{Yeah. I wish my bathroom looked like this. Or do I? Not sure. But I like it.}

I can't stand baths.

I know I've probably said it a kazillion times on this thing, but really. Can't stand them. In my past life, I was definitely a land dweller. A cat. {We'll go with cheetah.} People always make the idea of a bath look all sexy and stuff. And by stuff I mean relaxing. So I try that. I can't pull it off. I view myself as the opposite of sexy. And relaxing. The unfortunate/permanent side effect of becoming a mom. I guess that leaves me with unappealing and high strung.

Score.

Picture me with a shower cap + back scrubber. Let's be productive here. My idea of a bath.

I took one last night. I thought it would be quite relaxing after such a long day. Soak. In the tub. Bludgeoning bod=weightless. 'I can move past my notions of soaking it up in the nasties,' I thought, as I lowered myself gingerly into my garden sized tub and optimistically mixed the warm water with some aromatics. After five minutes I was wishing for a plasma tv or access to the internet. At least a handy rack where I could check out a magazine. Stupid pointless bath.

I refuse to wash my own dishes in standing water. The idea of something sitting in its own filth completely repulses me. So, I'm much less compelled to soak in my own wee beasties, until I shrivel into a prune. Not to mention I may suffer from a seizure with the candles around me flickering my eyesight to death. They seem to go into strobe mode and it totally throws me off. I'm a panicky mess grasping for towels and some kind of a steel arm assistant to get me out of there until I can regain some composure. I couldn't wash my hair...My belly poked out over the water, and I figured none of this was really counting, as I did some sort of an awkward not so all immersed bob in between dry and wet. Shouldn't I soak all at once? Aren't I breaking the sacred bath time rules?

You think garden sized would be large enough for me. It's not. It's awkward. There's no real place to gently lower my head without my belly dragging me down so I can pull a paralyzed Michelle Phieffer via What Lies Beneath, urgently pulling at the drain with my feet while the nostrils slowly gurgle in rising water. Not pretty. Should I fold my knees or straighten them out so I can prop them over the edge? That position usually results in a numbed butt and I really didn't want to call for Jamin's help in getting OUT of the tub...Yeah. NOT sexy. Might as well put on my nightgown afterwards. Permanently.

He probably ventures to work every day and talks about "what his fat wife did THIS time." Didn't want to add to his collection.

I made a few bubble sculptures with a few discernable shapes. I grew tired of the not-so-productive OR relaxing situation, surrendered to the inevietable, and escaped into the shower. I've concluded if I'm this stressed over a bath, that translates into an honest need for a FULL day at the SPA.

I'm booking tomorrow. Thanks, Jamin.

Here's your four for one deal this week in supabloggablogginworld: {Yeah, I didn't have it in me to do it twice...and I REALLY REALLY NEED YOUR HELP SO KEEP READING!!!}

{Image source: You guessed it: DOMINO. Yeah I'm the dork who just won't move on...}

a seamstress' call forhelp

visions of summer are dancing in myhead...

prima ballerinaII

I totally also have a fun new page where I now store stuff because I closed down my etsy store. HURRAY!!!

So I was taking some shots yesterday, and my camera misfired. (Read: I blew the shot) I found the outcome quite humorous and thought I would share. Yes, I do have freakishly long finger toes (Can I get a whoop whoop, Jamey? She's my FLFT sistah) three kids=not a problem. Escaped child + arms full=grabbage with the toesage. I can type on the computer with these little piggies...

But my belly is, uh, starting to get in the way...

Onto my story: Setting: our living room  / Characters: Me, Aiden

I was wearing one of THOSE shirts. You know. The kind of tops that aren’t really meant to be maternity, but feel nice with those pj bottoms I keep donning around the Mills sanctuary. If I were to escape the confines of the house in said shirt (say, to check the mail) someone may refer to me as “white trash.” I’m not sure why. I think an elderly neighbor screamed that out of her car window the other day as she passed…

A seemingly innocent tank top until weighed down by my unfortunately new bulbous figure. Not really what one could refer to as my “style.” Guess I’m not really into the whole show-off-more-than-anyone-cares-to-see-until-they-find-themselves-spontaneously-dry-heaving sort of thing. I could wear stretched-beyond-elastic-limits tank into a bar, a-la-Joy from Earl (or even Picadilly, for THAT matter) and probably manage to pick up an oh-so-sketchy person…who just so happens to be someone’s grandfather. Whilst pregs. Thus the white trash appeal…wow I totally over explained this one.

I was playing with Aiden on the floor.

Aiden: {gazing up at me with his crystal blue eyes, oh-so-innocently} “Mommy?”

