Oh My God. This is what we have done.

First, let it be noted that I debated for quite some time about whether I should blog my birth experience. One, because it seems kinda cliché. Every woman on the planet who has given birth seems to have also written about it. Women who have never felt the urge to put two words together on paper and their only written communication consists primarily of phrases like “omg” and “lol” over text message will find the ability deep within themselves to blog out their birth experience. We all know I avoid clichés like the plague. Two, because birthing a child involves lady business. I have a deep-seated conservative, Catholic ideology that I will never be able to shake. Try as I might, sometimes I cannot help being embarrassed/ashamed/confused about the womanlyness that God has bestowed upon me. I DO NOT talk about my parts. Especially on the internet. Thanks Eve.

I quickly realized that as long as I am a mother, I will never completely avoid being a cliché. I have found that we mamas cannot stop behaving in some kind of predetermined pattern. Apparently this is called instinct and most women are born with it. I’m planning a trip very soon to JC Penny to try on some Mom Jeans. Also, once you give birth you realize that there is no discretion involving your lovely ladyness. Everyone and anyone is up there and you might as well get over it and save yourself a lot of grief.

So here it is, three and a half months after little Luke came into this world, I’ve finally wrapped my head around the fact that I am indeed a giver of life and here is the story of how he got here:

I think I was pregnant forever. There was a point when I couldn’t remember there ever being a time when I wasn’t pregnant. When I first went to see my midwife, she gave me a due date of January 15. My first ultrasound put my due date at January 27, but throughout my pregnancy my midwife maintained that she thought the baby would be born around the 15^th. Since she accurately guessed that the baby was a boy just by hearing her heartbeat, I chose to trust her majestic earthy years of experience over medical science. I adamantly told everyone that the baby was due on the 15^th of January, I was going to have a little Capricorn. After January 15^th came and went I woke up every morning thinking that that day would be the day only to sadly watch the minutes tick into midnight babyless. When January 27^th came and went I got outwardly impatient and started doing everything I could think of to urge the baby to come on out. By the way, sex does not work. This must be a myth that men came up with because they know that once the kid is here you will be off-limits for a good two months.

I REFUSED to carry the baby until February.

When February rolled around my midwife encouraged me to induce labor. Partially because the baby was looking BIG. I had one final ultrasound that estimated he was around nine pounds. Mostly, though, because I was looking big. I was not one of those cute, glamorous pregnant women. I had the distinct pleasure of being pregnant at the same time as the outrageously beautiful Penelope Cruz, and the paparazzi could not get enough of her looking like a stunning curvaceous mamacita flaunting her bump on the beach. I looked more like a gordita. I was so swollen that my face turned blue. I had neck rolls. It was disgusting. I had a very detailed birth plan and inducing labor was not part of it. I really wanted to have a drug free natural birth but I was so tired and I just wanted the kid out, plus the midwife assured me that I could go without pain meds, even if we induced, if that’s what I really wanted.

We decided to induce on February 3, which happened to be the coldest day of my entire life. This is not an exaggeration. It was so cold that the heater cracked the windshield on our family-friendly station wagon and the entire state suffered a natural gas shortage. I arrived at the hospital fully prepared for the journey at hand. I brought my birth plan printed in triplicate, with the finer points also reduced to 3x5 index cards, as well as an iPod loaded with soothing music for welcoming my son into the world and an entire bag full of supplies I had packed weeks ahead of time and deemed absolutely necessary.

I was adamantly opposed to using pitocin, the drug often used to induce labor so I agreed to use a drug called misoprostal, which is a drug normally used to treat ulcers, but somehow they figured out that if you stick it up there it makes the baby come. I would really like to know what led that experiment: “Hey what would happen if we stuck ulcer drugs up pregnant women’s vaginas?” I got my first dose of miso at around 11 am, and after hours and hours of walking around the hospital with no progress I was given another dose around 8 pm and I dozed off, trying to save my energy for the long night ahead. At around midnight I woke up and I was FINALLY having contractions around 4 minutes apart and I lost my mucus plug (yuck). Yes! I was in labor! The nurse came in and I told her what I’d discovered and she told me I wasn’t dilated enough to be in labor and that I needed another dose of miso. So, because apparently this nurse knows more about my body than I do, I let her go ahead with giving me another dose of the drug even though I felt like it really wasn’t necessary. She also readjusted my fetal monitor because they baby was moving away from it and they kept losing his signal. I practiced breathing and I was super proud of myself for getting through the contractions like a champ. They were painful, but not skull crushing painful. This wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Around 3 am my water broke and I was even more excited. The baby was coming! The baby was coming! I called in the nurse who became concerned because the baby still kept moving around too much and she and the midwife on duty decided that they would need to put me on an internal fetal monitor. As they were setting this up, the contractions suddenly, without warning, got intensely, thereisnowayimgoingtolivethroughthis painful. My whole body felt like it was in a vice and my legs could not stop shaking. So this was labor. Holy fuck.

