So.

I am an idiot.

I (predictably) blame the fetus.

Yesterday, I was stung by a bee. This resulted two things: a very lopsided gait and frequently having to respond to the question, “How the hell did you manage to find a bee in 30 degree weather?”

Answer? Mad skillz. I was getting the nursery ready for painting and unrolled the giant drop cloth we keep in our garage, unleashing a ginormous yellow jacket. The lethargic, mid-hibernation, really-freaking-big bee proceeded to crawl across my floor.

What happened next is a matter of great debate.

I say the bastard stung me. Ryan says I inadvertently skewered myself with a semi-mobile (and probably sleep-walking) bee’s half-erect stinger. This is, apparently, the equivalent of impaling myself on a pencil and blaming the pencil. Po-tay-to, pot-ah-to. I think Ryan’s just trying to justify letting the six-legged devil’s minion live.

Act of aggression or merely the combo of my weight and his stinger, the damn thing still packed a punch. The bottom of my foot is all swollen and itchy and is driving me insane. I, being a child of the sprawling metropolis of Oregon’s great capital, remedy this by smothering the bite in Cortaid or some other OTC drug that comes in a tube. Ryan, a child of Hicksville, WA, solves my crisis by mixing together things from the cupboard like some witchdoctor-cum-Rachel Ray. Don’t tell the drug companies, but his was totally the better solution.

This is how I wound up at my parent’s house for weekly family feast, propped on a recliner and dousing my foot in a baking soda and vinegar mixture. All would have been well and good had I not needed to personally apply a fresh coat after dinner…. and had Mother not made carrot cake cupcakes for dessert.

Really, I shouldn’t be held responsible. They were in identical bowls and the color was exactly the same. I swear.

I was thinking, “Dang, the second coat is going on much more smoothly. Maybe I should always make it an hour before and let it sit?”

This was immediately followed by, “Why won’t the dogs leave me alone?”

So, in case you were wondering, cream cheese frosting does not ease the itch of a bee sting. Ganache has yet to be tested. (Though I’m sure some day I’ll get there. *facepalm*)

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By this point, you all know that I have the willpower of a tiny, willpowerless thing. The wee fetus, however, is very powerful motivation to step it up a notch. I want so much to be a good oven. So I flexed, took a deep breath, bought some healthy cook books and I was ready!

...I have not opened the cookbooks. I continue to eat ice cream, have on occasion avoided my required leafy greens, and (predictably) am woefully bad about my exercise regime (I'm telling you, the trapeze lady is CRAZY).

In spite of this, I tell myself I'm not a horrible person. I listen as my coworker informs me without the slightest remorse that she smoked throughout her three pregnancies and each of her young brood have only one head and all of their ten respective fingers and toes. A woman on the third floor reports that she drank Mountain Dew exclusively and liberally, and my grandma, when we discussed pregnancy cravings, stated dramatically, "I had to have rum and coke. Every day at least once a day. And I don't even like rum."

See? I'm so much better than that! I may have had pizza for dinner, but I don't shoot tequila while smoking a cigar. And, and I'm strictly adhering to the "consume nothing bad for the baby" rule. (Except the aforementioned ice cream, of course.) I don't drink caffeine, I will not inhale while walking by a smoker, I turn away alcohol, and I ignore all french cheeses.

Last week came the first true test of my will: the common cold.

During my sickness, I adamantly refused to take medication. I read every label religiously. I tell you, there is nothing you can take without consulting with a doctor. Dayquil? No. Vitamin C? No. You can't even inhale VapoRub without somebody's permission. (Come to think of it, I should check the label on my Chapstick.)

After hearing me whine watching me suffer, Lauren told me I was a loon and tried to sneakily rub me down with Vicks, but I resisted. There was even a covert call placed to the pharmacist to make sure there was nothing I could take. She confirmed. No meds for me!

Life without Dayquil? I... I don't even know how describe the misery (but Ryan could probably describe to you how miserable I was to live with - just a guess). I am now considering building a shrine to that little orange liquid cap just so it knows how much I worship it. (Though that crazy buzz that I usually have when I'm sick? Apparently not the meds. Perhaps its a mucus high?) And no Nyquil? *whimper*

I am adding this to my list of things they don't warn you about when pregnant. 1) The damn thing won't stop kicking. Ever. 2) Colds and flus feel similar to what I imagine it would feel like to suffer through a plague and die a slow and miserable death.

I totally should have kicked Ryan out of bed when he started sneezing.

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I've never liked seafood. I can't stand it, really, in an it-makes-me-physically-nauseous kind of way. I've spent my life avoiding it. I've also spent my life being exceedingly uncomfortable in social situations and trying to keep myself invisible. So when I'm served salmon? I eat it and spend the following hours convinced I can feel the damn thing swimming in my stomach and trying not to puke.

That pretty much sums up the last few months.

