Be Careful What You Dream Of

Last night I had a dream that I woke up starving in the middle of the night. In my dream I went to the kitchen, opened a box of brand-ex coa coa puffs (called Coa Coa Balls or something ghetto weird), and scooped handful after handful down my throat. After consuming half the box, my inner beast was satisfied and I went back to bed.

Next, I dreamed that I was a man's head. My body had been burnt to nothingness in some kind of explosion, leaving me nothing but a half melted off face. I was sitting helpless and unable to move in the hallway of a hospital just waiting for someone to notice and take care of me. Yeah, it was pretty freaky.

When I woke up, I went to the kitchen to make my lunch and noticed that the box of Coa Coa Balls was opened on the counter. Hmm.... I peeked inside to confirm my fear. It was half empty.

It could have been worse- I could have woken up as a half melted Man Face.

Excitement On Hold

I'm feeling left out. All my classmates are signing up for fall semester courses. Signing up for classes had always been my favorite part of school. On a fresh sheet of paper, each class still looks interesting and exciting. My disillusionment isn't broken until AFTER classes actually start and I realize that they are like all the other ones I've taken.

This year I'm EXTRA excited to sign up for classes. After gaining more experience drafting motions, writing interrogatories, and being a part of litigation strategy- I'm ready to soak up some more knowledge. I want to take classes that will improve my work at the firm I am currently with.

I feel a lot of loyalty to the firm I work for this summer. It's only a summer internship but the managing partner has already asked me to send my resume in next summer and to apply for a position when I graduate. Yesterday, the associate I'm working for told me my writing was better than his- probably not true but nice compliment! Other partners I've worked for have given my work a lot of kudos. I feel valued here and I want to learn even more so that if I get to come back, I will be extra helpful.

But I'm taking the semester off. Once the baby is here I know I will be glad about my decision. But right now I feel a let down. My excitement to start a new semester will have to be put on hold...until January.

Can Your Job Warp Time?

I hate the kind of days when your time at work goes by so slowly. Even during the course of one day, parts of it can drag on forever and other parts can fly by. This morning flew by, but 3:00 to 3:15 seemed like an eternity. Then I looked up and the clock said 4:58!

I think I discovered the proximate cause of the weird time warp phenomenon. There happens to be a causal connection between time slowing down and having to sift through 300+ cases on Westlaw looking for the one that best fits your own case. Reading and skimming through cases is just pure torture sometimes, especially if what you want to find is really obscure. Similarly, trying to fathom how different legal doctrines work when you put them all together is also very time slowing.

Do you have any idea how long it took me to figure out how worker's compensation laws worked with the doctrine of implied indemnity when the parties are two subcontractors that do not have privity of contract?! My head hurt ALL DAY! I still didn't figure it out. The odd thing is that a westlaw search turned up very few Washington cases with the phrase "implied indemnity" in the text. I always think I'm missing something when my search turns up very few cases. Like the time I searched Oregon cases for the Oregon Dead Man's Statute. It took me about 45 minutes to realize that Oregon DIDN'T HAVE a Dead Man's Statute. I felt dumb having to explain that one to my billing supervisor...

Anyway, I can make time speed up just by typing. Seriously, typing up a summary, outline or statement of law makes time go by three times faster. Drafting any type of pleading or motion will do this as well. Also, the excitement of working on a brand new case as well the excitement of starting research on a new topic makes time speed by. But the farther into my research I go and the more frustrated I get, the more time begins to slow down again.

So, if I could just draft motions all day and start new research projects without having to finish them, I would be the happiest person ever. I would probably eat less junk at work too. Because let's face it, when you're bored and time is standing still, the only remedy is a donut, bag of chips or a candy bar.

Childbirth Education Is A BIG Mistake

I finally bit the bullet and signed up for an all day childbirth education class. For some reason, I felt inadequate and irresponsible NOT taking a class. My sister in law never took one and she had the easiest experience ever...but I felt like I HAD to do it.

