Making It New Again -- Updated!

Although our house is partially filled with new furniture (thank you, Hurricane Ike and itty-bitty apartments from our past!), Robert and I have had a few things we've rescued from my past. Take this:
This nightstand was part of my grandmother's bedroom set. Although nothing was wrong with it per se, we felt it was a bit dated and could use some retouching.

While our house was being built, I removed the hardware (harder than you'd think!), and Robert stripped the furniture and then painted it. We then replaced the hardware for an updated look, and it sits in the nursery waiting on a crib (we found a piece that will coordinate):

The next big project was the piano.

Uh huh. A piano.

Thankfully, it is an upright, not a baby grand. The piano has history and was in desperate need of some TLC. The poor thing had been procured in the 60s (to the best of my knowledge) 1957 by my maternal grandparents as a replacement for the $100 piano that my grandmother had bought to see if my mom would really practice music. It was moved cross-country more than once, from its acquisition in Tulsa, Oklahoma to a rent house in Broken Arrow in 1958, and next to a purchased home. In 1960, it was moved to a rent house in Tulsa before being moved to California (same year) to a rent house in Van Nuys, and then moved to a purchased home in Canoga Park. In 1963, the piano was moved from California back to Tulsa, Oklahoma. In 1966, the piano was moved to Dallas, Texas. In 1968, the piano was moved back to Tulsa, Oklahoma and was moved into a rent house, and then its semi-permanent home. It was in a house fire in 19871988 that has permanently stained the ivory keys a smoky yellow. It was moved from Oklahoma to Texas in 19881989, and my mother gifted it to me when Robert and I bought the house. It was moved into our garage (knowing it was next on the to-do list) this spring.

Finally, with the holidays coming up and a party being hosted next weekend, a fire was lit under our butts and we scurried to finish.

Okay, I lied; Robert scurried to finish. I mostly fretted over the stupid thing, staying away from the slew of power tools that over took our garage in order to properly refurbish the piano. After cleaning, sanding, stripping and painting, my work has begun; polishing the last of the metal from years of dirt, dust, grime and smoke damage. I have only a few more spots to polish before the piano gets moved inside, but this is the progress:

Those are the pull knobs for the lid of the piano. I cannot wait to show off what a beauty the piano has become once it moves inside and finds its new home beside our staircase.

Random Listing

• If I am reading a book, and do not like it, when I finish it, I leave it wherever I am at. I left two at our hotel in Vegas alone.
• I absolutely loathe being put on speakerphone.
• I have never really enjoyed any sweets; not cake or candy. I eat them, but I don't mind if they are missing.
• I harbor ill feelings towards our neighbors because when they moved in I brought them a plate of cookies and they never returned my plate.
• When on bed rest, I wait until my husband is almost home and then change out of my pajamas.
• My favorite command I have taught the dogs to use is "bite" (in regards to food). Instead of opening their mouths when they see leftovers, they know when I say "bite" it is for small, gentle nibbles.
• I know only a small handful of Disney cartoons.
• I wonder if Guppy will like chocolate or peanut butter seeing as how I've never acquired a taste for either.
• Guppy is now big enough that you can see his movements on my belly. I am particularly amused and will sit for long periods of time staring at my bare abdomen watching it contort and bumps pop out. It never fails to make me laugh or smile.
• I keep our master bathroom door closed because if you do, when you walk in during the afternoons, it smells like cucumber soap. The scent is so delicate.
• I still like drawing with crayons.

This One's For You, Morning Sickness

Specifically, I mean this picture...or the gesture in this picture; because really, if I could, I'd light my morning sickness of fire, feed it to a shark and then blow up said shark. And then possibly spit at the ashes...

This morning was my check up, post-ER, with the midwives. I had previously been full of false hope that this morning sickness from hell (technically hyperemesis gravidarum) was on the decline and I could start relishing in a normal pregnancy for the second half. I lived in denial the week we visited Las Vegas, and even more so upon our return. The sickness just wouldn't stop, and I kept thinking that any day now it would fade away into obscurity; some bad memory like that dentist I once visited on the 20th floor of the Marathon Oil Tower.

After Sunday's visit to the emergency room, there was a lot for Robert and I to talk about and digest. This whole pregnancy thing wasn't getting any easier, and honestly, seemed to be getting worse instead of better. The concerns from friends and family started pouring in; the brutally honest confessions of worry and insight that we needed to hear to get our butt in gear to be more diligent about pursing, if not a cure, then at least an acceptable treatment.

The thing is, Robert and I had kind of become desensitized to it all. When you go from getting sick eight times a day and feeling like garbage 100% of the time to only getting sick three times a week and feeling like garbage about 50% of the time, you relinquish any rights to complain and stay positive. It's been a lot better than it was, and so we forged ahead.