I'm now halfway through my first pregnancy and can truly empathize with a fishbowl. I'm mercifully past the nausea and puking but now there is something swimming inside me and constantly bumping its nose against the glass. This little bugger is moving all the time and I've still got 20 more weeks to go. DUDE. They tell you about the headaches and the vomiting but they never mention the 24/7 nudging. Well, I'm mentioning it now. BE WARNED!

Per doctor's orders and Ryan's insistence I've purchased a prenatal workout video and started an exercise routine. It seems incongruous to me that in the most immobile and uncomfortable period of my life I'm trying to imitate the movements of a twenty year old trapeze artist from Cirque du Soleil. There is just no way I'm ever going to bend like that. It's pretty damn funny to watch Ryan try though (oh hell yes I make him do it with me - we're in this together, damn it).

Cravings so far include milk (which haven't had a glass of since that traumatic experience back in high school) and Taco Bell nacho cheese steak chalupas. Ryan is more than willing to go along with the milk but he's starting to complain about the chalupas. I'm sure they're more healthy than he thinks, right? There's got to be some dairy in that cheesy stuff. Plus, I eat the tomatoes now instead of giving them to the puppy. It's progress!

We've had the boy name picked out for months now but are struggling with the girl name. We thought we had one but I changed my mind, then we thought we had another but my dad actually choked on his dinner when we mentioned it and Ryan's parents were both adamantly opposed. Now he and I have settled on a name we love - well, he's settled on one and I've settled on another. I'd really like him to see things my way but I don't know that it's going to happen. I did the "If I died today and you to name the baby and it was a girl what would you do?" question and he picked his name! RUDE! He should at least name her the name I like in honor of his dead wife, right?

Oh, the drama. I shall just name the thing Fetus. Or Fishy. Or Fishy Fetus.

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Yes, we all remember the cider slider. Now I have been attacked by Cran-Raspberry.

I have some odd addiction to the Cran-Raspberry, and for the last few months I have consumed so much that it must be flowing through my veins.

Last week I had run out (OMG!) and Ryan showed up at my office with a few packs of the 12oz plastic bottles (the kind I take in my lunch). One of them had leaked on the others, so I rinsed the bottles in the sink and tossed one in the fridge.

Today I went to the fridge in the jury room, pulled out the chilled juice, and settled down for lunch. I noticed that the bottle was a little wonky shaped at the mouth and the liquid level was a hair low, but the security seal had not been broken so I wasn't concerned. Plus, there were no other cold ones and I'll be damned if I was going to let a little plastic deformation keep me from my refreshment.

I cracked open the lid and took a big gulp - which I immediately spit into my garbage can. OMG it was tainted juice! It tasted like... like I don't even know but it should never have touched my tongue! First of all, it was bubbly and second of all - IT WAS BUBBLY. WTH? How does it get like that? It fermented or something right? Don't tell me, I don't want to know. SERIOUSLY don't tell me.

Plus, when I spit it up I got juice on my pants and my chair and my desk. Apparently my aim is off when I'm being poisoned.

Now the question is - do I open another bottle or hold a grudge?

EDIT: If I die today it will either be from the juice or from the piece of cheese I ate after it dropped on the floor. Be sure to alert the coroner.

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This weekend Ryan discovered the Discovery Channel's Man v Wild. It's a show that drops a guy out into the wilderness (the middle of a desert, a rain forest, an island) with a camera crew and watches him go.

The guy's name is Bear. Really. I'm not kidding. Ryan is now his biggest groupie. About ten minutes into the first show Ryan had already set the TiVo to season pass this thing - and I'm pretty sure it was in the middle of a marathon, so you can imagine the weekend I had.

On numerous occasions I was sitting in the den on my laptop and Ryan pounced into the room with a big grin on his face regaling me with stories of Bear's heroics. His tales either started with, "My man Bear was..." or were told in an enthusiastic Australian accent.

I've now seen someone eat maggots, raw eggs, snap a fish's spine with his teeth and put a urine soaked shirt on his head. It's been an adventure.

Ryan is convinced that now he is an expert in survival. I'm tempted to believe him. After all, I would not know what to do were I being pursued by a Grizzly Bear - but Ryan would. He spent the entire weekend telling me that we are now ready to be stranded in any possible climate with just a water bottle and a shoe string. He's even gone so far as to proclaim that he needs a new set of hiking boots for just such an occasion.

It was all very darling and he was wicked excited - more than prepared for anything that he should come up against in the wilds of nature. Then, this morning when he was putting on his contacts he got the saddest look on his face and make the most heart wrenching sound of disappointment. "Oh," he said, "I couldn't be Bear. I wear contacts."

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Go to www.mitstudio.com

From there, click on Weddings, then View Recent Weddings, then View Recent Weddings again. Then select Saucy/Carty in December. Put in your email address. The password is: mitstudio

Voila!

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