And so it begins

The same day I found out that I was pregnant, I called my doctor as soon as the office opened to schedule an appointment. Rookie move, I now know. I scheduled my appointment for the Friday of the following week, meaning that based on the date of my last period I would only be about six weeks along at the time that I went. I know now that it's really unnecessary to go that early...you're basically just wasting your co-payment money. Then again, it is good if it's the beginning of the year and you have a deductible to meet because DEAR LORD are those lab tests expensive. So you can work on getting that out of the way while you're still in that euphoric state where you aren't thinking about how expensive cribs and travel systems and diapers are.

My first appointment was a nightmare. Actually, let me change that. The first few weeks of this pregnancy were a nightmare. While I didn't feel any different physically, mentally I was a mess. I had made this deal with myself when Edgar and I first started trying to get pregnant that I was going to slow down and breathe. I wasn't going to let things get to me. I was going to be calm. I wasn't going to overreact and freak out and dwell on things that I had no control over. I really truly believe that high strung people have high strung babies. This may not be true for everyone, but I've definitely seen it in myself. I know a couple that are very chill, very go-with-the-flow, and guess what? Their son, who was born last year, is the same way. He doesn't cry that much, and when he does it's not that loud, and other than that he's just happy. Content. Loves his life. Then on the other hand I have a cousin who is so high strung you could pluck her and she would snap, and she's got four kids who were absolute TERRORS as children. I think that kids feed off of the cues that we give them, and I didn't want to give my baby those cues. I wanted him/her to be as healthy and as happy as possible. I'm no biologist, but I know that when you are stressed your body creates stress hormones, and since whatever is in my body is going to my baby as well, I didn't want to create that environment for him.

But I couldn't help it. I was scared. As soon as the shock and excitement of seeing that iffy pink line wore off I started filling up with all of these irrational first-time mother fears. My immediate pressing fear was that I was going to miscarry. Since I had been trying to get pregnant, I found out very early on about my pregnancy. Earlier than most women find out, earlier than the ones who aren't trying to get pregnant get over the denial to actually take a test--earlier than that point when your body or nature or whatever is may make that decision that the pregnancy isn't going to stick. Every time I went to the bathroom I steeled myself against it. Every time I felt a slight cramp I expected the worst. I became highly protective of my belly, afraid that if I even slightly bumped into a counter that I could hurt it.

Then came the appointment. I don't think, even if you aren't full of irrational fears, that the first appointment of a pregnancy can ever be very enjoyable. Because what they fail to show you on TV whenever some perky actress is pregnant is that they do not take the first ultrasound to date your pregnancy by a trans-abdominal ultrasound. Nope. Because new babies are teeny-tiny little things and are way to small to be picked up through the layers of your abdomen. Your first ultrasound is done trans-vaginally. Which means that you're naked from the waist down with an ultrasound wand stuck up your vajayjay that the doctor is turning every which way to get a good view of what's going on in your uterus. And you know how on TV the doctor always says "Ok, this might be a little bit cold" when they squeeze the ultrasound goop onto the perky actress's taut stomach? It's a hell of a lot colder when it's up inside your hoohah. So let's recap. Naked from the waist down. Ultrasound wand. Cold goop in the hoohah. UNPLEASANT.

The news from the ultrasound was terrifying as well for someone with the jitters. My doctor "would not commit" to saying that I was pregnant. She could see something on the ultrasound; something that showed that a pregnancy had started. She could see a sac. But she couldn't see anything in it. Rationally, it was just that it could have been way to early in the pregnancy to see anything. In my mind, I immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. She scheduled me for a follow-up appointment a week later.

When I got home I told Edgar what the doctor said. He of course, and thank God, told me that we had nothing to worry about, that it was just too early. He was a champ during that week, talking me up whenever he could tell that I was brooding over what had happened at the last appointment and what would happen at the next one. I know that my own attitude must have been scaring him (he's self proclaimed as knowing "absolutely nothing" about babies) but he knew I needed support and he was there for me and can I just say that I am so lucky to be going through this with him?

Edgar took the afternoon off of work to come to my appointment the next week and to hold my hand through the whole thing. I can't describe the wave of relief that swept over me as soon as the doctor turned the monitor towards us. The difference that one week made was unbelievable. Where there had been nothing the week before, there was this little itty bitty blob with a pulsating heartbeat in the center. That was our baby.

She dated the pregnancy at 6 weeks 5 days and gave a due date of October 11th. We're kind of hoping for one day early. How cool would it be to have a birthday of 10/10/10?

For our eternal souls

As is evident from my last post, Edgar and I participated in his agonizing agreement with his mother on Easter and went to church with her. Good ol' Catholic Church on Easter Sunday for a girl who is in no way Catholic. Who gets nothing out of these services except extreme annoyance at the whole stand-up, sit-down, nah just kidding stand-up again routine that these people have going on.