However, our family and friends had an outside vantage point; seeing the bigger picture while Robert and I were focused on the day-to-day aspects of it all and just kind of getting through it. The day before our follow up appointment, the concern started rolling in, and although it was hard to accept at first, I knew that everyone in our life really did have our best interest in mind.

Robert and I sat down last night and outlined the ups and downs of the pregnancy, our concerns going forward, and then what we would find acceptable as foreseeable courses of action.

The Good:

• I have gained 2lbs since my last visit three weeks ago
• My blood pressure is normalized
• The midwife (and consulting OB) listened to our concerns and addressed each of them
• Guppy is doing great

The Bad:

• If this course of action doesn't work, it's automatic hospitalization
• Going back on the Zofran pump is a likelihood

The Bed Rest:

• Yup, here we go again; at least for a few days

For now, I have started my increased medication and bed rest. I'm also on a specialized diet for a few days and will have daily check-ins with my midwife. This time, we have a much better feeling about how things are being managed and an optimistic outlook. The midwife was honest; I'll probably have some sickness throughout the rest of this pregnancy, but there is no reason for it to be so out of control.

I can say, though, without a doubt that it will be worth it, and I am still overwhelmingly grateful for this opportunity. I'm more than halfway done with this pregnancy and look forward to meeting Guppy...but I want him to continue cooking, and for us both to be healthy.

I also want this morning sickness to die, preferably a slow, horrible, painful death.

Now with more breathtaking dumbness

When I first became pregnant, I had all sorts of witty and creative ideas on how to tell my parents that Robert and I were expecting a baby. I knew my mom was itching to be a grandmother, and I knew she'd be excited no matter how we told her. However, I hadn't planned on her finding out accidentally via phone because in the middle of talking I said, "Oh God BLARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH". When I had regained composure, my mother quietly asked, "So, I'm taking that to mean you have morning sickness?" So much for witty and creative...

Since then, she's been very excited and continues to try to be involved as much as we'll let her. Upon finding out the gender, my mom immediately rushed to a random baby name generator and procured "Farley".

Henceforth, the baby shall be called "Not Farley".

My mother also keeps inquiring as to how we'll decorate the nursery. Yes, that. Mmm hmmm. We have a dresser. And nightstand. And a rocker that needs to be reupholstered....and that's it. We know what crib we like, we just haven't ordered it. My mom was more curious, though, about bedding for the nursery, and finally, we picked something out:

I shot my mom a quick email this morning with a link to the bedding and stated that I really liked the whales.

:::cough:::

[Please reference above photograph of said bedding.]

Not five minutes later do I pick up the phone to resounding laughter. I could barely understand my mother say, "They are elephants! ELEPHANTS! Do I need to get you an animal book?"


:::ahem:::

I knew that.




Special note: I do, indeed, know the difference of elephants and whales, although I see how one could get them confused; they're both big and like the water and you don't see them very much in suburbia. Also? I'm still exhausted from this weekend. Shut up.

Know what time it is?!

A few months back, Robert had been offered a trip at a guy's weekend. The ultimate:

While the guys went up to Dallas for a Sunday game, I had plans to do some meticulous nesting cleaning. The problem started when I woke up on Sunday...at 3:45AM. I managed to fall back asleep sometime after 5:30, ignoring the warnings of this day will suck. At 10:30 I got up for the day, decided brunch might be a good idea. That was the last of the pleasantries.

The next 12 hours I spent amongst the inner circles of hell while pondering how it was possible to get sick off of plain water. Robert texted me on his way home, and I'm sure by my incoherent replies, he knew that when he got home it would be pertinent to take me back to the ER.

Yay, fun! It had been almost two months since we'd visited an emergency room, and after the last experience, we were really looking forward to going back.

When we arrived, there was some confusion as to whether I should go to Labor & Delivery or the Emergency Room. Personally, I didn't care - I just wanted someone to pump me full of fluids and Zofran and make the room stop spinning. While the nurses argued via phone (and I don't think knew we could hear every word they said), I started getting sick again. Robert rushed out to ask for an emesis bin, and instead, he was provided with a bed pan:

Obviously, I was very amused.

The ER decided to start me on fluids and then try to get me admitted upstairs; and just as last time at this ER, the nurse who started my IV was super professional.* While the doctor came in to talk to me, the super-professional IV nurse came back in, and without a word, injected my IV line with some sort of medication. We had to later verify what it was I was given. Meanwhile, though, the doctor was grossed out at the bin I had been given to get sick into and instead provided me with a pretty pink emesis bin. (Sorry, no pictures of that one. We were too tired and delirious.)