The internal monitor did not remedy the “baby is moving too much situation” and they determined that that his heartbeat was actually stopping – they weren’t just losing a signal, luckily it would quickly recover. So they put me on oxygen and started making my try different positions “to get the baby off the cord”. As I was on my hands and knees, trying to support my massive pregnancy weight on my shaking legs and not pass out from the pain, the baby’s heartbeat stopped completely and did not recover.

The situation quickly went from just a midwife and a nurse to what seemed like the entire hospital staff in the room. I don’t know how everyone got there, but there was a lot of running. I couldn’t keep track of faces or hear what anyone was saying. It was chaos. I was being poked by a seemingly endless series of needles and people kept shoving papers in my face for me to sign. The OBGYN seemed to appear out of thin air and told me that we were going to have to deliver the baby via c-section. For reasons I will never understand, possibly because of the blinding pain and confusion I was going through, or maybe just a genetic predisposition to stubbornness, I still thought there might be a way to salvage my carefully thought-out birth plan and I asked the doctor if I could have five minutes to think about it. The doc gave me probably the most serious look I have ever seen in my life and said “You can have five minutes to think about it, but I’m going to go prep the OR. You have less than 20 minutes before you lose this baby.”

This was when I just let go of everything. I knew that I had absolutely no control over the situation and whatever was going to happen was going to happen. The only thing I could think of doing was pray the Hail Mary over and over again while I was being wheeled to the OR and I decided not to say a word until the whole ordeal was over. I was convinced that my body had failed me and quiet was the only thing I knew for sure I was capable of.

I was given a massive epidural and I didn’t even have time to think about the giant needle being jammed up my spine because the drugs instantly calmed me into a painless oblivion I had not planned on needing. I started having all sorts of blissful thoughts and was only vaguely aware that I was about to become a mother. It was absolutely hilarious that the nurses forgot to shave me and had to go the razor from the nurses’ station. Apparently they have one razor for all the patients. It was delightful that they were missing a crucial legal document and there was a scuffle between the doctor and a nurse as to whether they could proceed with the surgery without it. (The doctor won and I signed the document later). I was vaguely aware that my body was being cut open and that the tools that the doctor was calling for were responsible for this they sounded sharp.

I became aware of the fact the radio was on and that Hotel California by The Eagles was being played and I this seemed like the perfect moment to break my vow of silence so I said, “I fucking hate The Eagles.” This was a great joke because I was quoting the The Big Lebowski and everybody loves that fine piece of cinema. However, nobody else thought it was funny as this was also the moment that my son stuck his little hand out and was then pulled from my body into this world. There were a lot of OH MY GODs from the operators and a small bundle was passed to a group of NICU nurses who began to work furiously over it. What the hell just happened?

Then a tiny cry filled the room and reality hit. I was a mother. I was shown a tiny little human, who was already asking for food via his trademark 'milk face' and I loved him forever. All of the waiting, planning and song picking, and I had just become a parent during the vocal styling of Don Henley. And it was the most amazing moment of my life.

I later learned that when they cut me open they discovered that not only did Lucas have the cord crisscrossed over his chest, but when he dropped into the birth canal he took his hand and some of the cord with him and had it stuck between his hand and his head. Hand in birth canal = bad. Cord in birth canal = bad. Both = very bad. Every time I would have a contraction this combination would constrict the cord and cut off the baby’s oxygen, and that is why he was in distress. We got him out just in time. We got very, very lucky.

Despite a scarily low initial APGAR score, Lucas turned out to be a healthy, hearty 8lb 2oz eating machine and doesn’t seem to have suffered any ill-effects from his dramatic entry into the world. He is also the most amazing thing to ever happen, ever and everything he does is unique and wonderful. He might be the only baby that was ever born ever as I am the first mother to ever be a mother ever.

His mama, with the aid of some healthy doses of Percocet has also recovered. Although she still cries every time she hears Hotel California. She’ll probably never get over that.

OH MY GOD. What have we done?