The class turned out to be the most horrifying thing in my life. Before I got pregnant, the thought of giving birth totally freaked me out. Everytime I tried to read about it, I would faint. Just THINKING about it made me sick. That all changed when I actually found out I was pregnant. The farther along I was, the more my excitement drowned out any of my past fears. As long as I had drugs, I could do anything!

THEN I took THE CHILDBIRTH CLASS.

First of all, it was super lame. I would say that this class is for someone who knowns absolutely NOTHING about pregnancy and labor and has never read a book about the subject. This class would be more effective as a birth control method- let them teach THIS stuff to highschoolers! Things I DID learn from the annoying instructor included: how waves move on the ocean, exactly how heart rate monitors are like submarine sonar machines, how baby cats nurse, and how if we tighten one of our muscles the rest of our body will tighten as well (she made us all practice this too).

Then came the videos. OMG. Everyone else seemed to handle them just fine. Some people turned away during the graphic parts (including my husband). Some people watched with fascination while others expressed their feelings with eeeew's and uuugh's.

Me? I hyperventalated. Tears ran down my cheeks as I sobbed violently into my jacket. I found myself breathless and suffocating, forcing deep breaths as I emitted sick wheezing sounds. I wanted to run away. Not just from the class but from my pregnant, walking, time-bomb of a body.

When I caught my breath, my husband asked me if I was ok. Looking purple in the face, I softly told him, "I changed my mind. I don't want to have a baby."

Next came the "Intervention Methods" video. This is the one where they talk about and show you procedures to aid the childbirth process, including pain relief and happy drugs. Phew, this would make me feel better right? WRONG. The "pain relief" methods seemed JUST as painful as the labor itself. From the long epidural needle, to the episiotomy incision, catheders, IV's, forceps, c-section delivery. I felt trapped. No way out. Pain at every corner. OMG HELP ME. NO SEX EVER AGAIN!

I freaked out again. I felt naseous and dizzy. I couldn't breath. I felt like I was in a nightmare. Like I was slowly awaiting execution by guillotine. What the hell was I thinking? Can't there be an easier way to bring life into the world? Exactly how cruel can god be? I left the class feeling sick, shaky, depressed and scared.

My advice to pregnant women is to go into the process of labor knowing nothing more than the basic options your doctor explains to you. Just trust the doctor. DO NOT watch a video. Do not learn about the icky stuff. Education is over-rated. Just know that it's gonna hurt but be worth it in the end.

From The Desk Of Me: JD/Mom To Be

8:25: Get off the ferry boat. Try to manuver around the old, young, slothlike, and the humongous that walk super slow and take up the entire sidewalk. Then procede to walk up the monster hills of Seattle, wheezing and huffing in high heels (yes, high heels during pregnancy allows me some delusions that I am still attractive and not completely turning into the large Safeway deli lady with a mustach so long she should be forced to wear a mustach hair net).

8:40: Walk by five consecutive Starbucks and try to talk myself out of splurging on a Tall Skinny Vanilla Latte five times. So much willpower!

8:45: Walk past the firm's receptionist and hear her tell me that soon I will be needing a wheel chair. Great. Thanks. You look good too.

8:45: Sit in my office and check my personal email. Then check my work email. Then finally get to work having nothing left to enable my inner procrastinator.

9:15: First trip to the restroom. Walk past receptionist with my head still held high.

9:45: First snack- apples and water.

10:30: Second trip to the restroom. Try to coordinate this trip with a trip to the kitchen to refill my water bottle. Hope that receptionist is away from her desk for a minute (I know she counts how often I pee).

10:45: Second snack- heart healthy Kashi-version of cheerios, eaten plain like a five year old.

11:30: I eat my lunch while I work on an assignment. Somehow, breadcrumbs manage to slide down the crevice between my boobs. They eventually get stuck on top of my baby bump and make me itch for the rest of the day. I have to go to the bathroom again but try to hold it for when I go on my lunch break outing.

12:15: I can't hold it anymore. I run out the door and dart into the bathroom. The receptionist gives me a humorous look as I walk back in.

