Rug burn in a not so common place

TWO WEEKS.

I have two weeks left of being knocked up and for the love of all that is holy, could it go any slower???

It's a fucking inferno in STL and being nine months pregnant makes it even more miserable than it would normally.




So when I went to the doc this week I asked her straight up,"What are some old wives' tales or household remedies to induce labor?"

Her response: Have sex.

PH was sitting next to me. Although he didn't move a millimeter after hearing this answer, but I saw the twinkle in his eye. The poor man has been a monk for the last couple of months. He's deserving of a couple weeks worth of steamy romps in the bedroom.

Apparently there is an ingredient in sperm than helps the cervix dilate.

Do you remember this guy?



The guy who told me to have my husband take me on a motorcycle ride down a long bumpy road and make "sweet passionate love to me"?

The very thought of him being right about the sex part is absolutely disgusting to me. It's disgusting that this toothless old nasty old balls with 8 kids man knew more about how to induce labor than me. I choose to believe I know more about everything than he does.

Anyway, since I'm on a mission to pop this kid out I've pretty much demanded that PH have sex with me until until I go into labor.

This does require Cirque de Soleil moves...and no eye contact. Because that would be impossible. Belly gets in the way.

*** I have to break this story because nasty Office Gossip Whore is proclaiming to the back office how she had to "run to the bathroom" and almost didn't make it. Fucking sick. WHY??? God, why??? And I really have to pee and now I'm probably going to have to walk across the street to Subway and use their bathroom because it's safer than my office one.***

So, last night, to get the show on the road I did a little pre-pleasuring of le husband and before his precious man juice got wasted on not making me go into labor I basically forced him to have sex with me doggie style.

I didn't have to force him into doing me doggie style, I physically had to force him awake because sleeping is not an option until he does his man duty in helping me go into labor.

For fuck sake, it's the least he can do. I'm just asking him to help me go into labor...not that he has to really suffer though the pain and anguish of it.

Did I mention I'm having a natural childbirth. Yeah, the one time I can get happy drugs (Stadol) given to me I decided not to take them. I am officially crazy.

Anyway, back to story.

PH complies and is doing his job, but somewhere after maybe a couple minutes my arms start getting tired...leave me alone. I'm nine month pregnant and it was after 11pm. So, to give my arms a break I decide to position myself on my elbows instead of my hands.

Easy maneuver, right? I didn't need this to last long. I just wanted a quick fix to help this process along.

What I failed to realize is my anatomy was getting in the way. There was a little "rubbing" going on in an awkward place. After the deed was done, I walked into the bathroom and noticed it.

A big, bright, red spot across my abdomen.

Doggie style while pregnant = fucking rug burn across the belly.

Damnit! Pregnancy makes everything harder. Sex is supposed to be easy! That's why all the kids are doing it, right???

Tonight we're going to try out this move:



You better keep your fingers crossed I have a baby tomorrow. I don't know how much more of this I can take!

Proving to the world...

Women can get pregnant without getting fat.

We can also survive 8 1/2 months without having to deal with bodily "issues".

Just so you know, I wouldn't change that for ANYTHING!!!

Dear Crazy ClASSless Beer Server at Strip clubs,

Thanks for giving me one of the most awkward nights of my life. I'm really grateful all of your advice was wasted on 10,000 packets of sugar you poured in your iced tea and that I have not had the pleasure needing any of it. You left me scared and shaking at the knees thinking I was going to have to sacrifice my bottom parts like I have my happy hours drink specials.

So basically I'm saying, Thanks for nothing.

D

And, you can be pregnant without getting cankles.


Moi on Saturday

And most importantly...NO STRETCH MARKS.

Those fuckers never go away. 24 more days of lathering up like a dildo on a porn set.

Cheers.

Panic at the Attack

I'm so stressed and overwhelmed its making me physically ill. I woke up today freaking the fuck out. On of my best friends is coming in town tonight and I haven't even showered yet today! I'm supposed to take her (and her new husband) out and show them a good time but I'm so consumed with stuff that probably doesn't mean a damn thing.

For starters, I'm hosting a friend of mine's baby shower tomorrow morning.

No, I do not -under any circumstances- enjoy baby showers. Fuck, I can't even stand my own. They're so freaking boring.

Seriously.

It's horrible.

I count down minutes until they're over hoping and praying everyone else feels the same and they leave early.