It was exactly a year ago that I found myself obsessively running 5 miles every morning and surviving off of about 500 calories a day trying to lose an inhuman amount of weight in a very short amount of time. I was also doing daily facials and exfoliating like a madwoman. I know, it sounds like the beginning of a Lifetime movie which involves some kind of dramatic family intervention and me ending up at resort-like rehab facility and through some serious soul searching I heroically overcome my demons. I wasn't crazy. I was just getting married. And I had to look perfect, and this was the most important thing in the entire world. Ever. I did, and it was.

Fast forward to 8 months of marital bliss: Memorial day weekend. The husband and I decided to go see the Symphony under the Stars because it's the the kind of thing young newlyweds do because they are young and in love. It was also SALUTE TO AMERICA night and what is more romantic than the 1812 Overture? (Side note: how come we associate that piece with patriotism? Wasn't it written for RUSSIA's independence?) Anyway, we had bought a terrible yet overpriced bottle of wine and I poured us each a glass and then promptly knocked the bottle of wine over into grass leaving me with a single Dixie cup of rancid grape juice, which was ok because all those cannons were giving me a headache anyway.

The next morning I woke up and I was HUNGOVER. I couldn't believe that I got that sick off of a single glass of wine -- but it was really bad wine so I figured it was the tannins or the sulfates or something. As the day wore on I drank a gallon of water and I still didn't feel any better. I tried to eat a turkey sandwich and it was the most disgusting thing I'd ever tasted. I felt like crap, but something else started nagging at the back of my mind: when exactly was my last period? I added up the weeks and I was late. My pill prescription had just expired and I hadn't had a chance to get to the Dr. yet - but we were using alternate methods of birth control and I knew that it takes your body some time get back on track so I tried to tell myself not to freak out over nothing. The chances of me being pregnant were one in a billion or some official statistic like that.

But I couldn't get the thought out of my head. The next day I had the husband drive me to Walgreens and I picked up a 3 pack of EPT pregnancy tests. He figured I was being my normal drama queen self but he knew if he didn't just let me prove it to myself that I wasn't pregnant I'd just spend the rest of the weekend making both of us miserable. When we got home he actually offered me a beer before I took the test.

Pregnancy test instructions are pretty simple. You pee on the stick and wait five minutes and then you know your future. So I took the test and within seconds a blue plus sign appeared. I figured I'd done something wrong -- because I was getting a result before the recommended wait time. I threw that test out and took another one -- this time I turned it over and waited the requisite five minutes before I looked at the results. Another plus sign. At this point I re-read the entire box, the directions in English and in Spanish and then looked up the directions again online for good measure because I knew I had to be reading the test wrong. They all confirmed that plus sign = pregnant. So I then I turned the test upside down, looked at it from a 75 degree angle and 10 feet back - still a plus sign. I then confirmed with my husband that I did indeed know what a plus sign looked like because I've never been that good at math. Things were getting strange. The next Tuesday before I went to work I took another test -- this one came up with a totally blank result even half an hour later. So I knew for sure I did something wrong -- the logical conclusion was that I just didn't know how to take a pregnancy test. When I got home from work that night I looked at that test, and it had somehow developed a plus sign too. Hmm...

It was time to go to the Dr. because something must be wrong. I knew she was just going to tell me that my hormones were out of whack because I'd just gone off the pill and to stop freaking out. Instead she told me I was 8 weeks pregnant. I wasn't just pregnant, I was pretty darn pregnant. That night I went home and read everything on the entire Internet about pregnancy. Turns out I had pretty much every single pregnancy symptom in recorded history . I'd just been too oblivious to figure it out on my own.

My first reaction was fear. I had not been taking care of myself for the past 8 weeks and I was terrified that I'd hurt my baby somehow. I'd been drinking and smoking a little and god knows what kind of junk I'd been eating. Plus, the internets are particularly cruel to pregnant women - there are 5 million super rare things that can happen to a developing baby that WebMd will tell you for sure are all happening. Thankfully an early ultrasound and an understanding midwife confirmed that the baby was healthy and developing on track.

My second reaction was fear. My husband and I were not equipped to have a baby. He had just finished up his first year of grad school and I was just getting started with my career. We had a carefree existence of randomly taking off on the weekends and drinking for 3 days straight in Vegas. Don't get me wrong, we wanted kids, just later. I had always said that I wanted to be at least 30 years older than my first child -- and we were ahead of schedule. Hell, we didn't have the kind of car you could put a child in.

However, my most intense reaction was pure love. I was instantly and forever attached to this tiny being developing inside of me. I knew that whatever it was I used to think my future was had been all wrong. This was the most right, most incredible thing that had ever happened to me. I instantly devoted my life to giving this child the best life possible. I find myself crying daily at the unfathomable miracle that a baby is -- how so many things in the world had to come together at just the perfect moment to create this little life. And although I knew that I loved my husband from the moment I first saw him, I began to love him on an entirely different level once I found out he was going to be the father of my child. It's like ultralove or something . All I know is that I used to think I knew what love was, and now I know I had no idea.

