We may get easily frustrated. And yes it is true we have an edge. But when you put us in the worst possible circumstances and ruin our day, we'll still offer you our dinner.

My Comfy Chair Will Be Lonely Soon

I was offered a job yesterday! They're sending me the official written offer (salary, benefits, etc.) in the mail and I'll need to call to officially accept once I look it over. The salary offered is lower than what I was previously making, but the benefits and 10-15 minute commute makes up for it. Plus, I really can't ask for any particular amount of money when I'll be taking time off for maternity leave in a few months.

They know I'm pregnant and when I'm approximately due. I nervously mentioned it in the interview and they congratulated me, made small talk and moved on. The company I worked for previously screwed me over in the end (a post for another time if you're interested) and so the fact that they didn't see my pregnancy as an obstacle was a relief.

I start in 2 weeks. It'll be a little weird to wake up and go since I've gotten used to the easy and boring living of the unemployed. It'll be weird to have a schedule to follow again, not to mention wearing a pair of pants that doesn't have an elastic waistband. I had knee surgery about 4 years ago and the week I had to take off to recuperate was the worst. I was itching to go back. Now? No rush. I like the fact that I can relax and plan my day according to my schedule. No rushing to the post office or bank with everyone else during lunch hour. No running to the grocery store at dinner time to pick up the last item needed to make that night's meal. No taking a walk and needing to check my watch and trying to remember when I started, careful not to go over my lunch hour.

But given the company, the fantastic reputation it has (Boston Business Journal rated it one of the top 15 companies to work for) and the perks (free coffee and ice cream on-site, and luckily a fitness center to work off said ice cream) I really can't be disappointed about working there.

Give Me A Straw And Find Me A Cow

I am craving milk. Regular milk. Chocolate milk. Milkshakes. Can't get enough. I never drink milk, with the exception of in my morning breakfast cereal. But you would never find me making a special trip into the kitchen at 2:00 in the morning for a tall glass. This child is going to have the strongest bones around.

Ken's disappointed. He was hoping that I would have pizza or spaghetti cravings, just so he would have an excuse to pig out with me. Occasionally, I'll have a craving for Swedish Fish, those gummy fish-shaped candies. He likes those cravings. But when I head into the kitchen and take out the milk, ice and frozen fruit and plug in the blender, he knows it's going to be a boring night.

And on the subject of cows, did I tell you I'm fat? I didn't really realize it until this weekend when I got dressed to go out to dinner, walked by a floor length mirror and was shocked. Ken asked what was wrong.

"Look at me. From the side, I almost take up the width of the mirror."
"Um, I think you're exaggerating just a bit."
"I'm fat."
"No, Jodi. You're almost six months pregnant."
"It's fat."
"It's a baby."

I love being pregnant. Don't get me wrong. I have enjoyed the entire process, from beginning (wink, wink) to now, and continuing. I just never thought I would have such a weird body image. I see pregnant women all the time and never consider them to be fat. Do they see the same when they look at me? Probably not, but then again... they could see themselves as fat when they look in their own mirrors.

I'm also discovering how much I'm freaking out about everything again. It comes and it goes. The newest episode comes in realizing that I'm well over the halfway point and that this baby will be entering the world in less amount of time then the number of weeks I've been pregnant. I remember last fall when we were asked when we were going to start looking at decor and thinking about paint and carpet. "After the first of the year," was always the canned response, knowing that there was plenty of time to think about it. And now that the first of the year has come and gone, it's overwhelming (yeah, I know I use that term a lot in these posts) to know that we've picked out a name (don't ask, not telling until she's here), decor, paint, and carpeting and I feel like there's not enough time to consider swings, highchairs, and strollers. But atleast it takes my mind off the outrageously ridiculous cost of daycare.

I Bet You Think This Blog Is About You

My blogging isn't something I talk about. I've mentioned it in passing to my husband who hasn't mentioned much interest in reading it, but I know he is curious. Occasionally, he'll see me online and ask what I'm doing.

"Catching up on blogging," I'll sometimes reply.
"Oh," is his regular response.

The first time I mentioned it, he asked what a blog was. He's not much of an online person. He'll pay bills and check email and read the top business headlines, but he doesn't surf the web much. So I told him a blog was sort of an online diary where people can comment and link to their own. "Oh."

He has no idea that I sent a few people giftcards as a result of that promo that I wrote about a few months ago. He would be shocked to see pictures and accompanying stories about the neighbors (I made him delete early pictures he took of the house and view that I thought were invasions of privacy. I didn't tell him that I changed my mind and instead thought they'd be a good read.) He wouldn't understand that I have online "friends." Not that he would care, he just wouldn't get it.

And so it was a little surprising one day when he asked if I blogged about him. He is always interested in what I do, and I know he's been curious, but he knows that I value my privacy when it comes to certain things. I don't keep secrets, but I hate when people read over my shoulder, whether it be a newspaper or seeing what I'm doing online. So when I'm online, he knows not to look at what I'm doing.

I told him that I didn't think I ever dedicated an entire post about him - atleast, until now - but I have mentioned him a few times here and there, and that he's always open to read it if he wants. He's never asked for the site, so I assume that since he knows there isn't anything scandalous written, he's okay with it.

If he asks, I'll let him read. But part of me likes the fact that no besides him knows if its existence and that so far, he hasn't asked for the site. Not that I've written anything juicy (I've so been tempted), but this is like something all my own. As long as it lasts.