I'm not joking. Of an hour long service, we spent over 40 minutes on our feet. WHAT IS THE POINT OF THE FUCKING PEWS? Get rid of those and you could really pack more people in on the one day of the year when the people who are too fucking lazy and/or really don't care enough to go to church any other day of the year decide that they better take one for the team lest they end up in eternal hellfire. And then promptly forget about it the next day until Easter of the following year.

And I hate that I can be counted among those hypocritical people. I do deflect some of the blame from myself, though, since I don't actually go there for the experience of being at church, but because I'm only there because my husband made a bargain with his mom to make her get off his back about how he doesn't go to church. GUESS WHO DOESN'T HOLD UP HER END OF THE BARGAIN? Plus the fact that these rare church-going days occur on the holidays of Easter, Mother's Day, and Christmas Eve, days that we would then spend with his parents anyways, and so I'm pretty much forced into going to church with them because otherwise I would be that anti-social bitch sitting alone for an hour at his parents' house while waiting for them to get back. Plus I don't want Edgar to have to go through it alone.

Forget what anyone else tells you. THAT is love, my friends.

Oh, and this year we were ever-so-lucky that Section 5 Paragragh 2 Line 3 of this church-going agreement came into play, because we had the [mis]fortune for his mother's birthday to fall on a Sunday in January. And apparently when her birthday is on a Sunday, it becomes a church Sunday. GOODY. A Sunday that this year happened to fall two days after the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. SUPER GOODY. Which means that this pro-choicer had to listen to the beginning of a sermon damning the rights of women to have control over their reproductive systems. Luckily Edgar hates listening to things like that as well and was all "Sorry, Mom, we're outta here."

Wow, this post quickly went somewhere I was not intending it to go.

Walk this way

Having won a $25 gift card for PF Chang's at work (because I'm just that awesome), Edgar and I decided to have ourselves a little date night. Because date night for middle middle class citizens like us entails having dinner at a restaurant in the vein of PF Changs, Olive Garden, Chili's, Outback Steakhouse, etc. You know, those havens of good worker-bees. We're good little faux-yuppies pumping cash flow into the economy.

The PF Chang's at Shoreline Village is about a three-quarter mile jaunt down the street from our apartment. There's a part of the sidewalk that goes down a hill at a fairly steep grade. So la la la, there we go, walking down the street, going about our business in totally sensible shoes, and then all of a sudden BAM my left foot slips out from under me and I fall with my right knee behind me and my left leg sprawled in front of me. And besides keeping a hold to my hand, Edgar just starts laughing and I had to be all "Need I remind you about that time earlier this week when you almost died because you choked on your Diet Coke in the middle of a Jack 'n the Box? A JACK 'N THE BOX? REMEMBER THAT?" So after limping the rest of the way to the restaurant I discovered that I had torn a hole in the knee of my jeans and scraped my knee to shit.

So, you know. Awesome.

Forget the food. Get this. On the way back, walking home, all full of Dan Dan Noodle-y goodness, we passed on the street....

...you'll never guess.....

.....THE MOTHER OF MICHAEL PHELPS. That's right, the lady that pushed out of her vagina the Dumbo-eared boy (I'm thinking they used forceps) that would one day become an Olympic, no, scratch that, an AMERICAN hero that won eight gold medals in the land of China. THAT'S RIGHT, TAKE THAT COMMUNISTS. And his sister was there too. And the reason I recognized them was not because I'm a Michael Phelps stalker but because when the Summer Olympics were on in 2008 Edgar and I were glued to the events for a lack of other things to do and how many freakin' times did they show little pre-recorded segments of interviews with his mama and then show him giving his sister the flowers after he got yet another gold medal draped around his neck.

And no, just because I live in Southern California, I don't see celebrities on a daily basis. Or, in this case, people with shared glory that bask in the glow of said celebrities. So it's kind of still a big deal to me in that "girl from the Mid-West that dreamed of being a star as a child" kind of way. I think that the only celebrities I've seen since living in California were Magnum PI and Carrie Ann Inaba at the Revlon 5k in 2008.

Oh, Pine Avenue, I never know what you're going to throw at me.

What an eventful evening.

It's time

The time has come where I Edgar and I can finally start trying to have a baby. It would have been a little bit earlier, but we wanted to avoid any possible fallout from The Battle of the Flea so we wanted to wait for the next egg, just in case. Since you were so obviously wondering about my menstruation schedule. GET USED TO IT.

We’ve been wanting to have a baby for about, oh, FOREVER now. We were originally planning on having a baby right after we got engaged, when we were in those (metaphorical) drunken-stupor days that accompany an engagement. Once reality clicked back in we realized that it wasn’t the right time for us, but that we wanted to try as soon as we were married. But job losses and real life and the lack of health insurance and flea repellant kept getting in the way. Until now.

