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I want to get pregnant.

Sometimes I don’t even think about it. I go about my life, doing day-to-day things and it never crosses my mind.

Until it does.

And then all I can think about is becoming a mother. I don’t think about the tiny clothes or that baby smell. I don’t think about the sleepless nights and dirty diapers. I know having a child is not a fairytale.

But I want to be a mommy.

You know how some people just know they’re supposed to be a teacher or a painter or whatever…I know I’m supposed to be a mother. I feel it in my bones and when I stop and think about it, it’s all consuming.

When we will start trying has been a topic of discussion recently. We’re not quite there yet. Almost, I think, but not completely. To be honest, I wish we were there. I understand the decisions we have to make before that happens, but I wish we were past them already.

It frustrates me when people ask me what my rush is. I don’t see it as a rush, because in my gut, I know motherhood is the path I’m supposed to take. In one week we will have been together seven years and in that time I have seen the side of Michael that will grow into an amazing father. It’s something I cannot wait to see. Our relationship grows stronger every day and I think we’ll be really great parents.

My gut is telling me so.

Dear Michael,

I was thinking, and I think we just shouldn’t pay the mortgage this month.


Maybe not next month either.



Your new shoes deprived wife

My finger, while still a little sore, healed straight! And my wedding rings fit again! Weeee!


What’s making you smile today?

There tends to be a sort of unspoken comradery in the physical therapy waiting room. We’re all there for rehab of some sort — arm, leg, hip. I say unspoken because we don’t talk to each other. There’s a glance and a nod, an acknowledgement that we’re all here to get better, but never more than a shared snort towards the television when Kelly Ripa complains about feeling fat.

Today, however, the wall of silence was broken. While thumbing through a Reader’s Digest, I noticed a man come in and make a bit of a commotion sitting down. I took in his gruff demeanor and went back to my reading.

My eyes had just returned to the page when he spoke.

“Want to see my scar?”

I looked up, assuming he was talking to the man sitting next to him, but no. The question was clearly directed at me.


“What to see my scar?” he repeated.

Aside from the fact that this is a really weird thing to ask a stranger, I had no idea where his scar was. Was the scar on his arm? The back of his neck? Was there a red line across his abdomen or worse — somewhere that would require dropping his pants? I really didn’t want him to drop his pants and he seemed like the type of person who would have no qualms doing so in a waiting room full of strangers.

“Um, well, oh. You don’t have to. I mean…”

Before I could finish, he pulled up his shirt sleeve. There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief from the other patients and I’m sure my face went from terrified to only slightly confused.

He pointed out his shoulder surgery scar and proceeded to tell us how he did it. Which, ok, fine. But it was still weird.

He was called in before I was and the quiet understanding resumed in the room.

Except this time I know we were all thinking how fortunate we were that it was only his shoulder.

So I have this reader that makes me laugh. Her comments — all insults — are so ridiculous that I actually laugh out loud when I read them. The most recent one was great and while she seems to be running out of steam with particular things to make fun of me about (my ugly hair, lack of taste and “cheap” shoes have appeared in her last two at least), I know she will come up with something else to throw at me.

Actually, she’s probably dancing in her seat to see me acknowledging her here.

Why? Because what I’ve found about these Internet trolls is that the more you acknowledge them, the more they thrive.

Unfortunately for her (and anyone else who feels like slinging insults my way) is that this is my blog. So if I don’t like you, I don’t have to invite you in.

It just doesn’t make sense to me. Sure, I read blogs that I don’t agree with. And if I feel passionately, I leave a well thought out comment that states as much, but politely. It would never occur to me to make fun of someone or talk smack about a stranger just because I don’t agree with what they said. And if you’re so closed minded that you can’t even read something you don’t agree with, then I think you’re too closed minded to be here anyway.

Let me be clear — if you disagree with me, I’m not going to delete your comment. Not at all. But I don’t invite jerks who call me low class and ugly into my home and I won’t invite them to leave comments here. Those comments have been, and will continue to be deleted and blocked. If you are a person who gets off on being an ass, leaving petty and rude comments, I have a suggestion for you. Get your own blog. Then open up the comments. It will be fun.

The best part about my Assface Commentor and others like her? They never use real email addresses or link to a blog. So on top of being ridiculous, they’re cowards.

Have you guys experienced this? What’s your solution? I know Dooce says she likes to print out the best of the best and drive over them with her car. I was posting the Comment of the Day so you could all read how stupid these people are, but then I have to read it again and who wants that?