I guess I've become a cliche. And I don't care.

So now as I approach my first wedding anniversary I'm fatter than I've ever been in my life. I couldn't run five miles even if my feet didn't ache in every pair of shoes I own and I have skin like a thirteen-year-old. And it is the most perfect thing. Ever.

Not Everybody is Catholic

And other religious lessons learned in small-town New Mexico

When Mike and I decided to get married we were faced with quite the conundrum: My parents said that their only request was that we get married in the Catholic Church. This "tiny request" presented us with quite the conundrum, although Mike was raised Catholic he was not confirmed. Further, Mike and I were already living together and couldn't even consider ourselves Christmas and Easter Catholics, big no-nos that would require major reconciliation in most churches before we'd be allowed to walk down the aisle. We looked around at churches and finally found a liberal church that would let us get hitched with minimal adherence to Vatican doctrine. I was delighted with our new church's lack of pews and what can only be described as "Happy Dancing Jesus" in place of the crucified Christ that adorns most Catholic churches.

Despite the church's lack of conventional furniture I was still not prepared for our first and only meeting with the Priest. We walked into his office and the first things I noticed were his lack of a collar, the giant bottle of gin and a giant, friendly chocolate lab. He started off the conversation by asking if I was on birth control and I freaked because I was afraid if I told the truth we'd be kicked out right then and there. Imagine my surprise when he encouraged me to remain on the pill until I was ready to have children, and further explained that this wasn't the 50's when we knew nothing about child psychology and we weren't "raising a farm" so I should not feel obligated to have tons and tons of children. My jaw nearly hit the ground when he said that we should encourage said children to explore their sexuality and to never make them feel ashamed for masturbating. At this point I gave a quick look at the priest's pupils because I was sure he was on acid. After I confirmed his sobriety and got over the sheer embarrassment of having such a conversation with a priest I realized that even not all Catholics are the same and started thinking other times when I realized that not everyone believed exactly what I believed.

Lutherans make the best snacks

The first time I ever went to a Lutheran church was when I was 4 or 5 years old and my mom sent me to a vacation bible school at a church a few blocks from our house. I must have been a particularly annoying child that summer for my mom to hand me over to the Lutherans, but nonetheless, I LOVED that place. Particularly because every time we passed the church, which was often because you couldn't leave our neighborhood without passing it, I saw my first true crush: the Holy Grail of swing sets. It was big, shiny and had a spectacularly amazing looking slide. This is the kind of thing that can stir up incomprehensible longing in a young girl. I must have told my parents that we should join that church at least 10 times a week. After what seemed like years of yearning the bible school finally gave me my chance to swing to my heart's content, teeter-totter like an Olympian and scorch my baby thighs on the slick metal of that glorious, glorious slide heated to a perfect 200 degrees in the July sun. The church service itself seemed pretty familiar: I had to sit still, be quiet and listen to some old guy talk endlessly about stuff I didn't understand. The upside was they gave me my very own miniature bible (which I couldn't read but didn't have to share with my brother and sister -- even though I'm sure Jesus would've appreciated it) and introduced me to one of the greatest culinary delights known to man: the cupcake in an ice cream cone. This little confection took the two most incredible known kid foods and made them into one harmonious child-size delight covered in gobs and gobs of icing. I was in heaven -- however, I must have liked the Lutheran vacation bible school a little too much because for some unknown reason I was taken out halfway through the week never to go back again.

More recently I attended a Lutheran service for passing of a dear friend's father and found myself thinking many of the same things: It was a lot like the Catholic church (they even do the Apostle's creed!) except there was more singing, less standing up and sitting down and once again the superb snacks. I ate something that can only be described as chocolate, marshmallow ecstasy as well as about 20 different types of miniature sandwiches.

Oh, and as life would have it, I now pass the old Lutheran church of my youth on my daily commute to the cube farm and that old longing creeps back up. Over the years they've upgraded to a FULL PLAYGROUND. It looks so awesome that most days I am tempted to call in sick and swing all day long.

Jews are Catholic because Jesus was Jewish, right?