And it’s kind of freaking me out.

I’m trying to wrap my head around the idea that I’m actually allowed to have a baby. That I won’t get in trouble for it (some people would say that babies are trouble, and I’m not talking to them right now). I’m a grown up, I’m married, I have a job, I have insurance….I have the things that society says are good things to have when getting pregnant. When you’re a little kid, you look at your parents and think “How will I ever be old enough to get married? Or *giggle* have all the sex?” AND I TOTALLY AM.

Like I said: freaking me out.

I’m going to grow a whole human being. Inside of me. And it will be my little human being.

This can’t be allowed, right?

We’re going to make a whole person. We’re totally about to become someone’s parents. Someone that will always be there, day and night, that we alone will be responsible for taking care of, nurturing, feeding, clothing, teaching him or her how to tie shoes and make the perfect blend of Jack and Coke Zero.

I’m going to have to go a whole year of my life without Jack and Coke Zero.

I can’t wait.

I win

WARNING: This post is going to be about how awesome my husband is, so if you don't want to read it, or you're already sick of reading about how awesome he is, stop now. See? I'm friendly. I care. I watch out for you.

We had a work-sponsored happy hour yesterday at an El Torito Grill near the office. There are only two men that work in my office, and one of them was hesitant to RSVP last week because he didn't want to be so outnumbered by the girls. Spouses/significant others were welcome, so I told him I would bring my husband to help even up the score. Both of the guys in my office ended up not being able to go at the last minute, so Edgar, my wonderful, understanding, caring husband Edgar, had to be the only male at an all-girl happy hour. Poor guy.

I felt so bad for him, but he was so great. That man could make friends with anyone. I got nothing but good reports today from my co-workers, telling me how nice my husband was and how funny he was and how they were so happy I brought him.

My husband totally kicks the ass of any other husband.

Guacamole: A Love Story

Breaking from tradition, I went to Quizno's today for lunch. I say "breaking from tradition" because tradition is a Lean Cuisine that I eat at my desk. I could not take another Lean Cuisine. Or Healthy Choice. Or Smart Ones. Or Eating Right. I am frozen entree fried. I fear if I eat any more that I will soon be crapping only Santa Fe Rice and Beans.Thus, Quizno's.

I haven't eaten at Quizno's in forever. I was somewhat put off of Quizno's after my last experience there with my husband, probably almost two years ago. There was a Quizno's near a Ralph's and a Blockbuster a few miles from our first apartment that we had together. We normally would do our grocery shopping on Friday nights after work, go to the Blockbuster and grab a few movies, pick up some takeout for dinner, and settle into an evening of domestic bliss. You may think that's boring. Excuse me, did you not read my use of the term 'bliss'? Domestic bliss totally kicks ass, and ye singles should not be knockin' it.

Okay, going off topic. Right. Quizno's.

We go to Quizno's. Two stoners are working behind the counter. Now, let me be clear and say that I have no problem with stoners. I myself was a super-stoner from my senior year in high school through when I graduated college. Then I realized I needed a real job, and with that real job took on the responsibility of things like rent and health insurance and groceries, and could no longer afford said stoner activity, especially the groceries for the munchies. But I was a good stoner. I was a stoner that graduated second in her class in high school and first in her class in college. And the only reason I missed out on being valedictorian in high school was because my junior year I wanted to take AP Chemistry, which would have vaulted me over the person that ended up being valedictorian, but they only offered the class during fourth period, and fourth period was show choir. Yes, show choir. I gave up valedictorian for show choir. Whatever, my sister was valedictorian of her high school class and she never got anything special for being that either, except the title of valedictorian. My valedictorian was not in show choir, so she did get to take the AP Chemistry class. Suck it, valedictorian girl, you didn't get to wear dresses covered in sequins for three years while you sang and danced!

Oops, off topic again. Right. Stoner guys working at Quizno's.

Stoner guys took about 15 minutes to make our sandwiches. There were no other customers before us. None after us. Fifteen minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES. They, however, probably thought they were going super fast, because they were stoned, and in Stoned Time fifteen minutes is like 18 seconds and HOLY SHIT, DID YOU SEE HOW FAST I MADE THOSE TWO SUBS? IT WAS LIKE 18 SECONDS.

So being fairly disgruntled, Edgar and I got home, unpacked our groceries, and opened up our sandwiches. Our sandwiches that were made ALL WRONG. I had asked for something with chicken, maybe turkey, I'm not quite sure because it's been a long while now, but the sandwich I unwrapped was prime rib. That's not even in the same category of animal! Cow, not poultry. Four legs, not two. And I hate prime rib. So there I was, no sandwich to eat, not willing to go back because I didn't feel like being arrested in the double murder of two stoned Quizno's employees.