1:00: Go for a walk around Seattle. Get hit on by bums. Try to avoid the annoying street solicitors who work for political activist groups. If I fail to avoid them I have to explain that I can't save the cleft palate children of the world today because I'm only on my lunch break and I'd rather use that time by buying consumer goods that I do not need. Pee BEFORE heading back to my desk.

1:45: Snack #3- a banana and Diet Dr. Pepper (I pretend I'm drinking a beer and it tastes just a little bit more heavenly). Then it's the time of day where I magically begin to feel nauseous- it's like clockwork everyday.

2:30: Another bathroom break. I wonder how it is that a person can poop three consecutive times in one day.

3:30: Final bathroom break. My head is pretty much hung in full-out "shame" position as I walk by the receptionist AGAIN. Note to self to drink less water or get a key to the back entrance. I think about all the time I waste with my potty breaks.

4:40: Spend the rest of the day trying to figure out how to bill my time. This is such a dreaded part of a lawyer's daily activities and it's such a freaking pain in the neck. I need a billing category just for entering my billing.

4:59: I'm out the door, walking down the intense Seattle hills toward the ferry. With the size of my belly, I should consider rolling rather than walking. It sure would be faster.

Harboring Baby Shrek

Last week I wrote a post about how my Dr. is on crack. This week, she surprised me with her own comment about crack...coincidence?

I had an ultrasound last week because my Dr. thought I was on the smaller side. She said I was measuring a couple weeks behind. So I submitted myself to the gooey pleasures of an ultrasound in the third trimester, which happen to make you feel barfy and lightheaded as well: oh joy. (why is that goo so hard to get off anyway? I felt like a whole bottle of KY had been rubbed all over my belly for the remainder of the day).

This week my Dr. gives me the results. Despite the fact that my own size is still measuring a couple weeks behind, Baby Palmer is, in fact, Baby Shrek. He measures somewhere in the 75th-90th percentile in size/weight. At 34 weeks, they estimated his weight to be 6lbs! WTF? Come on! Both my husband and I were 7 pounders and I've gained less than the average amount during this pregnancy- what gives?!

It must be because I didn't listen to the research advice that I posted earlier on my blog. This advice said if you run only partway through your pregnancy and then stop, you will have the biggest baby possible because runners have larger placentas and more effecient systems.

Right now I'm banking on the fact that ultrasounds are not 100% accurate. In fact, my doctor said it can be about a pound off- in either direction. Wait- so that means my Shrek Baby could actually be 5 pounds (which is right about normal) or *GULP* 7 pounds (give me drugs- no, knock me out cold)?!

My Dr. told me that if I was still pregnant at 38 weeks, she wanted me to have another ultrasound to check Baby Shrek's weight. Hopefully, this means that if he does turn out to be gigantic, that they will induce me earlier (please, please!).

I told my Dr. I was worried about the baby being so big and that I hoped the ultrasound got it wrong. I told her that I just couldn't believe that I could have Shrek Babies.

Her reply was simple and awkward, "Don't worry. It just means you aren't getting enough crack."

Guilty

I hate brushing my teeth. It's only two minutes out of my day but I dread it every single night.

Recurring battle with self:

"Do I really HAVE to brush tonight? I didn't eat THAT much junk."
"But do I really want to sit in the dentist chair with a drill in my mouth?"
"I brushed all week, I can skip ONE night, right?"
"Maybe if I chew gum instead..."

Usually my guilt wins out and I end up with fresh breath and sparkly molars each night. But once in a while, when I feel extra exhausted, I give in to my inner sloth.

On the nights I skip, I use a little trick I learned as a kid to convince my mom that I had in fact brushed my teeth- she used to use a smell test each night- gross, when I'm a parent, do I have to smell my kid's breath too? Anyway, the trick is to rub toothpaste on your tongue. Except now, I don't do it because of an impending parental breath check. I do it so my husband will still make out with me...

