Seek and you will find...

Has anyone seen my blogging motivation???

I lost it somewhere between March and April and it still hasn't turned up yet. I think it got stolen.

I won't point fingers! (gestures to belly).

I would just really like it back. I can't let RS27 be right when he said all bloggers were not normal.

His quote was something like "Normal people don't blog or at least don't have entertaining blogs".

I agree some of his theory does hold water. I mean, for instance,

Maxie,

You aren't normal, friend. But that's why I love you. (No, really. I LOVE you) I don't know anyone else on this planet who scooped her own poop out of a toilet because it was broken or accidentally used her mom's vibrator. You single handedly confirm RS's theory.

However...

I think just because I'm now normal --digress for explanation--

Explanation of normalcy.

Labor Day weekend:
Saturday:
7am: Walk down to Organic farm to care vegetable garden.
12n Meet PH at to watch his track meet.
9pm: Sleeping

Sunday:
8am: wake up make delicious pancakes
10am: Go to church (Say What???)
11am: Go with PH to search endlessly for new washer and dryer
12n: Success
12:05pm: Go out to lunch
2pm: go to cousins house for graduation party
4pm: Meet friend for Labor barbecue and drinking
11pm: fall asleep

Monday:
9am: wake up. It's raining
10am: Install ceiling fans and wash all baby clothes from baby showers
12n: Clean house
4pm: wiped out
6pm: make dinner
7pm: Watch a movie
9pm: Sleeping


See what I mean?

Just because I'm normal doesn't mean I'm boring, right?

*re-reads schedule of weekend*

Oh fuck.

RS27 was right.

I did leave out the bachelor party story PH went to that involved hookers and pool cues.

I'll save that for later.

Like I am will all of my "fun" material. Like the time PH had an accidental/unintentional threesome with me and my best friend Megan.

It was cleaner than it sounds.

Well, until my blogging motivation comes back I'll return to posting boob shots and talking about random crap that happens to me.

Freaking the f out

I feel like a wind up toy that is quickly running out of power. My stress level has reached a level at which I avoid realities and ignore the inevitable. I pretend everything is fine and continue going about my day pretending everything is going well.

Last week was my final week of traveling before the baby comes.

Believe it or not, I only have 6 more weeks to go.

Scary as hell, right?

Right.

Scared shitless is more like it. I'm absolutely freaked out like I have never been freaked in my life. I feel like maybe I'm missing something. Like there is a gene or an ability I was born without that has left me without "mother" qualities.

Aren't I suppose to be counting down the days until the little bundle gets here, as if I can't wait and waiting one day longer is going to make me explode?

Yeah, being knocked up isn't all that bad. Seriously. It's actually a piece of cake. Maybe that's because I'm not swollen up like a tick and I haven't eaten uncontrollably like that fat glutton in the movie Seven. I'm just me with a medium size belly. Think of soccer ball under a shirt.

But anyways, I'm getting off track.

My point is: I'm freaking the fuck out.

I don't have a bad attitude about this either, but for the love of all things holy I have no idea what I've gotten myself into. I have NO idea what I'm doing. I don't know anything about children and I sure as hell am the last person I would trust with a kid.

It's not that I would be neglectful or careless or anything else like that, but I'm going into uncharted territory at this point. You would think there were classes available for this kind of stuff. How to be a Good Parent 101 -where is this class. No one offers this class, they just offer how to handle labor. That shit lasts 12-24 hours.

I can handle the labor part, but what about what happens when I take it home? I'm not training it to pee and crap outside. I'm going to have to teach it how to be a good person.

That's a lot of pressure.

Ooh...pressure. That's a good word for how I feel.

I'm going to breath deep and pretend this post is just a dream and go back to pretending to myself everything is going to be fine.

Pit Stains

Holy hell.

It's fucking hot up in this bitch.

For reals.

People are walking around here with bloody pit stains dripping down to their waists.
One of the managers in the office looks like this:

Not the face...just the pits.

The warehouse guys look like this:


And the girls in my office all resemble this:


And while it's near impossible for me to look bad because I'm a got piece of voluptuous pregnant ass, I too am sweating like Edward Liddy during a bail out meeting.

This is ridiculous.

Why?

Because my office doesn't have any windows. Not my personal office but the entire fucking building. We have TWO doors.

That's it.

No Windows. No ventilation.

Do you know what the thermostat is set at?

79 FUCKING DEGREES!!!

Yes. You read that right.

We can't touch the fucker because we "need to make cuts" and last year our utility bill was 4k a month. According to the people in power if we spend 4k a month on air conditioning we'll have to start laying people off.

Seriously?

What the fuck?

I'll give you a list of people to axe. Starting with the drunk dude. He can easily save you 4k a month plus some!!!

*Knocks sweaty forehead violently on desk...repeatedly*

Throw me some ice. I'm on fucking fire.

Update: I was wrong. The thermostat is set at 80 Degrees...

Takebacks? Anyone?

A couple nights ago a woman who lives down the street from me called in a PANIC! She was signed up to go to a charity event and her husband had a sand volleyball game and they desperately needed a babysitter for their one and two year old sons.

...and she called ME!

Of all the people on the planet and especially the ones living in my Wisteria Lane/Payton Place neighborhood I couldn't figure out why on earth she would call me in a pinch. I would be the last person I would call.

Seriously.

Then it dawned on my why she asked me. Because I'm knocked up.

She a) thinks I really love kids because I'm having one myself b) thinks I want practice for my role as a mom. (i hate the word mom)

She's wrong on both accounts.

First, I haven't hung out with a child since I was one. I'm the person that when grocery shopping, if I see a kid in a aisle I want to visit, I'll go to the next one and wait for them to leave.

