In which I over-share the inner workings of my psyche

I just had to mentally slap myself in the face.  I stopped short of ACTUALLY slapping myself in the face because can you imagine if someone happened by my office at that exact moment and saw me?  That would be tougher to explain than the reason for all the food containers in my office trash can.

I was having sort of a day dream, I guess.  It started by my thinking about how competitive I am.  I'm create games in my head and play against other people, even when they don't know they're playing.  Even when there's no prize.  For example, at the gym there's a woman who gets ready for work at the same time I do and I try to beat her out the door every time.  I'm sure she wonders why I'm so frantic as I apply my makeup and dry my hair.  It's not because I'm going to be late for work.  It's because I want to win.  I want to beat her out the door.  (She wears way more make-up than I do, so it's kind of easy to win.  But still I try, fervently.)

Dumb.

So I THEN I started thinking about how I've always been this way - wanting badly to win.  I remember as a child getting really ticked off every time I thought about how my brother was older than me and no matter what I did, he always would be.  There was no way for me to win the Age Game, and that Peeved me.  But I took (and still take) great solace in the fact that I was the first granddaughter on my dad's side and the ONLY granddaughter on my mom's.  That's a title I'd never be stripped of, so there.  I'd get all smug about that and it would make the harsh reality of the Age Game a little easier to bear.

As I type this I'm also remembering how spun up I'd get because my brother's name begins with a "D", and mine with an "E", so he also won the Alphabet Game.  Equally as frustrating as the Age Game.

Need therapy much?

So THEN I started thinking about our ultrasound on Monday and how, barring any crossed baby legs, we'll know if we're having a boy or a girl.  And how even though I really don't care...and really...I don't...if the baby does turn out to be a girl, she would be my parents' first granddaughter and the first great-granddaughter for my dad's parents, thereby winning two irrevocable titles without even trying.  That's my kind of title - the kind you win through no contribution of your own, and the kind that can't be taken away.

So that's when I mentally slapped myself across the face.  Won't you join me?

Things that Peeve me, #26,904

As long as we're on the subject of things that really tick me off (wait...that is what we were talking about, isn't it?), let's discuss this:

Does ANYONE have ANY IDEA what in the WORLD to do with half used sheets of mailing labels?  Is there some craft or home remedy which necessitates the use of these most frustrating of all office supplies?  A rug?  A wreath?  A pore strip which leaves one's face looking fresh and polished?

Because seriously, I have about 14 sheets of labels in my desk drawer, all in different stages of use.  Some are only missing 3 labels.  Some are missing 27 of their original 30 labels.  I can't bring myself to throw the sheets away, but I also can't fathom spending time to aligning future label printing projects so nothing prints in the blank spaces.

Drives.  Me.  Nuts.

Think before you decorate

So next Monday is the day that Jeremy and I find out the gender of our bun.  I have no motherly intuition one way or the other and really no preference.  I used to really hate it when people said, "I don't care what we're having, as long as it's healthy."  What a crock, I used to think.  But alas, I am one of those people.  Which means I'm destined to be someone who refers to herself in the third person as "mommy", something I currently swear I'll never do.  

Check back in September for an update on that one. 

ANYWAY, back to genitals.  

I've been doing a little internet wandering, looking for ideas for nursery decor, and while I haven't found much that I've loved, I have found a few things I hate.  

Like this:

Nothing says "welcome to the world!  We're so glad you're here" like slathering the wall with incorrect punctuation.  This poor kid is not only missing his rightful apostrophe s, but he is apparently facing a life in which he'll be encouraged to ignore basic hygiene, dental health, respect for women, and the value of an honest day's work.  (I assume the movies and historical accounts of pirates are to be believed.)  

Of all the things you could hope for your son, would you actually really choose a pirate's life?  AND bad grammar/punctuation?  It's a shame, really.  On so many levels.  

Some rules are made to be broken

I'm guessing each of the Connell children received poor marks in kindergarten on the "listens well and follows instructions" portion of report cards.  Just guessing.

A Birthday Poem

I like to celebrate all special occasions with a little trash talk.  Trust me, I'm a blast to have at parties.