In the first grade my best friend, Bristol, was the coolest person I'd ever met. She was smart, fashionable, sassy, and always smelled really, really good. She was also Jewish and this was totally awesome in my six-year-old mind because Jesus was Jewish and most of the songs I knew at the time were either about Jesus or jump roping. Needless to say, I wanted to be just like Bristol. I didn't understand why my family didn't own a menorah (probably because I was a mini-pyromaniac, but that's another post) and I wanted to go to Hebrew school rather than catechism. I even went so far as to select the one and only RIF book specifically laid out for the two Jewish kids in school (Bristol and her brother) at one of the bi-yearly book giveaways. It was a bright shiny Hanukkah activity book and had stickers and wicked cool pictures of colorful soldiers. I actually remember Bristol being seriously peeved at me for choosing it because for whatever reason I was allowed first pick of books that day and she really wanted it -- but I didn't care it was the coolest book in the world and it was MINE. I think that book lasted about 1 week in our house until it some how disappeared in the way things that parents don't exactly approve of do.

The hardest thing for me understand at that time was why I couldn't be both Catholic and Jewish. Maybe it's because a lot of the stories used to teach young children about the Bible are from the Old Testament. Think about it: Noah's Ark = practically every nursery's decor in America. I seriously felt like they were one in the same and didn't understand why the adults had to constantly point out that they were different. We were different: Bristol was one and I was the other. The older I get the more I understand that these kinds of definitions have caused 90% of the wars in the world. Stupid adults.

The Rapture is not the same as a raptor, but almost.

In high school, still believing that essentially everyone believed in same thing that I did, I started to get involved with the Born Again Christian movement that was growing mighty popular at that time. The Left Behind series could be found at any local Wal-Mart end cap, Mega-Churches were the new Club 54 and anyone who was anyone had a deluxe personalized bible cover. I know it's hard to believe, but in high school I was determined to do exactly what everyone else was doing, so I tagged along with my to the charismatic services and pizza buffet Bible studies with glee.

The thing about these kids is that the kept talking about THE RAPTURE (which I'm pretty sure always appears in all caps). I had no idea what the fuck they were talking about. Let's be clear here, the Catholics have more books in their Bible, not less, so we definitely have the Book of Revelations. We just don't take it that seriously. I once asked a priest about it and he said something like "Eh, we kinda take the Book of Revelations with a grain of salt -- it was written long after the other books of the Bible and we don't know if those guys really knew what they were talking about. But it's a good story."

It scared the shit out of me. Of course I never actually took the intuitive to read it, but my friends were more than happy give my all the gritty details. There were horsemen and Prophets and some kind of global speaker system. You were guaranteed to either to get vaporized or your have head chopped off. And most of all JESUS HATED CATHOLICS. Believing in Mary or Saint Anthony was pretty much the Mark of the Beast itself -- I was destined for hell.

Still, even though many of my Catholic friends were more than happy to give up Communion wafers for Vanilla Wafers, I was not so sure. Instead I created some kind of religious hybrid -- I was determined to reconcile both religions within myself and cover all my bases. I threw my hands up and sang Christian Rock and went home and prayed the Rosary. I went to two youth groups a week and spent copious amounts of time defending each side to the other. I was intensely religious and I probably freaked a lot of people out. I wore a gold necklace that said "Worth Waiting For" and I once spent 45 minutes in drama class explaining how the greatest wedding gift I could give to my husband was my virginity (ha ha).

And Now? Where will I spend eternity?

Eventually just became too much or maybe I just went to college, but either way I pretty much gave up on all of it. I stopped listening to everyone and just listened to myself. I haven't been excommunicated but I guess I'm still technically a Catholic. I can't believe in a God who sends people to hell based simply on semantics and I don't understand why you'd ever start a war over God because I think that would seriously annoy him. I call God him because there isn't a respectful genderless pronoun but I don't think he really cares. I guess I'm just like every other cliche 20-something bleeding heart out there and I really don't know if you go anywhere after you die but I think you shouldn't live your life any less because you're afraid of the answer. I'm just trying be a good person and that should get me points with someone, somewhere. :) OH MAN, I couldn't resist ending this with an emoticon!

Why Would Anyone Ever Want 50 Chicken McNuggets?

Picture this: Mike and I are driving slow on a Sunday morning (probably jamming to Maroon 5) in my sweet little vintage automobile when when we see it:

NFL SPECIAL

50 CHICKEN McNUGGETS

$9.99

"WHAT?!" Mike says, as he grinds the car to a screeching halt about 2 micrometers from the Golden Arched marquee "50 McNuggets for 10 bucks! That's incredible!"

"It's not that big of a deal," I say, pulling my nails out of the upholstery,   "We used to get that all the time when I was a kid, you know how my mom thinks 50 is one of God's numbers." 

"You've heard of this before?!"