I'm doing it because I feel guilty not to. She hosted a party for me and now I feel responsible to return the favor. The shower is tomorrow...you know the same time my friend is in town?

What am I supposed to do with my house guests while I waste away in the kitchen trying to slice up strawberries and carrots?

Secondly, I think the house looks like shit. I haven't been home one night this week. NOT ONE NIGHT. Between volleyball tournaments, childbirth classes, and birthday dinners(Happy Birthday, Pumpkinhead!) I'm lucky if I'm home for more than 2 waking hours a day. My friends are going to have to sleep somewhere between a baby swing (yeah, I got that set up already. The dog is afraid of new things that move) and a stroller.

My poor dog. Thankfully PH doesn't work full time in the summer (yeah for teachers!) and she hasn't gone neglected day in and day out.

And the friend coming in town tonight requested we go out to a place with a nice patio...I've got my choices down pat, but it looks like it's going to rain like a mother fucker.

I have no plan B.

Then I have my own baby shower on Sunday. So I don't sound like too much of a bitch it's incredibly thoughtful of my MIL who is hosting it. My own mom isn't throwing me a baby shower. It's not her fault, we really are the only two women in my family. I have no grandparents, my one aunt passed away last year, and I have no female cousins who live within 500 miles of us. I wouldn't drive more than 15 miles for a baby shower that wasn't mine.

But for fuck sake, she wants me to play GAMES at the shower.

Seriously, woman? Baby shower games?

If you get a fucking measuring tape within 8 feet of my body for a game of "guess the circumference" I will go hormonal on your ass.

You only think I'm kidding.

But what makes this all the more worse is this morning I got an update on my quarterly progress for making my 2nd quarter quota.

I nearly had a heart attack.

Business is so down I used to bill more business my first year out of college selling radio. I can't even begin to tell you how unbelievably depressed and utterly horrified I am of this.

It is seriously weighing on me.

I'm having a baby in less than a month and I feel like I'm failing at bring home enough money to support it.

How in the world did I think it was okay to let myself get knocked up in this economic climate?

HOW?

This news alone is what is going to prevent me from having fun tonight. I'm going to be hanging out with my friend who I love and adore and the entire time this will be consuming my thoughts.

I keep telling myself: Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.

But I can't.

And instead of cold calling clients all day and doing everything I can to conjure up new business and increase client spending I am blogging.

BLOGGING!

Ugh. Sometimes I hate myself because I know I'm my own worst enemy. But realistically I've been working hard all day. It's 4:30 on Friday and I'm the only person left in the building.

Yeah, not because I'm an over achiever, it's because no one showed up today and I got delegated responsibility to answer the fucking phones.

I'm not a goddamn receptionist! I'm also not a high school grad looking for some summer work or an entry level college kid who just scored their first job. I'm a seasoned professional with over 6 years of a successful proven track record and they have me grounded to a headset to answer phones because i'm the only person in this fucking office with any communication skills decent to say, "Company XXX, how my I direct your call" because they hired fucking idiots to work here because they didn't demand higher salaries/wages!!!

Oh fuck. What does that make me?

Wait, I'm commission. That doesn't effect me.

Anyway, I should relax.

Over breakfast last week PH brought up the possibility of me not going back to work after the baby. It's a thought that I never really saw possible. For starters, I never really thought we could afford our lifestyle on one salary. Especially not wit out mine. Well, we wouldn't be able to afford our lifestyle. We'd be really tight on money. No extra money going into stocks, no new car this fall (we are planning on buying a hybrid in October), no oversea vacations, no more eating out all weekend, no more visiting rated restaurants for the hell of it, no more shopping excursions without consequence, no more cable, no rhapsody, no more a lot of stuff.

(Wow. I didn't really realize how good we had it until I wrote it out like that. Now I feel stressed and guilty).

But the stress right now with work is being caused because i'm not makes as much as I used to, but after writing it out like that, I guess there's a lot I can cut out of our lives to make it a whole hell of a lot easier. Well, nevermind. Let's be honest...

We was planning on going to Buenos Ares for my friend's wedding over Christmas. Well, I don't think that's as possible with a 5 month old...so that's out of the picture.

Secondly, we don't go out as much to "nice" restaurants as we used to. I mean we still do at least once a month. It's not like we do it every week.

Thirdly, the extra money going into stock...that's college money for the lil' cupcake. That's important. That's us saving and if god forbid something did happen and we would have money saved up for emergencies.