Ms. McBitchy

I'm usually a carefree, go with the flow, nothing can get to me, kind of person. Except when I'm 34 + weeks pregnant. Then I'm Ms. McBitchy and you better keep clear. Actually, I think I do a good job of keeping my bitchiness to myself and putting on a pleasant smile for the rest of the world. But if you get close enough, you can hear the string of profanities being uttered under my breath and behind my smile.

Latelty, I just feel a lot of anger and bitchiness towards strangers. I find myself always mad at someone.

First, I have less and less tolerance for all the people who drive as if they got their license at Wal*Mart. I probably swear 4 times/minute as people fail to come to complete stops, cut me off, or park in the middle of the road to let out passengers. Or sometimes I swear and glare at cars just because they exist or I don't like their color or because they have bumperstickers that say "Hippie Chicks Rule."

When the ferry docks in Seattle and we disembark, my rage skyrockets as the people in front of me jaunt along slowly. I HATE slow walkers. The funny thing is: I am now one of those people (due to the baby bulge), but they still piss me off. The slow people ALWAYS have to walk side by side so that you can't get past them without shoving an elbow in their gut/face. Don't put that past me either

I also hate people who talk really loud. Seriously, there is no need to share your conversation with the rest of the planet. I don't give a shit about how your computer broke, how you plan your lunch breaks, or why you need a new sweater. Instead, why don't you explain why your mom never taught you how to use inside voices, why you're hair always looks greasy, and why you're dressed like a secretary from the eighties.

I hate people staring at my belly. It's getting really old. But I discovered that if I stare/glare right back at them, they become embarassed and look the other way. I feel like such a bitch, but I'm starting to hate all this attention. I hate feeling like I'm a freak attraction for others. I'm also getting tired of the bums on the street yelling things to me as I walk by, such as "It's a girl!" Back off butthead. It's a boy, you stupid bum.

It's amazing how simple, harmless phrases can bring out the monster in me:

"when are you due?" (I should post my due date on my forehead)
"you look great" (I LOOK LIKE I HAVE MY GRANDPA'S BEERGUT TIMES THREE)
"do ___ as much as you can before the baby comes" (I've heard them all, you can mind your own business now)
"I bet you're getting excited" (yeah, get this F***ing baby out of me!)
"you're going to miss being pregnant" (wtf- no I won't. Who thinks that way?!)
"have another/more. you're eating for two!" (my stomach is so squished I can barely eat anything)
"You're just glowing" (Actually, I'm just sweating)

Yup, pregnancy brings out the best.

34 Weeks- My Dr. Is On Crack

At my last check up, my doctor thought I looked on the small side (I think she's on crack). She said she wanted an ultrasound to make sure the baby is growing at the right pace. Usually, for my doctor, the 20 week ultrasound is the last one you get so, even though I was worried about the baby, I was pretty excited to hear that I get another ultrasound.

Clearly my Dr. has had a little too much medical marijuana: there is nothing small about this belly (at 34 weeks):

Today was the ultrasound and it was incredible! We got to see clear images of Baby Palmer's face and the technician printed out an awesome profile image for us. I can't wait to meet him! His head is down already and his butt is up in my ribcage. I always feel an odd bump up there squishing my ribs- so I guess that bump must be a butt cheek. Lol.

We saw him wave and then we saw him try to stretch his body out. Poor guy, he looked SO cramped. I know how he feels though... I can't believe I have six weeks to go- I'm ready to meet him NOW. I'm ready to have my body all to myself again. I couldn't help but get teary eyed watching him wiggle around. I still can't believe he's MY baby. I can't believe that my husband and I created a person. I just want to hold him so badly!

Having an ultrasound in the third trimester is so much more uncomfortable than in the second trimester. I almost fainted four times laying on my back because the huge baby was squishing me and cutting off my circulation. But that was nothing compared to the sticky goo they pour all over you- ew, I hate that stuff!

Bras With Flaps

are such a turn on. You know, the nursing bras that snap at the top of the cup with flabs you can pull down whenever you need to quickly expose some boob. I wonder if professional flashers wear something similar.