This boycott of Quizno's has unintentionally lasted almost two years. It wasn't really an intentional thing, it was just that after we moved away from that Quizno's I never really had a craving for it, haven't really lived close to one, and it's never come up. But there's a Quizno's by work, I was hungry, I was fearing the Lean Cuisines, and it made a perfect storm.

After perusing the menu for a few minutes, I finally decided on the Turkey, Bacon, and Guacamole sandwich. Seems yummy, right? Until I got back to the office with it and discovered *gasp* THEY USE IMITATION GUACAMOLE. All it is is mushed up avocado that they freeze and then squeeze out of a bag. THAT IS NOT GUACAMOLE. Guacamole should be made fresh, and it has more ingredients than just avocado. That's why it's called guacamole, not avocado. This guacamole, this cheap imitation of guacamole, is the kind that restaurants order in bags that come in bulk that they freeze in the freezer until the day that they need it, and then they throw it in a boiling vat of water to unfreeze it, along with bags of things like "homemade" chicken noodle soup or marinara sauce. Guess what, people? If the menu says homemade, they're probably lying. It was delivered to them on a truck in a frozen bag until the day you ate it. I used to be a waitress, I know this, and now I'm giving away trade secrets and they'll never let me back in the club. I DON'T CARE, I'M TAKING A STAND ON MY GUACAMOLE.

This is clearly important to me, because back when I didn't know better, I used to think that I hated guacamole. I told everyone it looked like something that I would find in my niece's diaper. And maybe that's true, I haven't changed any bright green diapers as of late, but it could happen. And because of that mental image, I wouldn't eat it for the longest time, but when I finally did.....oh, when I finally did. Eating guacamole was like coming to Jesus, it was JUST THAT GOOD. My husband doesn't eat guacamole. I KNOW, what kind of Mexican is he? A BAD ONE. You know what else he doesn't eat? Cheese. Queso. He's not havin' it. It was very odd to me when I met him, because I come from a place called the Midwest where we are of a firm belief that if it doesn't have cheese on it, it's not worth eating in the first place. Oops, we weren't talking about cheese, we were talking about guacamole. My husband doesn't eat guacamole! He says he's allergic to avocado. On our second date, we got burritos from this awesome Mexican place called Alberto's, and it had guacamole in it, but he didn't die. He claims that it made him really nauseous and that he had to try really hard to not look like he was going to throw up. I didn't find out about this avocado aversion until several dates later, and I was all "Um, why didn't you tell me that burrito was about to make you throw up?" and he said "Oh, I didn't want you to feel bad since you suggested the burrito." THANKS FOR SPARING MY FEELINGS, BUDDY. YOu gave it away, guacaomle won't kill you, GIVE IN TO ITS GREATNESS.

Oops, off topic once again. Right. Quizno's is a total cheater when it comes to guacamole.

Congratulations Quizno's, I'm probably not going to eat you for another two years.

It was my choice, too

I told Edgar yesterday that I wrote about how we met and started dating.

He mimicked casting a fishing rod and reeling me in.

You never know

I met Edgar on October 3rd, 2006, having arrived in California merely days earlier on September 30th. It was the day before my first day of work in my new office, having relocated over two thousand miles from home. I had my roommate, Jason, as well as an uncle, aunt, and two cousins 70 miles away. That was all.

I remember the first time I saw him. Jason and I had stopped by the office so that he could show me how to get there and we could find our desks and meet our bosses. Jason was to be Edgar's supervisor, and their desks were located very close to one another. He was standing up, talking across the low cubicle wall to the person at the desk that faced his. He was wearing a button down shirt with the cuffs rolled up. His hair was longer than it is now. We didn't speak, but a smile was exchanged and I remember thinking "Hmmm, he's definitely the cutest guy in this office." I would find out later that his thoughts at that time were "Hmmm, nice ass."

The next two months were spent in a holding pattern. As employees of a call center we were chained to our phones, only released from those shackles for brief reprieves in order to pee and socialize for a few minutes with others. On my breaks I usually found my way over to Jason's desk, happily sparing a smile to Edgar whenever our eyes would meet. Our normal encounters happened on the phone; he was a part of the 'escalation team,' so whenever some bitchy ass caller wouldn't listen to me and wanted to speak with a supervisor, I called the escalation queue. And always got him. The universe was already trying to tell me something. THANK YOU, UNIVERSE. Every time he would answer he'd be all "Jeez, you again?"

He enjoyed those calls as much as I did.

