Monday, June 8, 2015

Oh, Duggars, Just STOP.

I called it a year ago with this post, summarizing the Duggars' ridiculous 'courting' rules for their daughters.

In the light of all that's come up in the news lately, seems there was more than side hugs going on around the Duggar compound.

Apparently, "mild inappropriate touching on fully-clothed girls" is TOTALLY acceptable in their home. The poor boyfriends of the Duggar girls were barely allowed to sneak a glance at the fully-clothed girlfriends, however, if you're a blood relative, it's okay to play nighttime touchy-touchy.

And don't even GET me started on Mama Duggar who – claiming she has 19 kids because it's been "God's will" and she doesn't believe in birth control – visited IVF doctors last year to see about rounding out her brood to an even 20.  

There's no "God's will" with IVF. It's science. And it's a choice. One I fully support, because I am pro family and pro happiness. 

Ladies, I will leave you with this marital tidbit from Michelle Duggar:

"Your hubby comes home after a hard day's work, you get the baby to bed, and he is going to be looking forward to that time with you…Anyone can fix him lunch, but only one person can meet that physical need of love that he has, and you always need to be available when he calls."

Go home, Duggars.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

A year ago this weekend: bumps, boy parts and beers

While Mr. Max just reached the 8-month mark on Friday, a year ago he was just a 20-week old fetus. And Mr. KK and I headed down to Augusta for the monumental event: ultrasound and measurements and finding out he was, well, a he.

Since no one besides our parents and a few close friends even knew Baby M existed, our trip was somewhat clandestine, done in as few hours as possible to minimize time out of work (gotta save those days for my non-existent future maternity leave!) and lies to innocent bystanders.

Oblivious to how stressful this one-day trip will turn out to be.

It was surreal to see our surrogate in person, baby bump and all. When she greeted us at the airport I just about lost it. Sure, she had been sending up bump pics all along, but to see it live – and touch it! – was pretty amazing. Her bump was small and round and perfect, and as I looked down, my stomach appeared equally as large from my airport dinner. 

At our ultrasound appointment the next morning, we watched, eyes glued to the monitor, as the tech pointed and clicked and called out body parts and measurements. We had never made it this far in the process before, so we were cautiously optimistic.

"Yo, Mom and Dad!"

Just to be clear: we're having a boy.

We met with the doctor afterwards and that's when everything sort of went downhill. 

To summarize: he unprofessionally scared the shit out of us saying horrible things like "not viable at 20 weeks" and "specialist" and "amniotic fluid levels", then referred us to a high-risk specialist, whom I disliked the minute I met (I have good instincts) and whose laissez faire beside manner earned her the name Dr. Earthy Crunchy Kookpot. 

Dr. ECK talked about the kidney issue, signed us up for monthly monitoring, and said, "I wouldn't worry about it until after birth."

The we found ourselves rushing to the airport to make our flight home, thunderstorms threatening all around us (gotta love the south!).

A nice layover in Charlotte provided us an opportunity to enjoy one of our favorite IPAs (stress drinking).

Hey NoDa brewing, you got us through some tough times.
Care to send us a case of this goodness???


Saturday night we had 4 anxious and excited parents over for the big gender reveal.

They thought they were getting the necklace reveal, but instead it was hidden in what they thought was my dad's birthday cake.

And here we are, one year later, with a happy and healthy baby (with one perfect and one not-so-perfect kidney), four infatuated grandparents, and two parents who couldn't be happier, or luckier.

Monday, June 1, 2015

I'm going to write a book.



I started to write a novel. It was pure chick lit, loosely based on the time I spent living in Boston (and by 'loosely based' I mean landmarks and activities, not actual people, save for the parts about the homeless guy who begged for money every day on the Boston Common – he was real).

Then, in what could only be called a true tragedy, my laptop died and I lost everything.


Including, the 150 pages that I had written.

'But surely you had backed up your novel?' any normal person with common sense would ask, incredulously.

Well, I didn't.

I know.

Plus, it was on my work computer, so I didn't want to draw too much attention to the matter. As it was, the IT team was a little suspicious that I was that upset over a few lost headlines about sandwiches.

NOTE TO MY CURRENT EMPLOYER: I have received your multitude of email threats gentle reminders and have taken the mandated video training course (see how fun my job is!) about the "Code of Ethics, Computer Use for Personal Projects, and Harassment", passed the test, and fully comply. Thank you.

Present Day

So what was that proverbial straw, that "aha!" moment, that wake-up call where the clouds disappeared and there were rainbows and unicorns?

Reese Witherspoon.

Actually, it was Reese Witherspoon's character in the endearing rom-com Sweet Home Alabama (don't judge me).

After Wedding Crashers, Father of the Bride and Horrible Bosses, Sweet Home Alabama is one of my most-quotable movies.

The scene:

Reese Witherspoon's character, Melanie, is out at a honky tonk bar back in her hometown in Alabama, when she runs into her high school best friend LurLynn, who is hanging out at said bar, holding her baby.

Reese, startled, looks at her and says with horror, "You have a baby…at a bar."

It's a classic line, and one I repeat when I find myself and Mr. KK at a bar with OUR bar baby in tow. Which is often.

My eureka went down like this:

I was at the gym this morning (yay, me!), Kindle propped up, reading Una LaMarche's memoir, Unabrow: Misadventures of a Late Bloomer (which is hilarious, btw), when SHE quoted that very same line – MY line! – from Sweet Home Alabama.

What Una didn't know – and neither did anyone else, for that matter – was that I was going to quote that line as part of an upcoming post on this very blog.

So naturally my thought process went something like this:

          "Hey! I use that quote all the time!"

          "A very talented, published author used the same quote – 
          in a very similar way!"

          "I could be a published author!"

So at a stage in my life when I have the least amount of free time ever, and am pretty much destined to fail (I'm sure there are statistics somewhere that document how hard it is to get published), I'm going to commit to doing it. 

I will write a book.


I said it on the internet, so it must be true.

POST SCRIPT: At any point, audience, feel free to let me know if you know of any literary agents who might want to take a chance on a semi-humorous, pear-shaped girl who can cook but not bake, believes babies belong in bars, shames people who aren't good at multi-tasking, and who blames her shrinking pants on the dry clean delivery guy (who, it should be known, is her father). 

Thanks, in advance!