But everything else...yeah, I could live without it. I could definitely cut back on how much we eat out on weekends. How much we spend going out to bars (not so much for me right now, but you get it). Shopping...for fuck sake I know I have room there to make some cuts. Also I eat out almost EVERYDAY for lunch. I need to pack my own. PP&J has always been my fav.

Okay...wow. I really made myself feel better. I know this post has kind of been a string of thoughts loosely tied together, sorry if I lost you.

If I wrote a real journal -you know one that sits on a night stand and not posted all over the Internet- it would probably be just like this.

Happy Friday.

Tales of a disfunctional work environment

I should start a blog writing just stories that happen to me at work. I can only just shake my head and ask myself how the fuck I ended up here.

I have good news though. On my answering machine at home there is a nice girl who happens to be a recruiter that found me and is interested in having me apply for some fortune 500 company!

Say what?

A company that isn't set up to fail because it's run by a cluster of knuckle heads?

Sign me up please!

You know what I've had to endure today besides a webinar for 6 hours straight?

A big ol' fat woman who is in her fifties talk to me about how constipated she's been for the last two weeks and yesterday she was finally able to take a shit. Then she proceeded to tell me how bad it smelled.

For fuck sake.

Where do these people come from???

Do I have a sign on my forehead that says: Tell me about your bowel movements.

NO!!!

Fuck no!

I don't talk about bodily functions in general! And you have to talk to me about smell???

I wasn't born yesterday. I know what shit smells like. Please don't explain what the pickles did to your intestines.

For the love of all things holy. I can only be so nice.

Now my COO (the fucking CHIEF OPERATIONS OFFICER) is knocking on every office door and stopping by every single cubicle asking if anyone has seen his calculator.

What the fuck?

A calculator. The man loses his fuck calculator and we go on an Amber alert! Just after the webinar ended today he pulled us all aside and said "make sure to keep a look out for my calculator."

Go to target at buy a new one! It's $10. Better yet, you have a calculator on your COMPUTER!

UGH!I'm so frustrated with this place sometimes.

Breathing deep.

Only 30 more days until maternity leave!!!!

Blame it on Seinfeld

I have curly brown hair, wear dark glasses, and dance like a maniac.



I can't count the number of times people have BEGGED me to go as Elaine (from Seinfeld) for Halloween. The only thing I'm lacking is the long small flower print dress worn under a blazer and brown loafer-esque shoes.

Now if dressed accordingly, I get a lot of Tina Fey...but that's an entirely different story.

Back to the point.

I'm a big Seinfeld fan. Before the weather got nice, PH and I used to watch two re-runs a night while we cooked and ate dinner. The show has definitely influenced my life. I constantly wonder where I got the idea that hiding under my desk was an okay way to avoid a situation or the fact that it would be harder (more like near damn impossible) to get fired from my place of employment than it would be to just do my job.

Anyway, because of Seinfeld and Elaine, I have never seen the movie The English Patient. Elaine was NOT a fan. When it first came out my parents raved about the movie, my mom cried through the entire ending, and they told me I was missing out.

You know what?

That fucker is over three hours long and it's about a guy who is laying in bed the whole time!

No.

Not for me.

Forrest Gump? Yeah, I can sit through three hours of that. Robin Wright Penn is a totally wreck and is naked on stage covering a Joan Baez song, but The English Patient? I have no patience for that type of crap.

And who watches a Ralph Fiennes movie before he was Lord Voldemort?

Really?

Well, one of my best friends who lives in Mad-town called a while ago and said she'd be coming for the weekend. So, of course, I have to give the house a complete disinfecting before she comes in town. I just can't stand clutter.

Last night I decided to clean the kitchen top to bottom (I brought out the yellow gloves) and clean the kitchen. At least a three hour job if done right (read: Wash floors on hands and knees). PH was at a volleyball game so I had hours of no distractions.

Well, what is on TV?

The fucking English Patient.

Hey, I've got three hours to spare and some kick ass gloves to wear. I could find something less exciting to watch, like the Hills...

When PH got home from his volleyball game all I could say was, "I am so glad you weren't here."

Looking at me confused as to why I was glad he was gone while I cleaned the kitchen, I'm sure he thought it was because I was mad at him and would have stabbed him in the foot with a kitchen knife for not helping me, but it was because of the damn English Patient.

Here's the truth...

I ugly cried for the last half hour of the movie.

First and foremost: I AM NOT A CRIER!

I don't cry.

Stub my toe?