Of course I had heard of it. I  grew up in Los Lunas where everything, especially fast food, is purchased in bulk in case there is ever a famine/depression/impromptu family reunion.

"Why haven't you ever told me about this? Think of all you can do with 50 Chicken McNuggets!" 

Mike hadn't heard of the 'NFL SPECIAL'  because he grew up in Los Alamos, which I'm pretty sure is the only place on earth where they opened a McDonald's and shut it down a year later because nobody in the whole damn town had developed a taste for the Big Mac.

"Mike, the only thing you can do with 50 Chicken McNuggets is eat some, feel guilty and fat, eat some more to make yourself feel better and before you know it you can't fit into a wedding dress and you can't stop crying."

"But the sauces, Jamie!  Think of the sauces.  You could try every single sauce McDonald's has to offer. We have to do this." 

Mike gets to wear a tux.

"No, Mike we don't. It's nine in the morning and there are only two of us,  we are not getting 50 chicken McNuggets. Plus I don't like condiments, you know that."

So that's that right? Life is happy and Mike listens to me like he always does. No obscene amount of McNuggets for breakfast.  

Sadly, as the day wore on there was obscene amount of McNugget talk.  Mike couldn't get the idea out of his head and after a full day of listening to nugget chatter I finally gave in Mike and I headed to towards that same fated marquee which had so piqued his interest 8 hours earlier and we picked up 50 Chicken McNuggets for dinner.

The first thing we learned is that 50 chicken McNuggets is a hell of a lot of food. It took 2 big bags to hold all of our McNuggets, I instantly knew that we had over done it:

Mustache bag guy is pretty creepy

Also, as you may notice, Mike got way too excited at the drive-through and when the asked him what sauce he wanted all he could think of was sweet and sour, so we ended up with 11 of them. In an attempt to redeem himself, Mike found some other sauces:

Man, we're classy folk

In their defense, those little McNuggets did look pretty good.. all warm and golden and nuggety:

Worth their weight in gold

So we got to work eating the McNuggets and Mike pretty much lost himself in some kind of fried chicken/condiment frenzy and in an attempt to prove that we hadn't purchased 7 pounds of chicken-like food product in vain he wolfed down more nuggets than is considered safe by the Surgeon General:

I can't believe I'm marrying this guy.

I indulged a bit too, wedding dress be dammed:

How Sarah Palin eats a McNugget

After about  20 minutes my jeans felt like they were ripping at the seams, my body image had plummeted far into the depths of a sweet and sour tub and we still had a ridiculous amount of nuggets left, so we did the only thing feasible with them... puppy treats!!

I can has a McNugget?

I don't recommend feeding your dog Chicken McNuggets as they pretty much turned Butters into some kind of demon dog:

Nom!

We soon learned that unless you're a family of 5 or you live in a frat, buying 50 chicken McNuggets at a time is probably not the best idea. Aside from the, you know ramifications that kind of marketing scheme on the health of the American public. However,  in the end, every single last one of those damn nuggets were consumed, here's the final tally:

Jamie: 12

Mike:  22 (um, gross.)

Herman: 8

Butters: 8

Wedding dress: 0

The wreckage. And we washed it all down with Coke Zero.

Here Comes Another Bride

So, if you haven't heard, as of April 18, I am officially a wife-to-be.  It appears that after 3 and a half years putting up with all the theatrics that are Jamie Armer,  Mike has decided he can do it for a lifetime.  We're all hoping that a new last name will curb some of the neuroses. We're giving ourselves a year to get together some kind of nuptial shindig in which there will generous libations and all the other  happenings that occur when two lovebirds such as ourselves get hitched . That said, I've spent the last month getting schooled in all that is old, new, borrowed and blue and here are some of the more important things I've learned:

It's not cool to announce your engagement on Myspace/Facebook

Apparently it really ticks people off to find out such big news through their favorite social networking site.  In my defense, I called everyone who I thought should be called (i.e. anyone whose phone number was stored in my cell phone) within about 14 nano seconds of him putting the ring on my finger and the two of us spent our entire first betrothed weekend on the phone chatting it up with friends and relatives around the country.  So the mass e-nouncement probably wasn't the best idea, but I was excited and I wanted to get the news out as quickly as possible.  A huge chunk of my life is dedicated to getting The News out as quickly as possible and it's a hard habit to shake.  I still feel pretty bad about hurting peoples' feelings and  all so if you would like me to call you so we can discuss my engagement please send me your phone number and I will do so. 