I put on invisible glasses and pretend children don't exist. When co-workers bring their kids to the office, if they're under the age of 21 I pick up the phone and start calling customers to avoid the "look at my kid! He's/she's so adorable, right?"

I don't know if your kid is cute. Their face is covered in snot and I can't see their face. And snot...is NOT cute.

But ultimately, I'm a sucker.

I agreed to help her out. I mean, what can really happen in an hour and a half?

Oh Sweet Jesus.

I came into the house and immediately my friend told me her older son (the two year old) will start crying when she leaves.

What she failed to mention was he also had a death grip and nails of razors.

The very second the door closed behind her the two year old grabbed hold of my nose and dug his nails into my skin until he broke the flesh.

It was like a fucking cartoon happening in slow motion. I did the best I could lifting his fingers from my wounded face until he weaved his little fingers through my hair and pulled as hard as he could.

Thankfully years of dealing with my tangled curly mess of a weave didn't leave my scalp sensitive to a little pulling, but the light drips of blood on my face were enough to set me into an all out anxiety attack.

I had been babysitting for less than 30 seconds and this was how it was going down!

After the older one settled down a bit he started to warm up and wanted to play games.

By playing games, I mean he tore off his poopy diaper by himself and then started running around the house so I would have to chase his fecal ass around the house praying that he wouldn't stop and sit on the carpeted floor.

Because that, my friends, would be a huge set back to the already eventful evening.

In following suit to his older brother the little one year old also shit his pants.

How many times do kids shit in a day??? I mean seriously? How many? There are limits to how much people should shit.

By the time I got their pants back on and cookies in their mouth (bribing works) I took them outside to play.

Boys like the outdoors, right?

Well, by the end of the night we were best friends. Best friends = me sweating my non-existent balls off while the boys ran around like maniacs and made me chase them.

Does chasing ever get old?

Needless to say, they cried when I left.

*wipes hands off clean & calls it a day*

But regardless, I don't know if I'm ready for this...

You thought I was lying

How many times do I have to tell you I work in a circus?

A bloody circus run by monkeys.

Yesterday the marketing manager (woman) in the office was in a meeting with our VP of Sales (man) and a factory rep (man). It's lunch time and they're discussing where to go to lunch.

My VP of sales (my boss's boss) says, "Let's go to (restaurant XYZ). It's Tits Out Tuesday! You in?"

Seriously?

Who's hiring?

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried: Advice I could have lived without

Yesterday I drove my pregnant ass all around southern Illinois for work. It was nice...traveling for work without having to spend the night in a hotel room.

I'm a genius like that.

Around lunch time yesterday I stopped in gas station to fill up my car. Just to let you know, it was gorgeous outside. 80 degrees, breezy..perfect day.

Anyway, as I'm putting the pump away and getting ready to jump in the car a guy in a huge landscape truck backs up next to me. I notice right away he looks more than a little rough. He's got a dirty bandanna tied around his head and his skin looks like it hasn't had shade in over 55 years.

Man: Are you having great expectations?

(Inner monologue - What the hell is this dude talking about? Does he have dip in his mouth or is that his thick southern/hill-billy twang? I mean the book is sitting on my night stand...what if he's some kind of crazy?)

Dolce: Sorry, I don't think I hear you right. Great Expectations?
Man: Your baby!!!!
Dolce: Oh yeah! Right! (smiles politely)
Man: So, are you going to beat the summer heat?
Dolce: I wish! I'm due in July and it gets pretty hot before then.

Man: Well, I'm the father of eight and here is the best piece of advice for your husband - Tell him to go borrow a motorcycle from a friend. Then have him take you for a ride on a long bumpy road. Pull over in a secluded spot and have him make sweet passionate love* to ya and then on your way home he'll be dropping you off at the hospital.

Works like a charm! (smiles at me)

(Inner monologue - ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod!!! He as no teeth! NO TEETH! Sick. Fucking Sick!)

Dolce: (fake smiles and laughs) Oh thanks. I'll be sure to tell him that. (jumps in car and immediately takes off)

Seriously, a random guy really told me this yesterday. I couldn't believe it. Although I'm sure he thought it was invaluable information there are a few flaws to his plan.

1. If a motorcycle was between me giving birth at home in my bathtub or racing to the hospital, PH would be youtubing videos on delivering babies and slapping on yellow kitchen gloves before he would let my ass any where near a motorcycle.

2. There are multiple problems with this one: Make sweet passionate love to ya.

Okay, for starters...I'm having a baby in July. Do you know how fucking hot eastern MO is in July? It's HOT. It's damn HOT! So if I'm going to be making "sweet passionate love" in a secluded spot in July, that mother fucker better be air conditioned. Because there is NO WAY I'm having sex in the dead heat of a July summer outside sweating my ass off.

Or

If we waited until later in the evening when it cooled off...Um, chiggers? Mosquito's? Bugs in general? No. No. And No.

Second problem with "sweet passionate love": obviously this guy is full of shit because there is no such thing as "sweet" love making to a nine month pregnant chick. Just in case you're not aware, but there are limited positions which work with a swollen baby-carrying belly. And NONE of them are "sweet". Maybe he was using "sweet passionate love" as code-word for "pound you from behind until your contractions start".

Just a thought.

Only tequila can save me now

This is what my office looks like:



It's makeing my brain hurt.

Actually, my head is fucked!

Work is Kobe Bryant and my head is a hotel conciegre.

In 72 hours all of my deadlines will be met, all of my contracts complete, and life will resume as normal.

Normal by definition in my life means I will shamelessly rat out friends for their ridiculous drunk antics (puking on a dance floor at my other friend's wedding reception) and convincing the masses we would be much more prodcuctive if tequila poured from bubblers.