Since my huge-normous boobs have caused my favorite Victorias Secret bra to rip in half (seriously, how many people can say that they have done that!- Behold, the power of boob!), I had to go bra shopping during my lunch break. I decided that instead of buying a replacement bra that I should invest in a nursing bra. I'm gonna have to buy one sometime...

Trying on a nursing bra for the first time was a little disturbing. But I found myself weirdly turned on at the same time. I felt as if I was wearing the top half of an illicit costume. I felt as if I belonged in a porno, not in a maternity store. Anyway, after much mental debate, I settled on one that had some "growing" room, made my purchase and left the store. I kind of felt like they should have wrapped my purchase in a discreet, dark plastic bag as if it was something x-rated.

Before heading to my office I stopped at the corner store for a pop. I went up to pay and an older black man in front of me turned around and very obviously looked me up and down. Ok, nothing unusual. At eight months pregnant, I'm pretty much used to being gawked at everywhere I go.

But then, he said LOUDLY, "Girl, you gorgeous. Damn. Even with a belly, you gorgeous. Shiiiit, I'd still hit that. I could marry that shit."

At this point I was a little nervous and very embarassed. The guy behind the counter told him not to bother his customers and then the older man left. When the guy was gone and likely directing attention to someone else, I even began to feel a little bit flattered. Maybe in all my hugeness, I can still be attractive? Maybe I still got it? But then I went outside and saw that the older man was also hitting on an overweight teenager. He's clearly not very discriminatory in dolling out compliment.

Before finally making my way to my desk at work, I quickly stopped at the restroom. I swear I spend more time in that room than in my own office. Looking in the mirror, I noticed one of my tank top straps hanging off my shoulder. Apparantly, I forgot to "adjust" my tank top after bra shopping. No wonder everyone was looking at me!

So, moral of the story: if ppl are staring at you, it's either because (1) they have a thing for fat chicks or (2) you're boobs are hanging out.

Positive Reinforcement

I swear that positive reinforcement makes or breaks your work experience.

I have had PLENTY of work experiences. Some where I felt like the human-extension of a computer data program. Some where I felt like a work horse. For example, the summer I did freshman orientation at my college and had to wash linens, make beds, and rearrange furniture for over 800 rooms every week- wait, I WAS a work horse. (P.s. you won't believe the nasty stuff we found in those rooms after the ever so responsible soon-to-be jesuit college students were done with them- just NASTY).

By positive reinforcement, I do NOT mean being hit on constantly by foreign, barely english speaking pizza delivery men at the deep dish pizza place. One man showed me pictures of his six year old kid in Mexico and then begged me to marry him so he could live in this country. As flattering as that was, that's not the positive reinforcement that I'm talking about.

I'm talking about being in a work environment where your boss tells you when you do a good job. That's the environment I work in now. Recently my boss, the managing partner at the firm, assigned me to a case because all the associates were swamped. I was nervous as hell but did the best I could. Apparently he was impressed and told me that if I was an attorney already, they would hire me on the spot (I really didn't think it was that great but they must have low expectations for legal interns). The other partner told me they would hire me when I graduated, if I was interest. Wow. What a way to end a long work week.

Of course when I'm an actual attorney and they expect me to constantly produce high-quality, professional work product, I will probably only hear about my mistakes. I'm going to enjoy this while I can.

This just proves you don't need perfect grades, you don't need perfect LSAT scores, you don't need to make law review or be on moot court. In fact, this post proves you can pretty much be the biggest law school slacker on the planet, still not know what the phrase "stare decisis" means, miss half of your classes due to morning sickness/laziness and STILL get a decent legal job.

Maybe the standards in the profession are going down or maybe it's true what they say: how you do in law school is totally unrelated to how you will be at practicing law.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I found something that I am good at (for lack of talent, I previously had to give up on a number of other careers including but not limited to: painter of landscapes, astronaut, writer, victoria secret model, speech writer, President of the United States). I really feel like I belong to this profession. It's such a good feeling. (I need to remember this feeling next time I review the summary of my law school tuition debt).