During that time there was a subdued amount of flirting going on. He would sometimes stop on his way out in the afternoon to talk to another employee whose cubicle was next to mine, and that's when I spotted the Steelers lunchbox. Ouch. Being born and raised in Indiana, I am an Indianapolis Colts fan, and at the time was still smarting from the playoff loss in the divisional round to the Steelers the previous season. The Steelers had gone on to win the Super Bowl, and were currently floundering through their Super Bowl hangover while the Colts were tearing through the season that would end in their own Super Bowl ring. It allowed for some good natured ribbing and would ultimately lead us into our first date.

At the end of November, Edgar scored a promotion to be a supervisor in another department, a move that also landed him in a different office. On his last day, his friends in the office had a going-away party for him at a Dave & Buster's near the office. Jason was going, and since we carpooled together, I was going too. While discussing the impending plans for the evening, another employee involved in the conversation informed me that Edgar was engaged and cheating on his fiancee with another girl in the office. Considering my history with men, I was not phased by this (shockingly untrue) revelation.

I pleasantly found out while we were out that evening that he was not, in fact, engaged; he had recently come off of a three year relationship that ended badly. Score one for Amanda. The 'other woman' story hadn't been resolved yet, but hey, no ring, no problems. Edgar and I clicked from the beginning. He was visibly impressed that I was drinking dark beer in the biggest size draft that was offered, and pleasantly surprised when we started talking football that I could hold my own and knew what I was talking about. He, being a non-smoker, even went outside with me while I smoked a cigarette, what with me still being in my smoker phase. The next time he went to work, he even got some "Hmm, so, you and the new girl?" questions. We were clearly hooked. I drove home from the party that night with a smile on my face, normal smitten-girl scenarios playing out in my head about first dates, first kisses, marriage and babies. YES, GUYS, WE ALL DO THIS.

I didn't hear from him after that, but I never expected to; we were no longer in the same office, and we hadn't exchanged phone numbers. I thought my little fantasies would exist only in my head. Except it didn't stay that way. Thank God it didn't stay that way.

A couple of weeks after that party, I got to work one day to find an email in my inbox from him, saying that he just wanted to thank me for coming to the party and to tell me how much fun he had talking to me. Thus began a frenzied exchange of emails over the next several weeks, starting out innocuous enough but always having that flirting subtext. He bet me a dollar that the Colts would lose to the Dolphins the next Sunday; I took that bet, and upon winning came to work the next day to find a dollar under my keyboard--he had stopped at my office on his way to work to leave my prize for me.

He invited me to come out with him and another co-worker one evening to watch the BCS Championship game. I have no interest in college football whatsoever, but went in order to spend the evening with him, hurriedly reading up on the teams that were playing during my free time at work so that I could sound like I actually knew something about it. The other co-worker magically had to bail out at the last second; I still to this day cannot get Edgar to admit if he had a hand in that or if it was actually for real. We had beer and pizza at the Alcatraz at the Block of Orange, and after a tight hug upon leaving, we both went home alone. Obviously not the most ideal end to the evening, but I was proud of myself; I had turned over a new leaf in life that mainly consisted of not putting out until he bought me dinner.

The Colts went to the playoffs that year and the day before the wild card game, I got an email from Edgar asking me to text him during the game to let him know what was happening during the game; he and his brother were taking his mom to Disneyland that day for her birthday. Phone numbers were exchanged; a rapid flurry of texting happened during the football game, and thereafter the art of texting became an open form of communication in the increasing game of flirtation. The Colts were playing the Ravens in the playoff game the following week. He bet me the Colts would lose, I bet they would win, and he tasked me with setting the stakes. I took a deep breathe and I plunged. Happy Hour. Winner picks, loser pays.

I won.

We look back now and have officially chosen that Happy Hour as our first date. We met after work on that Wednesday night. January 17th, 2007. I knew by the time that we left the restaurant that I had just spent an evening with the man I wanted to marry. Neither of us wanted the date to end, so we walked to Starbucks and got some coffee. I made the move there of setting a second date: I invited him to come to my house that Sunday to watch the Colts versus the Patriots in the AFC Championship game. He walked me back to my car. He gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek. I kissed his cheek back.

Then he kissed me.

THREE WHOLE TIMES.

I was in love.

He came over that Sunday to watch the game. The Colts won. So did I.

I can't take days like this

You ever have one of those days where you wake up and every fiber of your dog-ass tired being screams "Oh, Shit!"?

Yep, it's one of those days.

Nothing particularly horrible or life-altering has happened. I didn't forget to pay a bill or feed the cat or wipe my ass or anything like that. But I just feel it. I feel like the other shoe is about to drop. AND I DON'T KNOW WHY.

