Bowing Down

I am bowing down to Kristie Moore. The Olympian. The pregnant Olympian. Forget that nobody outside of Holland cares about the sport of curling, this woman is five and half months pregnant! Totally showing too. Granted, she is an alternate and probably not going to compete unless someone sprains a pinky finger while brushing or whatever it is they do in curling but still. What would that be like, "Hey Baby, when you were a mere alien in my belly, I totally won a gold medal at the Olympics." Awesome, that's what THAT would be like. As of right now, I get to tell my son, "Hey, when you were a mere alien in my belly, I won 70 extra pounds from the sitting-on-the-couch Olympics." Not that there's need to tell him, I could just show him, but I digress.

Naturally, this gets me thinking back to when I was five and half months pregnant with my son. Not only did I NOT want to be in Canada, I sure as heck was not working out to compete in the Olympics. I was like 500 pounds and the size of a house. Maybe a small condo at that point, but house was definitely right around the corner. As was evident by the bold (BOLD, not old) ass woman in Nordstrom who yelled from across the store, "Damn, girl, you look like you're about to give birth to those twins tomorrow." Please note: I did not know this woman. Also note: I was 5 months pregnant with ONE CHILD. So of course, I had to respond with my ever-so-trusty, "Oh, I'm not pregnant, just fat." I always love the look on people's faces when I pull that one out. (Take away lesson: unless a woman specifically tells you she is pregnant, don't assume it.)

I watched some curling last night and I think I'm gonna start training now. I already sweep a couple times a week anyway. I figure if I start practicing now, by my second pregnancy, I too, will be a pregnant Olympian. I am totally drawing the line at the gawd-awful plaid pants they wear though. Totally not flattering on my pregnant thighs. I have standards.

Ode to My Valentine

1200 Kids and Counting

In a rare moment of silence and not-doing-a-damn-thing-around-the-house, I am sitting on the couch watching the Duggar family's television show. If you have been living under a rock, the Duggar family has 1200, um I mean NINETEEN, children. And since this is my own personal blog and pretty much everyone is fair game, I must address...

The Good.

I commend these folks more than I condemn them. I'm not so keen on the we're-going-to-keep-having-babies-until-God-wants-us-to-stop thing but to each his own, right? These people live completely debt free (before their television show started and they only had like SEVENTEEN kids) and they built their own house. A house, I might add, that has like 200 ovens, it's own laundromat, 600 beds and what appears to be approximately 500,00o windows. Hell, I have one child and I wanna live there. Maybe just NOT in the Ozarks. (No offense to anyone living in the Ozarks who may be reading this. Oxymoron? I digress.) And while I totally don't believe everything I see on television, the kids seem fairly well adjusted. I guess. They're kinda sheltered so I guess time will tell. I have noticed that their wardrobe has improved significantly since the start of their show, kudos to TLC for that. Another good thing? Your kids would never get lonely and have their hand up your butt constantly.

The Bad.

This actually calls for bullet points:

• Having the older kid assigned to the younger kid thing? Not cool. I'm all for families helping one another but damn, what a childhood that would be. If that's all you know, I guess you don't mind. I can only imagine what would have become of me had one sibling been in charge of me.
• The dad's name is Jim Bob. And he goes by Jim Bob. Nuff said.
• Eventually, you will run out of "J" names. As it is, spelling GINGER, JINGER is kind of a stretch. I see it and immediately think, "Jinger" as in jingle, not Ginger. And really, a whole lot of other folk I know would pronounce it the same. I sympathize because I have an unusual name. Good luck to her trying to find a little personalized license plate for her bike or a cool key chain from random tourist places.
• Your family car is a bus. Like a real bus. The kind you take tours on in Hawaii or something. Oh and vacations? Take the BIG ASS Greyhound looking beast. At least they have options, I suppose.
• Bathing suits for the girls. Don't get me wrong, I am not a big fan of girls walking around in thong bikinis or anything but they might as well swim fully clothed. And we all know that swimming fully clothed is only fun and acceptable if you are a little bit drunk. Or a lot drunk.
• You can only eat so many ground beef or hash brown recipes.

The Ugly.

This poor woman's lady parts. Being pregnant for like ten years? That's not my idea of a party at all. While I've given birth once, and want to do it again, 19 times? Eh, no thanks.

You Know It's a Good Party When...

• Madonna, several New Kids fans, a few preppies, a Goonie, a random chick from Dynasty/Knots Landing/Dallas and that chick from the Whitesnake video all show up ready to celebrate the 1980's.
• Almost 100 jello shots are served.
• A Cabbage Patch Kid is birthed.
• The dim lighting does not affect anybody's eye shadow in any way, it's still as vibrant as in bright sunlight.
• Someone jumps into an unheated pool, fully clothed in 40 degree weather at 1 a.m. And when she emerges, her blue eye shadow is still in tact.
• Someone does the worm across the living room floor.
• Half a dozen women karaoke completely off key for the neighborhood to hear.
• Several people wake up injured the next day and have no idea how or why.
• The next day, you find house keys and lipstick on your front lawn, slippers under your couch, various tacky earrings in random places they shouldn't be and jello remnants on your recently cleaned carpet.

I have fully recovered from my 29th 80's Ladies birthday party and can say with confidence that I remember 90ish% of it. And yes, 90ish is a number.