From there, I was transferred to continuous care because Labor & Delivery was still on the fence whether they wanted me or not; my blood pressure and temperature were low enough that they didn't really want me until I was stable.

In the second room, a new, non-crude nurse came in to assess the fetal heart tones. At first, she picked up my heartbeat and looked concerned until I pointed out that I could feel the baby on the opposite side of my abdomen. They left us alone for an hour and then asked for an urine sample.

:::blink:::

They asked if I could go. No. They asked if perhaps turning on a faucet might help me. No. Listen, when you are severely dehydrated and have spent the entire day vomiting, one small IV bag of fluids is not going to yield enough of anything to let you go to the bathroom.

Upon noticing that I was still severely dehydrated and nauseous, I was given another IV bag and a bolus of Phenergen. Finally, I started to feel better and while I curled up on my bed, Robert contorted himself to find a comfortable position. At 4:30AM, the doctor woke us up to tell me I could be discharged home if I promised to follow-up with my midwife same day. She thought I'd be more comfortable with my own doctor and hospital. By that point, Robert and I were both so tired and worn out that we were happy at the prospect of finally seeing our own bed.

We drove home, slowly, bleary-eyed and trying to focus. We decided that perhaps putting something in my belly before sleep might be a good idea, knowing that we were going to crash for hours on end upon returning home. While being handed our food through the drive-through window, we were told to "have a nice night". Robert looked at me so serious and says, "That is the coolest thing; that guy knows we're going home to go to bed and that we're not on our way to work. So awesome." It was then I knew that he was just as delirious as I was and we both burst into laughter.

And then we went home, slept until noon and spent today reveling in feeling human once again. Amen.

PS - Robert also reminded me to mention that at 3:00AM, my neighbor sharing the communal bathroom had a case of diarrhea so loud it woke us both up. We may or may not have giggled like schoolchildren.

*Total lie, unless your definition of professional includes conversing with a television in the background and repeatedly saying "Shut up!"

Breathtaking Dumbness, Part Two

After going months and months (and months) without cooking, I've slowly ventured back into my kitchen. It was the one spot in the house that Robert let me go hog-wild with upgrades, and the finished product did not disappoint:
I felt bad that I'd abandoned this for so long, so I've come back with gusto; whipping up three-course meals and ethnic foods to please the pickiest palate. No more Ramen Noodles here; I've been all about from-scratch recipes I conjure up in my brain while busy being bored working at work.

Sunday it was bruschetta made into a pasta dish. Last night it was fried rice. Tonight? It was two-cheese stuffed chicken with roasted garlic sauce, mashed potatoes and green beans...and pumpkin brownies for dessert.

All was going smooth; no fires, no undercooked chicken. I had the timing down perfectly so that dessert would be nice and warm right as our dinner settled. I squatted down, in all my pregnant gracefulness, to pull the brownies out of the oven...and then? I couldn't stand up; I was caught on something and started squealing.

[Please reference above picture for the proximity of the island to the oven. Now, add in opening the oven door, and a smallish pregnant woman with a basketball belly.]

My hands were burning through the potholders, and the more I tugged, the less I could stand. My face was getting steamed from the oven and I was shouting, "Robert? HELP ME! OMG, I am stuck! My hands are burning! OMFG! ROBBBBBBBBBBBBBBERT!"

He rushes over, and says, "For crying out loud, put down the pan!"

Uh, I knew to do that, clearly, I mean, I am so rational.

He then assessed the situation; while I went to rise from the squatting position, the buttonhole on the back of my pants caught on a knob on the cabinet of the island. The more I wiggled, the more wedged the knob became. He then freed me from my plight, and God bless the man, he didn't even laugh.

The brownies? They turned out good.

And me? I totally didn't cry.*


The end.


*Such a lie, we all know I did. Dude, I mean, really...I was CAUGHT while dangling over an open oven with my hands full. I think most anyone would cry.**

**Yeah, except not. Probably just a pregnant woman in that scenario.

The Hungry Shower at Harmony's House

Yesterday, Kelly had her first baby shower for Hungry. There is a group of girls that conglomerate online (for snarkiness, recipes and general boredom) that got together to celebrate.

The group:

While we were snacking on Halfpint's spinach queso (with its many addictive qualities), we noted that the pregnant women outnumbered the non-pregnant women at the group. The line-up:

The belly molestation:

And what happens when you're outside with Kimmer, a camera and a bunch of Halloween decor:

Coloring

A few days ago, I admitted that while in Vegas, I wore two different colored shoes. Someone asked if I really did have the same shoe in five colors.