Edgar is getting sick. Is that it? He's been kind of congested the last few days and slept very restlessly last night. I, in turn, slept restlessly as well. Is that it? He called me this morning and told me he was nauseous. Maybe he's pregnant. Is that it? I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure as soon as he told me that my throat started hurting. Maybe that's it. Could it be the fact that it's supposed to rain today? Rain in SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA? It happens. Rain that I'm totally not prepared for since my windshield wipers don't really work all that well, and by "don't really work all that well" I mean that they leave a wide swath of windshield RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE completely untouched. Could it be that? Could it be that I have flea bites all over my body because my cat all of a sudden decided that OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD FLEAS WOULD BE SO MUCH FUN EVEN THOUGH I'VE NEVER HAD THEM EVER BUT I LIKE THE WAY THEY MAKE ME FEEL?

COULD IT BE THAT MY CAPS LOCK BUTTON SEEMS TO BE MALFUNCTIONING?

I don't know. Dark cloud of foreboding (and rain) = Amanda trying really hard to not die.

I do not handle stress very well lately. Ever since the huge debacle last year of Edgar losing his job, then me finding out that I was going to get laid off, to the money troubles to the living with his parents to the what seemed increasingly fruitless job searches, whenever anything bad happens I just expect everything to snowball completely out of control. The only saving grace I have is that the Colts did not make me want to cry at any time last night during their shellacking of the Titans. Dear Peyton Manning and Cute Mormom Rookie, My health thanks you. Sincerely, Amanda (She Who Is Trying Really Hard To Not Die).

Because it was just that cold

The chill is in the air, and I'm totally starting to feel it. Fall has finally arrived in Southern California.

The way that I gauge the change in temperature from one season to another is to see if it stands up to the Naked Test. I am a big proponent of nakedness while getting ready for work in the morning. When Edgar and I lived with his parents, I grumbled to myself every morning when I had to pull my robe on before leaving the bathroom post-shower. It was also daily torture when it came time to blow-dry my hair; the bathroom had no air movement and was dripping with moisture and humidity. Adding hot air on top of that closed door was like standing in an oven while I collected gallons upon gallons of boob sweat.

This isn't to say that I'm a Pro-Naked All The Time kind of person. You should definitely be wearing clothes at the grocery store. Certainly while cooking with oil. Probably when you go to the bank. Just not when you're getting ready for work in the privacy of your own home. This is probably the reason why I snagged myself a husband. I'm not saying this is the only reason why he loves me, just that it most likely didn't hurt, either.

Anyways, back to the signs of fall. You can tell fall is here because I was actually cold enough to voluntarily put my robe on this morning once I had gotten out of the shower. I didn't stay that way, but I certainly needed it in order to warm up. I was cold! Some people might be saying "Shut up, you live in Southern California, YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT COLD IS." And to them I say, No, you shut up. I grew up in the Midwest and am intimately familiar with snow and ice and frigid nights and heating blankets and that one time when the gas heater broke in your old apartment during a cold snap and you had to sleep under eight blankets WITH YOUR SOCKS ON. And any man that has ever shared a bed with me would say "Wow, she really must have been cold, because she totally doesn't play around about sleeping with socks on." You can ask Edgar, he hasn't been allowed to sleep with his socks on since we moved in together.

But Edgar is mainly the reason behind it always being so damn cold. He is the most warm blooded person that I've ever met. He's hot all the time, and no, not just in that My Husband Is So Hot And Sexy type of way (which he totally is, for your information). I remember when we first started dating that I thought it was so cute because the first time he held my hand, his palm was sweaty. No, turns out the restaurant we had just left had their thermostat set at ABOVE 32 DEGREES. And because of this constant state of hotness, if we do not have the AC turned on then every window in the house is open. No matter what time of year or time of day. This includes the big sliding glass door in our bedroom. All of this translates to waking up to some very chilly mornings and have to walk around with the cat strapped to my feet to provide me with some warmth.

This was one of those mornings. I was hesitant to take my clothes off to even get in the shower in the first place. Once I was in there, I didn't want to raise my arms up to start washing my hair, because if I did that they would be out from under the protective stream of hot water. Once I was done, I didn't want to open the shower curtain because I knew that I would be inundated with all of that cold air that was just lurking out there in the rest of the bathroom waiting for me. I even was looking forward to turning the blow dryer on because that would mean warm air. Crazy, I know.

And no, the simple solution of just closing the damn windows is no solution at all, because if I did that THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD WOULD END. You really haven't lived until you've heard a grown man whine "But I'm hooooooooooott!"

See?

I love my husband because every time I attempt to touch the pimples on my face he snaps his finger and points at me and goes "Uh uh!" like I'm a dog about to pee on the couch.

That's the stuff

I just received this email from my husband. He's 33, not 13. And I love him dearly. (Also, excuse the typos and lack of punctuation; we are very informal in our emails because punctuation IS JUST SO HARD).

