One thing that happens when you begin to post as infrequently as I do (I'm working on it) is that when you do get around to writing, you end up cramming in a series of mini-posts under one heading so you can pour forth all those nifty little post-ideas you've had over the last week.

First off the bat. Reasons to be cheerful: A little earlier, Husband called, and uttered these beautiful words...

"I've cleaned the whole house"

I would charge home and ravish him on the spot right now, if it weren't for the fact that I am at present physically repellent...which brings me to....

Suggestions for "What to Expect in the Eighth Month" chapter in that book.

First, that tiny paragraph on "stress incontinence" does not quite do it, ok? A helpful image like this one might do a better job at explaining what happens when you have a bladder that is, let's say, "under pressure."
Some of my observations of the "bladder-under-pressure" include (but are not limited to):

Fill a sample pot at the OB's office with the minimum of fuss? Fat Chance. When your flow has transformed from a healthy horse-like stream to a sort of sporadic and multi-directional spurting, then you'd better get on the rubber gloves and have your paper towel at the ready. It's going to get messy. Try not to look too shamefaced when you exit the bathroom leaving that "moist" deposit. They've seen it all before, and then some...

Nocturnal emissions (of wee, you pervs). These are frequent, as we know. This is well-documented, and commonly experienced. However, a recent development on that front, I feel must be shared. If you're like me, and like to give yourself an "airing" down there over the night (i.e. no knickers with your nightie, because your mummy said this was a way to "stay clean") then you might experience this also. The "sprinkler effect" combined with an ever-expanding stomach that makes a thorough "wipe" a slight challenge. This can mean that a return trip to the bathroom for a "second wipe" is in order.

Let me try and put this in plain terms. The wee spurts and leaves droplets all over the place--even right up your... (sometimes). You think you've got it all, and schlep comotose back to the marital bed, but by the time you get there, trickling sensations down the legs notify you that your technique was--yet again--off.

I will not get into the more commonly experienced, and already documented "issues" of wetting one's self at the drop of the hat--a sneeze, a laugh, a cough. We can take this as a given. Maybe keigels can save me. If I actually do one now and then.

Oh, and on the emissions front. This is not the only region "leaking." This morning I made the delighted discovery that breastfeeding might not be such a challenge this time around, because apparently these titties are good to go. I discovered this after reading that book and being informed that leakage could indeed happen. Being of the morbidly curious sort, I gave the left one a bit of a squeeze (as you do) and "voila!" Dinner's up! I was both thrilled and slightly grossed out.

And speaking of food...

Last week I regaled you with the angst of my cake-making endeavors. Let me say that "from scratch" at 9pm last friday night turned into "From a box....with homemade decorations." And it was a masterpiece, let me tell you.

Note the genius use of Candy Corn to represent "safety cones," the subtle verisimiltude of the zoning (chocolate sprinkles and yellow icing); And no, those are not bricks! I used caramels to cleverly render a roadside building under construction.

Yes, I am clearly going insane. The smell of chocolate fudge is still mildy repellent to me. But actually (and don't tell anyone) I rather enjoyed myself;-) And Boyo had a fabulous birthday, but even he is a bit "off" chocolate icing right now.


on another note...

I could provide you this link because I want you to laugh your ass off at this guy like I just did. But that would not be at all fair, because this is pretty much how I reacted a few nights back when a bat made its flappy, erratic way into our bedroom at 3 o'clock in the morning, and every ounce of my feminist principles left me as I muffled shrieks like a little girl and let the Man of the House deal with that flappity-flapping, hair tangling, potentially rabid little fucker....

(I was protecting my unborn child, you understand...)

Bless me bloggahs for I have sinned, it has been HOW LONG...?

Well thank christ I got memed by Neva, so I could climb back on this here bloggy thing. It's been over two weeks since I posted, and this has not been a conscious decision at all. Even though I waxed lyrical about the need for distance and a break in my last post, this was not intended as my swan song. Honest! I have missed blogging, and more to the point, reading you all--I've not even been able to lurk. Here, in a nutshell, are the snivelling excuses for my absence:

Sick as a DOG.
Enjoyed a few days languishing in my snot-infested, "my body is telling me to take it easy, let me recline in my bed, drink tea, and read novels." Then moved onto a few days of "OK, why am I not getting better? I am BORED of this already, and classes start in two days, and husband is finding this newfound role as single parent and nursemaid to Camille on her deathbed a leeeetle tiresome.