Drop a few f*bombs.

Fall down the stairs?

Scream for help.

Stella Bella gets hit by a car?

Nurse her to health and spend all waking hours tracking down the ass hole who hit her while threatening his family.

So learned Elaine isn't always right and pregnancy turns women into crying bitches.

What am I? Ten?

I can't believe I did this.

Saying it out loud is bad enough, but writing it out and posting it on the INTERNET makes it even worse.

Yesterday my old boss (he was my VP for about 6 months before he retired) came back in the office and made his usual rounds of saying hi to everybody.

Knowing that he didn't know I was pregnant I immediately went into panic mode because I could already hear the conversation in my head.

Oh! You're pregnant. Congratulations. How are you feeling? Are you have a boy or a girl. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.

To avoid this ridiculous overplayed conversation, I did what no adult with any self dignity should do.

I

Hid

Under

My

Desk

Yep, you read that right.

Old boss was across the hall and I freaking panicked and waddled my ass under my desk to avoid him stopping in to say hi.

I don't even know why I did it??? He's a really nice guy. Sure, he said maybe three words to me while we worked together, but it wasn't unpleasant working for him. But now it's awkward as hell when he comes in (I think he's bored being retired) to just shoot the shit.

But, seriously, I curled up in a ball, UNDER MY DESK, and waited for him to pass by.

Quickly realizing I looked (and was acting) like a complete idiot I crawled out from my desk, grabbed my bag and keys and snuck out behind him avoiding eye contact and escaped to lunch.

Okay, really...I need help.

Stop! You're ruining the illusion

April 15th is an important day for me.

No, it's not because it's tax day. My taxes are done way before the deadline because I like seeing that fun little refund in my account as soon as possible.

Cha-Ching.

I love April 15th because that's the day the adult pool opens! I love the adult pool because

1. It makes me feel like I've escaped to a resort somewhere on the Mediterranean.



2. You can bring your own drinks. 8 months ago this would mean martinis, beer, wine, and cocktails. Today it means Pellegrino spiked with Vitamin Water (6 more weeks!)



3. No kids! (need I say more?)



4. 24 hour access. -Get home after a night of boozing and hop into the pool? Yes, please.



5. Only the cool people are members. (Anyone can pay and join. I'm not that cool).





But there is one serious issue at hand, that I have never experienced in my life, which has prevented me from going to the pool every night since it's open.

I can't see my crotch.

You're probably scratching your head wondering what the fuck I'm talking about, but this is a huge problem!!!

Can't see crotch = can't see manicuring

Do you understand what I'm saying???

I can't see if I'm nicely manicured in the nether regions!!! I absolutely can't stand it!

I like my vagina and all things surrounding it. I really do. I miss not making eye contact with it and wondering how it's doing...It is out of control like a wildfire in Cali or is it looking like a well treated golf course in South Carolina.

What do you look like crotch? The unknowing is KILLING me.

So finally, after weeks of debating if I should go back to get my girly bits ripped off me or take the blade to it I decided the pain of the Brazilian just wasn't worth it.

If you don't remember, it bruised the girl. It fucking hurt.

So, I did was any wife would do...

I asked PH for help.

Now, seriously, I really thought he was just sigh and say "Okay, babe. I know you can't see your vag and it's really upsetting you. I'll help you out and make sure everything gets cleaned away while not shaving anything off that's suppose to be there."

Truly, this was my expected answer.

What did I get?

PH: You're joking, right? No. I'm not doing it. You want me to help you shave your pubes? No. (shakes head) No.

Dolce: But, Honey, I need help! I can't go to the adult pool all pregnant and have hair coming out from places no one wants to see on a pregnant girl! Help me! Otherwise I'm going to have to get waxed again.

PH: That was the stupidest thing you've ever done. Can't they just get the sides without doing to whole thing?

Dolce: Yes, but that only takes care of half the problem. If I'm going to go in and torture myself why not get it all taken care of?

PH: No. That was stupid. Just shave.

Dolce: But I need HELP! I've always waxed!!! That's a lot of sharp razor going to very delicate area. And I can't SEE!!! That's where you come in!

PH: No. Stop! You're ruining the illusion that vagina comes in this nice neat package that always looks well taken care of and pretty. Getting me involved in the process is just killing that idea. I won't do it.

Dolce: I've spoiled you!

After some serious Cirque du Soleil moves... mission accomplished. I guess even the world's most patient man has limits.