Life Lesson From Autism's Bitch: Breathing Is Important

I feel like an over-ripe fruit. Somebody pluck me from my pregnancy misery. My sleep apnea is back, and unfortunately, my oxygen is getting really low at night. So, I get the pleasure of wearing an oxygen mask AND sleep apnea mouth piece to bed. I'm so sexy.

I've reached a new level in pregnancy. And that all-time low involves oxygen. Yes, like an 80 year old emphysema patient. Yes, I have a wheelie-cart (that looks like something between a mobile cane and a Rascal scooter). Yes, it's fully equipped with a four hour supply of oxygen (as if my maternity underwear wasn't embarrassing enough).

If my hair were fixed in this extra-special 'do, I'd resemble this (just minus the bib or whatever the hell she's wearing):

Hair Bow Hell

I have a word of caution. Do NOT attempt to make your own boutique-style hair bows when you're irritable, eight months pregnant, swollen, and sleep deprived. I figured I could save some money (how hard can it be?) and learn to do these little fuckers myself. As a result, I'm sitting here typing, having bled all over the keyboard (correction: only on f,r,t,g,v, and b) and debating whether or not a blood transfusion is in my future. Not only does it take a masters degree degree in "WTF?" to make these bows, it also requires a pair of scissors somewhere in between don't-bother-using and can-cut-through-a-tin-can. Unfortunately, in our house, there is no in between. I resorted for a serious pair of scissors (I mean business) and because of this, I snipped the end of my finger off. OFF...as in...departed from my body.

I've bled through two band-aids and have resorted to tying a half roll of toilet paper around my finger with nothing but Scotch tape to hold it together with. My finger looks like one of those toilet paper ghost projects we had to do in third grade.

The only thing I can say now is that Martha would be proud. Because by God, I made a freakin' hair bow. You're welcome, Ayla. I'll save my self-imposed congratulatory speech for later...

Oh...My...God

I have officially morphed into my mother. I'm not sure when it happened, but let's just say that when I look at a package that has arrived at my house, I think not about the fun things that could be lurking inside (let's face it, Doctor's Data can't send anything TOO exciting). I ponder the question as to whether or not I should keep this little jewel (the box) for future use. I am a box whore. I get it honest. My parent's attic has more boxes (just in case!) than the freakin' UPS shipping department. And that's all I have to say about that.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

My son was sitting on his bed with his Pappow the other night. For no good reason, he informed Pappow of the obvious. "Mommy's bigger than a horse."

Perhaps I should lay off the chips and salsa...

Would You Like Some High Fructose Corn Syrup With That?

Dear A & W,

First off, let me take the time to personally give you my regards, one finger at a time. Months ago, I read that high fructose corn syrup has mercury in it. Since then, I've banished it from my diet. However, in a late night attempt at a root beer float, with my mouth already watering for this decadent treat, I was made rudely aware of your choice of fillers. Now, isn't that special.

You've personally offended me on SOOO many levels.

In closing,
A pregnant lady whose craving has not been met