A Birthday Poem 
(because "personal growth" is often overrated)

*Ahem*

Year 32, you were the worst.
On a list of bad things, I'd rank you first.

You were filled to the brim with storm clouds and rain.
I could sum you up in one word: lame.

Someday, for you, I might give thanks,
But from where I stand now you straight up stank.

Here's the thing, though.  An important fact:
I'M STILL HERE and that's something you lack.

Today begins year thirty-three,
And there's nothing but sunshine as far as I see.

So run along now.  Trust me.  You must.
And while you're at it, you can EAT MY DUST.

Trick question

I may or may not have gone to Chic-fil-a this morning for breakfast.

Ok, I totally did.

And it was after working out at the gym.  And if you tell Linda the Trainer, I will deny it.

When the idea popped into my head, I immediately felt guilty, but I knew it was my destiny to have a chicken biscuit.  It's worth noting that Chic-fil-a is not on my way to work in the slightest.  There are many red lights (more on the red lights in a second) and a smattering of morning rush hour traffic to contend with, but once I'd thunk it up, I knew I'd have to pay the price.

And then guess what happened.  Ok, fine.  I'll tell you.  All the red lights on the way THERE and BACK?  Guess what?  Every single one of them was on green when I passed, nay, when I SAILED through.  FOURTEEN traffic lights, people.  Yes, I counted.  All of them green.  Even the turn arrows.  My guilt subsided at each intersection.

And then.  AND THEN.

There was no line at the drive through (or "drive thru" if the sign is to be trusted).  No line.  At Chic-fil-a.  At 8:30 on a weekday morning.  W-H-A-T?

And then.  AND THEN.  AND. THEN.

I placed my healthy, nutritious order and things got really weird.  Dakota, the drive thru through worker said, 'this morning, we're giving away free 3-count orders of chicken minis.  Would you like an order?"

Ever the skeptic, I'm sure my response sounded something like, "(pause...pause) Uhhhhhh, yes?"

I mean, is that some sort of trick question?  Would I like free food from Chic-fil-a?  And it wasn't a hoax.  They really did give me a 3-count of chicken minis.  For free.

Which begs the question....do they even need to ask people if they'd like a free ________?  I'd like to shake the hand of the person who would decline such an offer.  I'd like to look them in the eye, shake their hand, and ask if they're related to Linda the Trainer.  

On skipping February

Yeah.  So.  About that goal of a record-setting blog year.  When I wrote about that goal, I forgot to mention the part about how I wanted to make reaching 130 posts in one year extra challenging by skipping the entire month of February.  Yeah, that's it.  That must be it.

Sorry for the absence and lack of posting.  I'm going to try to get back on track, starting now.  To reach my goal, I now need to blog 3 times a week.  Seems totally reasonable, right?  Right.

Since I first started this blog about 4 years ago, I've learned something about myself.  I write more frequently when I don't have anything on my mind.  I think it's because I'm a major analyzer.  When there's a lot going on in my life, there's a lot to analyze, and it's hard for me to get thoughts from my brain onto the computer screen.

So, you may ask.  What's been occupying my enormous quantity of brain cells these days?  Well...this:

Even now I'm sort of speechless as to what to write about the fact that I'M 17-WEEKS PREGNANT.  Except the eloquent words: HOLY CRAP.

To answer the standard questions:
- August 13.
- Not anymore, thankfully.  No, I never puked but I got close once in the grocery store after making the mistake of walking past the seafood counter.
- Yes, we're finding out.  Haaa, haaa, yes, I agree that your name is a great name to name the baby.  Timeless and classic.  Just like your sense of humor.
- No, I'd really prefer if you didn't...oh...well...there we go.  You're touching my almost non-existent baby bump which just 3 weeks ago was actually just fat.  (The belly rub count is up to three.)
- Uh huh...uh huh...oh, really?  Wow.  Uh huh...oh.  I've never heard of that happening before.  Sounds awful.  (That's me, politely responding to the horror story of pregnancy/delivery/recovery that your friend's niece's boss's goddaughter went through.  Thanks for the pep talk.)
- No, haven't really craved anything so far, but if you're offering to bake me a chocolate layer cake with chocolate icing, I won't turn it down.

So that's the update from here.  Any standard questions I forgot to answer?