Conspiracy Theory

The gas was finally restored yesterday evening after finding a special plumber yesterday morning. A plumber who could come out the same day and fix the "leak." I use quotes because I am still not convinced that there was an actual leak. I spelled out a few of the reasons the other day (no odor, no dead grass/plants) but there are a few more things to add fuel to the fire. (1) We now have a new meter. The type that can be read by a passing vehicle rather than by a pedestrian employee of the gas company. How convenient. (2) Our next door neighbor's gas was shut off the day after ours because they "suspected a leak in the service line." Again, no odor, no dead plants. The gas company also added that they would need to move their meter outside (currently in the basement) and left a new meter sitting by the front of their house.

I really believe that the gas company wanted to upgrade all of the meters and, at the same time, make sure that the service lines were all upgraded to new plastic lines. How better to do that than to take your house hostage by shutting off the gas and claiming a leak. With outside lines, a leak would be difficult to prove or disprove, making it hard for people to argue. And with them holding the only key to restored gas service, they have us held captive.

I recall quite a barrage of notices in the last few months advertising the line insurance. We considered it and then dismissed it, deciding the the level of small print probably excluded them from having to fix the line anyway. Why pay for nothing? But perhaps they were looking for everyone to pay protection money. You know, mafioso style. "Hey lady, we can offer you protection for your gas lines if you pay a small fee. Cause, you know, leaks. They just sometimes kinda happen."

My neighbor wants to call the local TV station to investigate. I'm starting to think that's a good idea.

Dealing with Gas

...or a lack of, as the case may be.

No, for once I am not talking about a pregnancy symptom. Trust me, you don't want to hear about the detailed workings of my digestive system. It's not pretty. I'm talking about arriving home from work yesterday to find the gas meter sitting on the ground, connection pipes next to it, and a note from the gas company saying that they found a leak and have disconnected our gas. Um, what?

Yes, of course I want to make sure my house is not going to blow up. Yes, gas safety is a good thing. But I wish I had the time to describe the sheer hassle it has been to simply find a plumber who is certified by the gas company. Not just regular certified. Special certified.

The meter is right next to my front door. Have I smelled anything at all? No. Do we use the front yard? Yes. Smelled anything there? No. I also see no dead, brown grass in the yard (a telltale sign of a gas leak, fyi).

I will be taking a shower at my parents' house when we pick up Gabe tonight. The cold one this morning was awful.

Just frustrated. Just venting. Thanks.

Big Belly, Warm Hands

Every morning, Mr. D finds a way to touch my hand while we are in the car. This might sound like a minor thing, but because I am the antithesis of a morning person, touching is often verboten. I have learned to tolerate the fact that he *is* a morning person, and a sensitive, affectionate guy. He has learned to tolerate the fact that his morning affections will, at most, be met with tolerance and not a quick jump in the sack.

But I digress.

Now that I have reached the 27+ week mark, my body temperature has been rising steadily. And as Mr. D finds my hand in the car, he tells me, "you're hot." I know full well that it is not a reference to being mighty sexy or even an attempt to be more like Paris (so, HOTT...NOTT). I am a furnace. So much so that I almost can't stand to be around myself.

The other new development at this stage is SPD (symphysis pubis dysfunction for those who haven't been there, done that). Essentially, the pelvis is supposed to stretch while you are pregnant to allow the baby to be delivered. In those whose pelvises (pelvi?) are overachievers, the separation goes above and beyond the call of duty, resulting in SPD. Also known as sonofabitchthathurts. I had SPD with Gabe, but I had been so symptom-free to date that I naively thought I might get to skip it this time. Nope. It's back. With a vengeance. And the most frustrating part is not that pregnancy has its aches and pains. I'm 100% ok with that. It's the fact that I am having a c-section this time, which means that my pelvis does not need to stretch. At all. And I keep hobbiling around glaring at the bitch trying to tell her that her efforts are wasted. All she is doing is torturing me. But does she listen? Noooooooooo.

And the wedding rings are history. Finger puffing commenced over the weekend.

I am just a lovely to behold. So behold:

Getting started

This weekend we will finally, finally be starting to excavate the room that is to become the nursery. If I think of it, I'll take a before picture so that you can really appreciate how much crap we have work we have ahead of us. And I will, of course, follow up with an after shot...eventually...when things are ready.

And I have finally found my anchor piece for the nursery, so I can choose the wall color, which will be a shade of purple. I'm thinking to go with an orchid versus a lavender because orchid is a much warmer shade. And I definitely won't go into the periwinkle family- too blue. (Can you tell that my dream job would involve working with color? Maybe I can be the person who gets to give creative names to all of the catalog colors. Willow! Amber! Passionate Plum!)