Me: {Semi aware of his latest attempt at engagement in conversation as I was busying myself with the Candy Land set up: it has to be JUST RIGHT! I get to be the PRINCESS! NO AIDEN-go back to the ORANGE SQUARE! Stinking CHEATER!!!} “Yes?”

Aiden: “Mommy,” {Now with the all too familiar smirk on his face…his eyes alight, as if he were quite satisfied with himself for coming up with this profound conclusion all by himself.} “You have two booties.”

Me: “Uhhhh-“ {At this point I thought he was going to refer to my actual somewhat enlarged hind quarters…THANKS kid-you’re DEFINITELY not winning this round. EAT IT!!!}

Aiden: (continuing in his revelation) “See?” Pointing at the top of my chest. Tracing the subsequent line he could see running down into my, uh, area…which disappeared into my shirt… “There’s a booty crack. Right THERE. You have TWO booties!” He giggled slightly, completely pleased with himself. Then, as suddenly as it came, it passed. He was now reengaged in our current activity. No longer interested in my woman parts.

Me: {deciding its best to run with it rather than breaking out the 80’s Childcraft books to show him the distinct differences via illustrated references of boys v. girls… Yep. That would be the UNSTABLE thing to do…} “Yes. Yes, Aiden. Mommy has two booties.”

And back to our classic Milton Bradley’s board game we went… the land of rainbow slides, gumdrop allies, and mommies with two booties. Ahhh, the new revamped 4-D deluxe addition! What a happy place.

As usual, we have more mousal movement for you today...

Nursery Sneak Peak

Inspirational Photos

Easter...FINALLY!

1. I am officially 27 weeks pregnant. That's 6.5 months. 13 weeks until the big D-Date. All these : third trimester vs. weeks vs. months STILL baffle me, and I'm a bit of a veteran. Whatev. I feel like I just took that pregnancy test, and here I am, truckin along. Just call me Large Marge. I took a pic to document this monumental large bellied occasion because even though I HATE it I know I'll regret it later if I don't...quite a few of you had asked so here ya go. Unfurled in all my glory. {Well, if I wanted to show you ALL my glory I could always take a pic in an old bikini top, a-la white trash style, but I shall spare you. And your subsequently broken computer screens.}

2. Jamin and I ventured to lunch today while Aiden was at school. We went to a fancy shmancy "pinky place" as Jamin calls them: Nancy Patterson's Bistro. I waddled into the door with Emmy in arms while he parked the mini and when seated, I promptly asked for what any other parent would: a high chair.

"Oh, we don't have high chairs," the waitress replied. "You DON'T have high chairs?" I repeated slowly in disbelief. I then looked around and saw a crowd of people around 50 years older than me dressed to the hilt in their Boca Raton-ish zebra prints and sparkly shoes smattered with bright pink toenails and spray-ons. I was looking cute, but I wasn't trying too hard. Jeans. Cute top. Actually showered. This was beyond the point. Please tell me: WHO DOESN'T HAVE HIGH CHAIRS? This restaurant is a nice place smack dab in the middle of the downtown projects. A little fecicious of themselves not to offer high chairs. I wasn't raised solely in a Mickey Dee's, and I have actually eaten in some pretty nice places, and NEVER ONCE have I failed to receive a high chair when seated. This restaurant was a complete waste of time, and I am insulted by the discrimination I felt for bringing a babe in arms, being forced to HOLD her the entire time. Seriously? You people are losing major business with your snooty no high chair policy. Get over yourselves. I won't be going back, child or not. You're not that great.

3. I have griped to the ends of the earth regarding the changes the pregnant body does go through. Forget the fact that my waist will probably never return to its original shape, and my thighs now officially have globules of fat hanging off of them from years of prego induced cheetos consumption. I can now officially throw my girls over my shoulder so that my babes can ride piggy back and eat on the go. But let's talk about the not so common changes. I had a friend who's nose grew. Permanently. I knew a woman who sounded like a man after she gave birth to triplets. Her voice literally dropped three octaves and I thought she was a transvestite. So I can't complain, TOO much. But here's the deal. My hair was straight as a board. Then I had Aiden, and with each subsequent babe, an entirely new texture entered my life. Kinky hair. And it's not good beach hair kinky. It's curly in the back, straight in the front, botched perm circa 1985 kinky. In the mornings, I feel as if I can mount our king sized bed, throw on a miniskirt with high heels and give an extremely moving rendition of "What's Love Got to Do With It" Tina Turner Style-A private concert for my three adoring fans plus Chloe. Because my hair looks like that. I am so Tina Turner. Help. Please share any weird changes you experienced. I'm completely frustrated. I feel so alone!!!

...Have a great weekend!