ARGH! HAIRCUTS!

I hate when it's that time. You know, that time when your highlights have grown out to such a ridiculous length that your head has become two-toned. That time when your split ends have become about three inches long.

I HATE getting my hair done.

I hate the smell of chemicals. I hate people telling me my $1.50 Suave shampoo is ruining my hair (when I lied and said I used Pantene Pro-v, I got the same reaction and when I lied again and said I used Garnier, same lecture). I hate those ugly bib-apron things. I hate getting hair shavings stuck down the back of my shirt and itching like hell all day. But mostly, I hate sitting still! Seriously, I can feel my body aging each time I sit in a hair salon chair.

I made the mistake two years ago of trying out some highlights. Bad idea. They are such high maintenance. Once you get highlights you have to keep getting them done. I'm basically stuck in hair hell. I can grow my highlights out but that would result in me looking ridiculous for about a year or I can try to get my hair dyed all over, which totally scares me.

So what's a girl to do? Keep subjecting herself to the tortures of two hour long, million dollar haircuts in order to look somewhat decent? I'm considering shaving it all off and starting over but I'm not that desperate. Not yet anyway.

I used to get cheap-o 15 dollar haircuts. I miss those days. Except: for the crookedness of each cut, the imprecision of each style and the frustration of looking like my dad took a lawn mower or machette to my head. It's like a drive through for hair and just about as good in quality.

For each good hairstylist I've encountered, I've had to endure about five awful ones. It doesn't matter what hair school they went to either. I've had stylists from top-notch respectable schools botch up a simple foil. My favorite was the guy with the blue highlights. Let this be a warning to you all. NEVER get your hair highlighted by a guy with blue highlights. He took the first piece of foil off my head and said, "oops!" Not a good experience. I looked like a skunk.

So I tried the more expensive salon across the street. I basically got the same over-bleached look there too, except it was $114 instead of $45.

Today, I think I've finally found the stylist for me. I drove by her salon, the only one open today, and decided I looked nasty enough to drop some moolah on my hair. She did a great job. I spent enough money but it wasn't too bad considering the haircuts I've had in the past. And besides, I'm pregnant- so I deserve to spend money on my hair, be slightly superficial and have at least ONE part of me look good. I hope my hair stays this awesome for the post-delivery photos.

VIA MESSENGER

The Legal Messenger is an interesting creature. Until two weeks ago, I had actually mistaken the shaggy-haired, cut-off jeans wearing, arm tatooed, unkept man with the large dirty knapsack that kept showing up in our office for a bum who I presumed had repeatedly gotten lost or followed an attorney in looking for handouts.

But apparently he is our firm's trusty Legal Messenger.

And, as the legal secretary pointed out to me, he wears a bicycle helmet. I guess bums don't wear bicycle helmets? So really, the only way to distinguish a Legal Messenger from a bum is by the bicycle helmet.

I don't know about you but when I draft an important letter (cause everything I draft is important- of course!) to opposing counsel or when I put together a stauts report for an insurance company about their case, and I mark "Via Messenger" at the top, I kind of picture my important document as being delivered by a clean shaven man in a freshly pressed suit. At the very least, a man with a UPS-ish uniform.

I also expect my important document to be delivered via a secured and professional looking suitcase, not a knapsack that looks like it has been camping in the Alaskan wilderness for about a year.

I guess I should learn not to judge people by their appearances or to be so presumptuous. I just have to remember not to offer our Legal Messenger a dollar next time I see his scrubbulous self in the elevator.

Nesting Is For The Birds

My husband's favorite part about my pregnancy so far is hands down this weird nesting phase I'm going through. My husband, the neat freak, is ecstatic due to the fact that the kitchen is sparkling clean even though he hasn't placed one 409-wielding hand in it all day.