Everyone expects you to have some kind of complicated engagement story

It's the same deal as when I graduated college and everyone asked me what I was going to do with the rest of my life -- they never seem satisfied with my answer. Ours was cute and simple. He took me to the Sandia Crest.  He got down on one knee. I said yes and called him a punkass. It was cold so we went home.  People always seem so disappointed when I tell them this story that it makes me feel like I should start embellishing a bit. Next time someone asks me how he proposed I'm going to say "Well, for some reason I was standing all alone on Sandia Crest in a beautiful evening gown, when all of the sudden Mike drops out of the sky via a white satin parachute and when he hits the ground a 20 piece brass band comes out of nowhere and starts playing our favorite song, then he gets down on one knee and I look up and notice we're on the jumbotron, and I start to cry and say 'Yes! Yes! Of course!' and the whole crowd erupts in applause and then the Pope comes out and tells us congratulations." Maybe that will keep them satisfied.

You will be judged on your engagement ring even more than your shoes

Mike and I discussed getting engaged long before it actually happened and I made it very clear to him that I did not want a typical engagement ring -- particularly, I did not want a diamond.  I really really wanted some type of blue stone and spent a lot of time daydreaming while googling aquamarine and topaz but I could never really find anything online that I absolutely loved.  Mike, being the geologist, opted to go with a sapphire because of some complicated geological reason that I don't understand, perhaps because it has good cleavage, and picked out one of the most beautiful stones I have ever seen and had it set in a elegant swirl setting.  It is the perfect. I have, however,  had a mixed reaction from the public.  I've had a few people give me sad eyes and say "Well, you can get a diamond later on in life,"  as if my sapphire is some kind of placeholder for compressed carbon.  Trust me, we didn't go cheap with my ring -- we went with what I wanted -- which is worth more than anything else anyway.  I've also been given a few "Well.. that's unique.  I wouldn't have gone with it myself, but..." Well, that's why I'm engaged and you're not, bitch.  And of course there's the "It's uh, 'pretty'" FUCK OFF.  It's my ring and it makes me so happy I want to burst into a billion little bits of sapphire joy which will severely irritate the contact lenses of the cynics of the world, thus making them cry tears of joy, sapphire joy. 

The point is, everyone has an opinion, and when it comes to getting married, everyone has two, but unless  they're going to somehow get tied in that knot with you, the only that matters is what a makes the Mr. and the Mrs. (THAT'S GOING TO BE ME!! YAY!) happy.  We've got a lifetime of not doing what everyone expects us to do ahead of us and it's way too early in the game to let it start getting us down. 

Just Google It

This is what was going through my head on the way home tonight: I wonder what the difference between hypochondria and mitochondria is, because you know, they both sound the same. I mean know that I hypochondria is when you think you're sick all the time and mitochondria are like bacteria or something like that, but I wonder why they both end in chondria? How could the two words possibly be related? Why do they have the same suffix? What the hell does chondria mean? I wish I would have taken Greek in college. Or maybe Latin. Chondria sounds more Latin right? I took Spanish, what in Spanish sounds like chondria? Man, I wish I would have paid more attention in Spanish class. Remember how hot that 2nd year Spanish TA was? I think he played soccer. Soccer players are hot -- that's why I have no idea what in Spanish sounds like chondria -- man I guess I'll just look it up when I get home. Me gusta jugadores de futbol. Muchachos guapos.

And Google it I did. The first thing I learned was that I should have also paid more attention in biology class, as mitochondria are the parts of a cell that give it energy. My friend in med school is probably ripping out her hair right now. That's trichotillomania by the way. Also, I learned from this nifty website that chondria is Greek and it means cartilage. So if hypo means below, one who is a hypochondriac is concerned with what is below the (rib) cartilage. So that sort of makes sense. So what about mito? It means thread. So thread cartilage? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Ok we're going to have to back up. Because mitochondria is actually plural for mitochondrion so our root is actually chondrion, which means granule. Now we've got something like thready granule, and if you look at an image of a mitochondrion it starts to make sense.

Ok so enough with the etymology lesson (and the italics!) My point is that through the magic of internet search engines it has become incredibly easy for us to find out about anything at anytime. Our strangest curiosities are instantly quenched at the click of the mouse. At any given time of the day I can find out the calorie content in a Carl's Jr. Western Bacon Cheeseburger (A LOT) or diagnose myself with a rare and incurable disorder that usually only affects chickens in Nigeria.

At heart I am a true lover of books and libraries but I have to admit that the internet has its merits. It seems like I've spent days on end at Snopes.com and Mentalfloss.com I just wonder if this plethora of instant knowledge makes us any smarter. It kinda feels like easy come easy go.