Anyway, I knew that we would be using my old childhood bedroom furniture, which has a bit of a floral motif. Therefore, I decided to go with a garden theme for the nursery. Not too girly, but a bit more feminine than neutral. So, I like the idea of throwing in a few bugs (maybe the kid won't grow up with a paralyzing fear of insects like I did), some flowers (but not too many), and a little bit of mommy's crazy. Also on the block for nursery prep is taking the hideous orange stripe off of the old furniture. The pieces are a cream color with two accent colors on the detail work- green and orange. Very 70's. Since the nursery will be purple and green (my favorite color combo) the green will stay and the orange will become cream to blend in with the background.

I smell a photo montage in the making...

Grab Yer Pom-poms

A friend pointed me to this comic site and I found one that perfectly sums up musical conversation between me and Mr. D.







Yeah, like you don't jump up and cheer when you hear that song. I know you do. Admit it.

Parkaaaaaaaay

Gabe: Butter! Butter! Butter! (frantically pointing to his toy shelves)
Me: Butter? What do you want, sweetie?
Gabe: Butter! Butter! Butter!
Me: You want butter?
Gabe: Yes.
Me: You want to eat butter?
Gabe: No. Watch butter!
Me: (cue lighbulb above head) Oh, Builder? Do you want to see Bob the Builder?
Gabe: (so excited he is probably peeing right then) Butter! Bob Butter- FIX IT!

Cute or Obnoxious?

I've never been much of a ticker gal, but I kind of liked this one. I'm not sure if it displays a new "humor" statement each day or if it only has one per picture. I guess time will tell. And I may tire of the darn thing and yank it off the page. I guarantee that if the next text block contains a grammatical error like this one, it's getting yanked.

What's your take on tickers and other such blog decor? Useful, annoying, neutral? Just curious.

Doing the Math

My toe is healing up nicely- thanks for the toe-healing and good-birthday wishes. It's a shame they had to be rolled into one post but...well...life happens that way sometimes. I am still wearing flip-flops, but the swelling has gone down to where I can get a normal shoe on my foot. I just can't move because it will hurt too much. So, the flippy-floos (as I call them) reign on. I did decide to upgrade a bit from the ugly rubber ones, though. I got a pair of these:

They are not too bad on comfort (I only have one spot that rubbed raw and every new shoe rubs my foot raw, so it's typical). And they are definitely cute.

I went shopping at Big Name Baby Store on Saturday to look at a set of nursery prints in their ad. Thankfully I did, because they were quite awful in real life. What I did find, though, was that the lamp I admired online but ignored because it was white, is actually cream and will match the nursery. And it was on clearance. Score. I also picked up the cutest pair of faux-R*beez that are white with a pink and fuscia hibiscus flower (Mr. D's fave). As I was checking out, being the negative Nelly that I am, I asked about the return policy (you know, in case the other shoe drops). I was told that I have 90 days with a receipt. Initially, I hesitated, thinking that it wouldn't give me enough time. But once I calculated that I have about 13 weeks left (going with a 38-week end date) I realized that 13 weeks = 91 days. Ninety-one freakin' days people. Holy crap. I'm well within return policy timelines. Scary.

Limping to the finish line

Today marks my entry into the "late thirties." I turn 36 today, and I figure that 34, 35, and 36 qualify as the mid-thirties. But by turning 36, I have begun my 37th year, thus beginning the slide into 40. See, it's all downhill from here.

My last day of 35 was, well, interesting. We knew that it would be a bit chaotic because all of the remaining houseguests were leaving. We left the house at 7am to take Mr. Dish's* parents to the airport. Well, before we even left the driveway, we managed to start the day off with a bang. No, he didn't run into the house. He ran over my foot. Essentially, I was leaning into the back seat to deposit my purse on the floor before stepping into the car. He thought that I had actually entered the car and started driving away. Wheel, meet foot. It is much better that he went forward, because had he had backed up, the door would have knocked me over or worse. Yesterday my foot was twice the normal size and quite sore. Today, it's almost back to normal and the bruising is minimal. I did go to the doctor (not the ER) as a precaution, but we decided that x-rays were not really warranted given the localization of the pain to my big toe, so we're treating it as a bad bruise/hairline fracture and just going from there. But it's great to tease Mr. Dish over and over about how he might want to give me a different birthday gift next year. And every time we've gone out since then, he has stood next to me and watched while I put every last limb into the car. It's kind of cute. I guess I could be angry, but he's been beating himself up enough about it.

Things are calm in the Dish household now that everyone has departed. I know that Mr. D lives for the chaos, as he grew up with it. I grew up with a bit more structure, with plans that would be made, and people that did not just show up on your doorstep. I like the excitement to a degree because it is a new way to experience family. But eventually the northern European stock comes through and I start to fall apart with the lack of structure. Mr. D's stock response is always, "You're such a German." Nice.

Tonight, weather permitting, we're going to an outdoor concert. Tomorrow, the new dishwasher arrives (I have one of the potentially flaming variety), and Sunday is the group dog walk (minus me, of course...what with the foot and all). And somewhere in there will be cake. Lots of cake.

*No, I'm not sporting a new husband. I've decided that using the initial "A" gets confusing in the body of the text, so he has become Mr. Dish or Mr. D.