The baby's clothes are all washed in special baby detergent, folded according to size and organized by type in the baby's dresser. The baby's room is organized, yes even the closet *gasp!* I'm know for throwing all clutter into closets when I clean a room. Isn't it amazing how quickly a room can become presentable when everything is in the closet? It's like, once something is in the closet, it doesn't even exist! Hmm....that's must be how I lose everything too.

I made dinner tonight- from SCRATCH. I even prepared some meals for the next couple days. Then I made toffee peanut butter cookies! I totally broke the world record for putting cookie dough batter together in just three minutes flat. Then I did the dishes. All of them. EVEN the silverware (which I usually leave in the sink for the next poor bastard who comes along in desperate need of a spoon- almost always my husband). The kitchen isn't just CLEAN, it SPARKLES and is 99.9% bacteria free (why do cleaning supplies always claim to kill 99.9% of bacteria- can that be scientifically proven or is it another marketing gimmick?).

Before my husband went through the house collected trash for garbage day tomorrow- I pulled the plastic garbage bag out of our kitchen trash bin and put it next to the front door for him. You should have seen the look on his face. Wow... I wish my priest had told me this was all I had to do in order to achieve marital bliss.

My outfit for tomorrow is picked out, washed and ready for me to wear. This means that for the first time in probably 6 months, I won't have to get dressed in the dark. I won't have to rummage through the mixed laundry on the floor in an attempt to carry out Mission Impossible: distinguishing clean panties from dirty panties with the help of three out of five senses (no sight and no taste- thank god).

Really, I don't know who this new person is who has taken over my body. I can't decide if I like her or not. I mean, on one hand, my husband is as giddy as a school girl and has given me multiple approving looks... and cleaning is a turn on for him which mean I will probably get lucky tonight. *Wink*wink* On the other hand, I'm pretty exhausted and I have no idea where my day went.... Now where will I possibly find the time to sit on my butt and do nothing?

A Questionable Cliche

We go through toilet paper like crazy. I like to think it's my husband who is the "heavy wiper" (he is the anally clean one- woah, pun was not intended there).

So after going through roll after roll, we finally smartened up and stopped buying the four roll pack. We now buy the hefty 24 roll pack. One problem: we have no where to store 24 freaking rolls of toilet paper. For the past three days, the package of toilet paper has decoratively adorned our entrance hallway. Right when you walk in our house you see, a row of scattered shoes, the armoire we use as a shoe holder and... 24 rolls of toilet paper.

In the past three days, I've walked by that toilet paper a million times. Only tonight, at 11:30 pm did I notice something odd. There is a picture of a smiling baby on that pack of toilet paper. Hmm, now that I think about it- many toilet paper commercials also feature babies. Maybe it has something to do with the cliche "soft as a baby's bottom."

But WAIT A SECOND!? Babies don't use toilet paper!

(come to think of it, neither do bears but that hasn't precluded the use of those creatures in toilet paper ads either) Wow, why hasn't this bothered me before? Maybe because I never had to buy diapers before? Ridiculous marketing campaigns will get me to buy anything- literally.

Can Parents Be Friends Too?

Yesterday we headed out to my husband's friend's mom's house to celebrate the Fourth. Every year all of my husband's friends (and their girlfriends and their one-night hook ups- oddly, we're the only married couple of his friends- at least until next week) gather there.

My husband's friend's parents show up too and everyone plays a huge nine-hour game of bocce ball (an interesting game I am just learning about). My first point is that these friends whose parents show up are so lucky. They have awesome parents. Parents that aren't embarassing. Parents that match their kids beer for beer. Parents that laugh and engage in their kids' conversations, even when it becomes borderline inappropriate. These are parents who have hung up their hats after successfully raising adult children and can now relax and accept who their children have become.

My parents will never be this way. My parents are really amazing, don't get me wrong. And I love them so much. But I wish that they knew how to "hang out" with us. My mom is a little crazy. I know everyone says that- but my mom TRULY is. Ask my husband. She's super religious and conservative- so the things we joke about would not be tolerated by her. She could never engage in our conversations. She's always trying to convert my friends and give them religious "trading cards" as I call them. She loves to tell people things about me that are no longer true and that are completely embarassing. She likes to wear the muu-muu she purchased in Hawaii ten years ago around our house, and she frequently likes to dance by herself while wearing it.