I guess the solution is just keep deleting. And hoping that karma really does come around.

I mentioned earlier that I was going to try and consciously do small acts of kindness — inspired by those who are taking these tough times as an opportunity to help others.

Three years ago, we adopted Kodiak from the Newfoundland Club of New England. The club is made up of amazing people, many who unselfishly dedicate their lives to caring for and finding homes for this amazing breed. Recently, many dogs (not just Newfies) are being given up by their owners because sadly, they just can’t afford to keep them anymore.

Part of the adoption process includes a home visit, where a current Newfoundland owner checks out a potential adopter’s house. Our home visit went great and when the opportunity to do the same for someone else came up, we jumped on it.

Soon, Michael and I will perform our first Club home visit — with Kodiak in tow — and hopefully do our part to find another Newfie a good home. I can’t even describe the joy Kodiak has brought into our lives and if I can pass that joy onto someone else, I know I’ve done something great.

Confession: I am psyched for the Jon & Kate Plus 8 season finale tonight.

I don’t know what it is about this show. I mean, I can’t watch the Duggers (except for their son’s wedding because…wow), and I don’t have much of an interest in that new one TLC is promoting, Table for 86 or whatever.

But Jon & Kate…I’m hooked.

I think their kids are the cutest things since marshmallow Peeps and I just want to eat the up. Not eat them up like Peeps, though. I don’t like Peeps.

I enjoy the banter between J & K and while I agree that sometimes I think she’s a humungo bitch to him, I think you can tell they still love each other. I’m hoping that the recent rumours in the tabloids that Jon is cheating are lies and that the big drama that the producers are obviously pushing in the finale preview is not a divorce.

Because if Jon & Kate get a divorce I will just die. Die down dead and be sad for those munchable eight children.

Well, maybe not the girl that has crazy mood swings all the time, but the other seven.

“The most important thing in life is to stop saying ‘I wish’ and start saying ‘I will’. Consider nothing impossible, then treat possibilities as probabilities.”

(OK, so it’s off a Starbucks cup. But it’s a message I can really get behind.)

The grocery store was ridiculously busy last night and in my haste to gather up my bags, I forgot to sign the receipt. As I began to walk through the automatic doors, I faintly heard a girl’s voice behind me.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Excuse me, Ma’am!”

I didn’t register she was calling me. Not at all. Not until she was right behind my shoulder and practically screamed MA’AM one more time, as if my old lady ears didn’t hear her.

I HEARD her, I just didn’t realize that I was getting ma’am-ed.

Why not Miss? I mean, shouldn’t I get at least another few years before I have to wear the ma’am hat? Just a few? If we’re getting technical, I can still get away without a bra if I wanted to (not that I want to, but if the situation were to arise I’m pretty sure I’d still be able to pull off the youthful perkiness no problem) so shouldn’t that factor in somewhere?

I guess 26 is the new 60.

Many moons ago I was stressed while planning for a wedding, then lost my job, got depressed and subsequently forgot to eat.

I was skinny. And not, oh, I feel hot skinny, but oh, none of my clothes/bras fit anymore and I look kind of gaunt in that picture. It wasn’t a purposeful weight loss, but honestly, I wasn’t complaining when I slid easily into the smallest pants I have owned in years.

Not too long ago I had to unbutton those pants.

In a bar.


After my depression lifted I was eating normally again. I didn’t think it was any especially crappy food, but I guess being home all day and having unlimited access to the kitchen equals eating more calories than you realize. And as much time as I had for the gym, I was in one of my patented “but I don’t WANT to go” phases.

That night, at the bar, when I unbuttoned my pants, a friend of mine took a group picture. Which I hate. She still hasn’t posted it on Facebook, because either a) she loves me or b) she forgot. I’m guessing B, but pretending it’s A.

The first place I gain weight is in my face, chest and arms. No hiding it. It’s all BAM! Hey look! Right here! That picture reflected a busty, round faced girl staring back at me that I didn’t recognize.

Now look, I don’t want to look gaunt, but I want to look like I did around Thanksgiving. Happy, healthy, and a few pounds lighter.

So last week I forced myself to the gym (and isn’t it funny how once back I’m all, ooooh I knew I liked it here! Ugh, I’m lame.), and started up the workout routine again. I’m only weighing myself once a week and today is D-Day. Or W-Day, I suppose.

I have realistic expectations and am hoping for a one pound loss. Just one.

I’d like to button those pants again.

Ask me anything!

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Alltop, all the cool kids (and me)