Then on to: "Fuck, classes have begun. I do not have syllabus. What am I teaching again? Did I order the books. FUUUCK!" (all this punctuated by much nose-blowing, and hacking up of phlegm).

All this, along with a myriad of others things:
--About 500 deadlines at work coming to a head.

--Community volunteer work--and yes, I'm a fucking saint. We're organizing our annual neighborhood Home Tour, and yeah yeah it is very rewarding, but it takes bloody FOREVER. And I could not get out of it, having bad habit of sitting at meetings in February and saying "hey, I can do that, and that, and that, and THAT. COUNT ME IN!!!" and then resenting the shit out of it when it's time to walk-the-walk.

--New semester at preschool for son. Transition of teachers, anxiety and teeth gnashing on my part, but not, thankfully, on his....

--Trying to work on own academic writing/publications. Whoring around on the other academic blog I threatened a while back in the process, and finding that that type of blogging is far more angst-ridden and less fun than this type of blogging (go figure).

--Looking--with nauseaus pit in stomach--at upcoming Job Market list and prospects, and do soul searching about all that shit (for another post, methinks)

--Planning for son's fourth birthday party this weekend. Dear LORD! gift bags? (where did the days of a balloon and a slab of cake go???) Invitations? CAKE?? Homemade??? Balloons? Pizza? "Healthful snacks??" On this score, I think we have been very wise, and arranged an offsite party at local kid museum--complete with a slime-workshop. Nonetheless, I am stressing like only I can when I have too much spinning in my brain. Mainly about the cake, which I have apparently selected as the sublimated focus of all my anxiety. Mommyguilt--uh, I mean, my creative spirit--has me making a cake from scratch. A "construction site" cake has been requested. I originally lept on this with whole hearted enthusiasm. How hard can it be? A bit of chocolate butter icing and some matchbox diggers, and we're done, right? But now I am vexing over the aesthetics of the venture. Will it just look like a bunch of vehicles chucked on top of brown cake with holes in it? Do I include white plastic male construction workers? (cheaply available at dollar store, but not reflective of gender and racial diversity I like to brainwash my kid with). I will keep you updated and post photographs of the final accomplishment. Even if it does look like a poo-poo cake with white boys and their toys on it.

OK--so now to the meme. I am notoriously bad at having to select "one" of anything in these things. But I'll give it a stab.

1. One book you have read more than once:
First Term at Mallory Towers by Enid Blyton. This was the first in a series of frightfully British "girls boarding school" books that she wrote, and I lived vicariously through them all. And let me say, they are fucking awful, and you should never let your daughter read them. They divide girls into two types--evil ones who hate school, and are spoilt, and do not do their work, speak their minds, and are generally either fat or whorish (if especially bad, they wear a hint of rouge and brassy jewellry). The good ones who are "jolly" and rosy-cheeked and become Head Girl. I wanted to be one of the good ones...

2. One book you would want on a desert island:
25,000 Crossword Puzzles.

3. One book that made you laugh:
Straight Man by Richard Russo (recommended by Neva, devoured by me and Old Man)

4. One book that made you cry:
Ayun Halliday's Mama Langa Ding Dong (The Big Rumpus) sent to me by the sweet sweetney. This book carried me through those first days of languishing in bed. I cried, I laughed, and I got even more snot-ridden in the process. If you have not read it, go and get yourself a copy NOW.

5. One book you wish you had written:
All those Harry Potter ones. I would be fricking rolling in it.

6. One book you wish had never been written:
The Bible. (KIDDING!)

The Baby Book, by William M.F. Sears.

(cowardly disclaimer: it's not so much that I wish it had not been written, as that I had not read it. It did a complete number on me, as some of you know...)

7. One book I am currently reading:

Oryx and Crake, by Margaret Atwood (weird-ass shit, but marvelous)

8. One book I keep meaning to read:

Ulysses, by James Joyce (my old man is a Joyce Scholar, so it would be a nice gesture on my part don't you think? But somehow I can only make it through Joyce's freshman fodder--Dubliners and all that.)

Oh, and The Devil Wears Prada. Equally challenging, methinks.

9. One book that has changed your life:
Jeez. This is a tough one. Uhm... I am not one for momentous life-changes in one sitting. This might indicate a shallow personality, I realize. Books that have had a profound influence on me: Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace, Jeanette Winterson's Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, Zadie Smith's White Teeth, Toni Morrison's Beloved.

Oh, and Delia Smith's Complete Cookery (I shit you not--and there is a whooole post brewing on Delia, let me tell you. Excited???)

Stay tuned for update on cake-making adventures.