Recently, my mom started having little moments of forgetfulness or absentmindedness. During these moments, her mind goes blank for like 10 seconds and she doesn't repond to anything. The doctors told her these episodes might be little seizures and they wanted to do a psych evaluation on her. She replied, "I'm not crazy. When I don't respond right away its because God is telling me what to say. He talks to me." This might very well be true. But it's not the kind of thing you say to doctors when you are trying to convince them that you aren't crazy.

There is nothing wrong with my mom self expressing herself. It's great that she is so full of joy and that she is comfortable with herself. But when she does things like that around my in-laws or my friends, something inside me curdles and I want to be anywhere else. I feel awful for feeling like this, but I can't help it.

My mom and my dad will never stop being the kind of parents who have to always be teaching us, lecturing us, or managing us. My dad is super cautious. I can't tell him half the things I do because all he does is worry. Now that I'm pregnant, its 100 times worse too. He tells me how to drive, how to mow my lawn, how to paint my house, how to juggle family and work. Sometimes, I just want him to have a little trust so I can show him that I'm responsible and really do know how to handle my life. (ok, I don't really know how to handle my life but I'd like the opportunity to learn and experience it anyway).

Long drawn-out point being: my parents could never participate in our activities the way other parents do. They just don't know how to be "friends" as well as parents. Maybe it's my fault or maybe it's all in my head. While it's nice to have parents that are always looking out for me and trying to protect me from the "bad things" in life, parents that I can always count on for guidance and unconditional love, it would be great to have parents that can also be part of my "friend" circle once in a while.

When I become a parent, I might feel differently, but I would like to be the kind of mom that kids feel comfortable being themselves around. I want to be able to participate in some of their activities as more than a mom (when they are adults of course). I can't imagine missing out on a whole part of who my children are just because I cannot accept that part of their lives or because I'm always trying to change that part of them.

Me & My Latte

Coffee is pretty revolting stuff. Straight up black coffee smells, tastes, and looks like it could peel the lining right off your stomach and small intestines. I have absolutely always hated coffee.

Then I went to law school. After too many consecutive mornings where I felt like a card carrying member of the walking dead and too many late nights huddled over my incomprehensable property notes, I became desperate. Desperate enough to plug my nose and chug down a cup of bitterness. I eventually became inventive and started to douse the bitterness with some milk and five packets of sugar. Try a latte? A frappucino? A carmel maciatto? No way. I'm not paying $4 for a drink I can't even pronounce.

I stuck to my tall drip with room (topped off with half a cup of milk and five packets of slenda) for two years. My drink was tolerable, starting to grow on me. My drink was affordable. And I was caffeinated. Mission Accomplished. I even splurged once in a while and ordered a shot of vanilla syrup.

Then one day in June 2008, my "tall drip with room" world was turned crazily on its head. On my way to work, I stopped in at the local coffee stand and asked for a tall drip with room and a shot of vanilla. Hmm, odd. The price came in a little high but I was late for work and didn't stop to check my order. I also noticed that the drink took a little longer to make. Finally they handed me my Cup of Life. I rushed to my office as fast as I could.

About a block away, I finally took a sip. The taste was, surprisingly, amazingly DELICIOUS. This wasn't my normal drink! My receipt revealed that I was drinking a tall vanilla latte. OMG, the milk was deliciously steamed and it mixed wonderfully with the shot of vanilla. There was just the slightest hint of coffee flavor swirling around in the background.

If heaven had a taste, I knew it was staring back at me in my coffee cup.

So this is what I've been missing out on?! From that moment on, I have not been able to go back to my old world of drip coffee. I'm officially addicted to vanilla lattes, irregardless of price and irregardless of calorie content. My morning is just not the same when I skip my latte. And why should I? That would be like eating an oreo without the white frosting filling!