Oh my god the lady that sits in front of me is so annoying she is always on the phone making personal calls and complaining. She also likes to burp LOL and sometimes I think she passes gas since I hear fart sounds coming out of her cubicle. LOL

This is what makes a marriage work

Me: "The pasta was good, but I just wish they would put it in different takeout containers, because those make it have this aluminum taste. Like, I feel like I'm scraping silverware across my teeth and it's making me shudder just thinking about it."

Edgar: "You're weird."

Me: "Oh, yeah? Well you're the weirdest weird that ever did weird!"

Edgar: "What are you, five?"

I Have My Boundaries

Something happened to Edgar and me yesterday that has tested me about what my limits are when it comes to publishing certain details of my life--and by extension his life--on this blog. I won't go into details about what exactly happened, except to say that we were betrayed by someone very close to us, and that betrayal is now causing a not insignificant monthly financial burden on us and will continue to do so for the next two years. It also is going to negatively impact us if we want to buy a house in the next seven years. Of course, that may never happen anyways since in California a shoebox with a small yard, and by 'yard' I mean 'concrete,' costs MORE THAN MY RIGHT KIDNEY IS WORTH.

What I will write about this situation is that it makes me thankful that I am married to a man like Edgar, a man who is willing to be honest with me, even when the results are unpleasant. He could have very easily hidden this betrayal from me, just as the person who betrayed us in the first place hid it from him. But he didn't. I could tell when I walked in the door that something was wrong, and when I asked what it was, he said "I'm telling you right now that you're not going to like this and that it is going to upset you." And then he told me. I value that honesty, and I think it's the mark of a strong relationship that we were able to rationally talk about it like adults without getting mad or frustrated at one another. I tend to react to bad news by freaking the hell out about it and not letting it go; he tends to react by getting super pissed off and volatile. However, his openness and honesty in telling me what was going on helped me keep from freaking out. And yes, while I was extremely upset about it, we worked through it together.

But since one dose of bad news is never enough, we had another unpleasant surprise this morning. This one I can talk about. A long time ago (at least that's how long ago it feels, even though it was only a month and a half ago), Edgar and I were initially going to move into a different apartment. Same building, different apartment. The apartment that we were going to get was on the second floor of the building, and because of the proximity to the next building on the block, we wouldn't have been able to get DirecTV satellite access from the balcony. So we called the friendly cable company, Charter, to get our TV service through them. We decided a few days later to upgrade to a different apartment in the building, this one being perfectly fine for DirecTV. Edgar called Charter to cancel our order. It was an unpleasant experience. They called him seven times over the next three days to try to "save" him as a customer. Personally, I think that if you really want someone to come back to you as a customer, don't call them like that and PISS THEM THE HELL OFF. It's just not good business. Anyways, they finally stopped calling, we went on living, we got our DirecTV, and life was good. But, what is this? Lo and behold, when Edgar checked his bank account this morning to make sure he was paid, along with his paycheck there was a $54.97 charge from Charter for service. Charter? What is your problem? He called them to be like "Excuse me, what are you charging me for?" And they were all "We couldn't have charged you, you don't have an account with us, you aren't in our computers" and he was all "THIS IS WHY I AM CALLING YOU."

Oh, Charter. I swear, this move has been the most mind-numbing, teeth-grating experience I have ever had when moving when it comes to phone, internet, and TV and companies. People need access to basic human services without all of the hassle! Forget food, water, and electricity. I want my TV and my Internet service so that I can watch The Amazing Race and then sit on my couch blogging about it! Seriously, Lance, what's with arm thing? Your voice makes me want to gouge out my eardrums with an 80 year old woman's knitting needles that are covered in cat hair and the odor of Elizabeth Taylor perfume.

Is that really so much to ask?

This is why math is needed in the real world

Edgar: I got a voicemail from your cousin. He wants to know if we like clams.

Me: We don't.

Edgar: I like clams.

Me: But I don't. And a positive times a negative is a negative, so we don't like clams.

Edgar: But I like clams.

Me: You can, but we don't.

Our Brains are Rotting

When I woke up this morning, Edgar came in the bedroom, threw himself down on top of me with his head nestled in my neck, and said "Oh, babe, I couldn't sleep last night." When I asked him why, he told me that every time he tries to sleep he thinks about what happened to him on the plane.

That feeling of fear is invading every part of his life. Even though that situation turned out to be a false alarm, the fear was real and he now knows what it's like to face losing everything that you hold dear. I feel so bad because I can't make that pain go away. I want to be the nurturer, I want to take it all on me, but I can't. And I feel so powerless because I can't make him feel better. I can only assure him that he's safe and that he's here and he's alive, but it still doesn't change what he went through.

So we're trying to go along, business as usual. Yesterday we went to the grocery store. Three grocery stores, to be exact. They're luckily all in a really close vicinity to where we live, so it was actually only about an hour and a half trip. The bulk of that time was spent walking around Vons trying to find the hot & spicy buffalo wings that were on sale for $2.99 a pound. Hey, my husband's world may have almost ended, but today is still football Sunday and WE MUST BE PREPARED.