*Cough*I have a fondness for fancy shoes, and every once in a while you can get quite a steal at Nordstrom on Linea Paolo shoes.

I walk a lot in my shoes, and didn't want one pair to get worn out. Plus, everyone needs a pair of yellow pumps, right? Right?

Why I Love Stephen King (or Why Las Vegas Isn't The City For Me)

I have always thought that Stephen King was a little hokey; a bit melodramatic in his horror that translates to cheesy. Robert had never seen any of his films before, but a while back The Stand was on, and instead of subjecting Robert to the 1,000,000-page book, I tortured him with 8-hour miniseries.

I'll spoil it right here; Stephen King must have at one point been put off by Vegas, because in The Stand, Las Vegas is Satan's headquarters. And then it gets blown to smithereens.

And that is now why I have a fondness in my heart for Stephen King.

Without further adieu, the compilation of complaining and bitchiness:

1. Chivalry is dead. Listen, I'm from the South, and for all of our faults here, chivalry lives. Not once during the course of six days did anyone hold a door open for me. Grown men would push past me to sit their rears down on the trams or buses, merely staring at my ever-growing belly. At one point, a woman (in all of her drunken glory) shoved me by my belly as she was trying to move through an almost stand-still crowd. (No harm, though. Robert's coworker whispered into my ear, "Don't worry, I took care of that.")


2. I need a fetal nicotine patch. I have never been to a city so engulfed by smoke. I even tried to think back to the smoking cars on the EuRail and didn't remember them being so foul stenched. Everywhere you go in Las Vegas, someone is heartily puffing away. The casinos (the passageway through hotels) were the worst, and sadly our "non-smoking" room even smelled like stale cigarettes.


3. The hooker-hander-outers and show pushers. Robert had warned me about the people who litter the streets with business cards of hookers; however, he never warned me about the sheer number of hotel workers who stalked you from the moment you set foot in any establishment. I know that Las Vegas is currently suffering from the economy's downturn and that there are starving celebrities show lining at each hotel...but seriously, I don't need someone following me through corridors asking continuously Want to see a show? I started by politely declining, but by day four, I was testy. I wanted to be able to walk without being stopped by a desperate, pushy salespeople that wouldn't take "No" for an answer.


4. A $20 cheeseburger is a value. I have been to expensive restaurants before; matter of fact, I used to have a fondness for the higher price tags on food. However, I cannot fathom why there is such a chasm in the food prices in Las Vegas. If you're not slumming it with McDonalds, you're shelling out some serious cash just to chow. I don't mind spending a pretty penny every now and then (like I did at Todd English's Olives), but I was almost sick that our first night in Las Vegas we spent $40 (before tip) on two burgers, fries and sodas. The meals' price tags only grew exponentially.


5. The only things to do are drink and spend money. Vegas doesn't seem to have a lot to offer as far as entertainment other than shopping, paying for shows, gambling or drinking. I'm used to having options of things to do each day, but I felt so limited by the constraints of the city.


6. They don't have Dr. Pepper. Another plus about the South? We're dominated by Coca-Cola products, and yee-haw; Dr. Pepper is made right here in Texas. Las Vegas seemed to have three options; Pepsi, Diet Pepsi and Mountain Dew. Yuck.

It didn't all suck...I mean, there was the view, the lack of humidity and....and...uh, yeah.

The Worst Plane Ride of My Life (So Far)

Friday, glorious Friday. The day I could return to the land of smoke-free zones, Dr. Pepper and my Snoogle.

I will admit, I was a bit afraid of the plane ride home after feeling so awful on the plane ride to Las Vegas. Pregnancy has not been kind to my digestive system, and I never quite felt right during the entire trip.

McCarran Airport has notoriously horrible security lines, and as we snaked through this morning, some entitled jackass in pressed pants and a shiny Mr. Clean head, cut in line in front of me.

Karma turns out to be that Mr. Clean ended up sitting next to us on the plane and had to huffily fold his newspaper so that Robert and I could get into our seats.

Then, upon take-off, I got sick. And my air sick bag had a hole in it.

(At this point, all Robert and I could do was laugh. I mean really, what the hell else are you going to do? Mr. Clean, though, kept huffing and puffing and I thought I might have seen steam escape his ears and starched pants.)

After I had a talk with my guts of "If you stop throwing up, I'll buy you a pony", I went to lean my seat back and found this:

Reclining on this seat is restricted due to the Federal Safety Regulations.

Shitshitshit.

So, I folded up as best I could with a basketball belly and Robert took a picture of my misery:
And thus was the conclusion of the most pointless vacation I've ever been on. The End.