Is knowledge more valuable if it's earned? I mean if you spend all day rolling out pasta dough and squashing tomatoes and then cooking a lasagna in a wood fired oven with logs you gathered from the forest (barefoot) and then ate it you would be full right? But if you put 2 HotPockets in the microwave for a minute thirty and then ate them you'd also be full. Same result right? If you're full, you're full. But are you satisfied? I guess it depends on how good of a cook you are.

Feels like all I have time for right now is HotPockets.

Fatty Fatty Fat Fat

Last Friday night the boy and I found ourselves at our friendly neighborhood Target seeking some much needed essentials.  Four years ago I would have been mortified to find myself at Target on a Friday night because I would have been convinced that the rest of the world would be out having a way better night than I was and thus making much better use of their time on earth and deeming me a complete waste of space.  However, on this particular Friday night I was feeling pretty good because I was with my man and I was looking pretty darn cute -- I had on a new outfit and my hair was behaving -- I couldn't have been happier. That is until we encountered on particularly horrible child: a five year old little blonde girl who was left to play in the isles while her inattentive mother sorted through oversized tee-shirts and high waisted khakis in the women's department.  When I walked past this particular child she pointed at me and said rather loudly "She's fat!" My jaw dropped and I looked to my boyfriend to make sure I wasn't hearing things.  The little girl's mother paid no attention to her demon child and stayed contemplating life's most pressing question: pleats or no pleats?  Unsatisfied with her mother's response the little girl tried again, this time more loudly with an even grander gesture,  she once again pointed at me and shouted "SHE'S FAT!"  This time her mother -- who wasn't particularly slim herself -- looked up briefly at me and shushed  her child and then  continued on with her chest-high khaki quest.  A few other shoppers gave the child mortified looks and then looked to see if I was indeed fat -- the mother however made no attempt to rectify her child's actions.

In reaction to being branded a Target Heifer(R),  I ran and hid in the shoe department and sobbed while my poor boyfriend -- doubly out of his realm  in the midst  shoes and a shattered self image --  tried his best to console me.   When I finally came out of hiding mascara streaked and and runny nosed I wandered the isles scrutinizing every other woman in the store just to make sure I wasn't the fattest person there.  In a final, desperate attempt to make me feel better, my boyfriend insisted on  stopping at Starbucks on the way out and I almost broke down again when I ordered a Skinny Latte and I couldn't help but wonder if the clerk was laughing on the inside.

On the way home from the store I began to play the scene over and over again in my head, except each time I had some time of witty remark to shoot back at the child and her mother:

"Yeah, well you're ugly."

"Oh honey, when you're 25 you and your boyfriend will both be wishing you had boobs like these and and ass like mine."

"You are the reason they invented birth control."

Finally though, I just felt silly for getting so upset over the whole ordeal.  Why?  Because I'm not fat and I love my body -- and it's really stupid to take anything a 5 year old says seriously.  I understand that the word "curvy" has, as of late, been grossly overused as a polite synonym for "overweight," but I am not afraid to admit that I am curvy in the truest sense of the word -- I embrace the fact that I am very nicely proportioned .  I AM NOT FAT.  No, I am not as thin as I would like to be and that is why I spend a few nights a week at the gym and try my best to eat healthy so that I can shave off a few pounds --  I know that it is imperative to my quality of life to be at a healthy weight -- but I understand that I am never going to weigh less than 140 pounds (my goal weight, which is right within my BMI) and I'm fine with the fact that I the last thing I will ever look like is a 12 year old boy.   I know that I've been blessed with some very valuable "assets" and if I needed any more proof as to how good I look I know that my boyfriend cannot keep his hands off me. 

Mostly though, my heart aches for that little girl.  I feel so bad for her that at such a young age she has already been taught to pick women apart based on hyper-unrealistic expectations.  That she hasn't even moved out of a size 6x and she's already been so bombarded with the airbrushed manipulations of the human body put out by our media that she believes all women should fit into clothes only a few sizes larger than her own.  So much so that she sees an average woman such as myself and feels the need to brand me fat.  What in the world is her mother so preoccupied with that she cannot take the time to instill in her child a healthy body image?

I understand that America is in the midst of an obesity epidemic and I wouldn't encourage anyone to remain unhealthy but it goes both ways.  We should be striving for healthy bodies and not some manipulated ideal of beauty that does not exist in the real world.

REAL WOMEN SHOP AT TARGET.

On an end note:  When I have children if one my girls EVER said anything like that I would spank her, make her apologize and burn all her Barbies.  But that's just me.