Outside of Superior, I experienced the most aggressive panhandler that I've ever seen in my life. We live in downtown Long Beach, so the homeless population is an ever-present part of life that you see on a daily basis. But this guy, THIS GUY, got so mad that these people who were loading up their SUV with every kind of expensive sugary soda and potato chips available (and at Superior, that shit is expensive; anything that doesn't come from Mexico costs an arm and a leg) wouldn't give him some money that he literally stood behind them and blocked their vehicle from pulling out of the parking spot. After they finally called his bluff and started to back up he moved over BEHIND OUR CAR and stood there yelling at them. Like that helps. Dude, they're not going to give you any money. Give it up. I undestand that you're homeless and that you need money, but that kind of behavior just angers everyone involved, not to mention making everyone more uncomfortable than words can express. I'm just sayin'.

The weekend also involved TWO different trips to the Rock Bottom Brewery that sits six blocks up the street from our apartment. We went Friday night after Edgar got home since neither of us had eaten, and that man clearly needed a beer. We also bought a growler of their Octoberfest and took it home with us. We each had one more glass of it Friday night after we walked home, and we decided yesterday that we would definitely need more than what we had on hand. So we walked down the street again and bought another growler to bring home. We're totally working towards getting our name on a little engraved plaque to be part of the Half Barrel Club. It's nice to have goals.

We then proceeded to spend the rest of the day on our asses in front of the TV. Edgar's business trip unfortunately coincided with the week that pretty much every single show of the TV season had their premieres. I might as well just admit it up front and say that Edgar and I are total TV addicts. Rather, we're TiVo addicts. Actually, scratch that, we're HD DVR addicts, because it's not a TiVo. Edgar is very specific about his electronics, and TiVo is it's own brand. Anyways, we like A LOT of TV shows. So there were many, many returning shows that we watch, and we tried out a bunch of new shows as well. If it looks remotely interesting, we watch it, get a feel for it, then wait for it to inevitably get cancelled once we're interested in it. So, off the top of my head, we had about 22 hours of TV to watch. Luckily, TV hours can be condensed, because if you can fast forward through the commercials (best invention EVER), an hour long show can be completed in less than 45 minutes and a half hour show can be completed in about 22 minutes. Yesterday, we started around 2 in the afternoon and were able to get through about 16 hours of TV by midnight. We even cooked dinner during that time too! Add in the multiple bathroom breaks that I required because THERE WAS JUST SO MUCH BEER, and I'd say that we are totally among the elite of TV watchers. Even with all of that work, we were only through Wednesday on the TV schedule. We still have Thursday and Friday to get through. And then the new week of shows, along with six more premieres, starts tonight. GOD BLESS YOU TIVO. I MEAN DIRECTV HD DVR. Some people might say it is a ridiculous waste of time, but it's a very inexpensive form of entertainment, and I really don't care what those people think. We know our TV watching days are limited since my biological clock insists that we have a baby soon, so we're stocking up on the indulgence.

Did I mention we're watching TV right now as I write this?

Reason # 1,346,582

Me: Babe, did you get the ranch dressing?

Edgar: Yes, dear.

Me: What about the napkins?

Edgar: Yes, dear.

Me: Well check you out!

Edgar: Yes, dear.

Oh, my little chiquitito

Edgar got up this morning and made chilaquiles for us. Once again, I'm reminded how good I have it being married to a Mexican. That boy can cook!

Heard in the Parking Lot of a Wal-Mart

Edgar: So, when you got the computer, did you watch TV and play with it at the same time?

Me: Of course I did.

Edgar: I don't get how you can do that. How do you take anything in?

Me: How do I take in what's on TV while I use the computer or how do I pay attention to the computer when there's stuff on TV?

Edgar: Both.

Me: (cupping my hands to the outside of my ears a la kindergarten) I use my special listening ears.

Terror on Flight 2459

My husband almost died yesterday. Not really, but he thought so, so.....

His flight coming home from Dallas turned into a terrifying mid-air experience. Prior to landing, the captain came over the intercom and said "Okay, folks, we're going to be landing in LA in about 22 minutes, and, not to frighten you, but we're having problems with the brake on the landing gear. The flight attendants will be around to give you instructions on how to prepare for a possible crash landing."

Um. CRASH LANDING?!?! Fuck you American Air and your crash landings! That's my husband you're trying to crash with!

Edgar said the plane got so silent that you could hear a pin drop. The flight attendants came around and were showing people how to 'assume the position,' and one of them even said to his row, "I've never experienced anything like this, but I think in this situation that if you pray you should start doing that." I'm totally not kidding. They gave gave them warnings that the cabin might fill with smoke and that if they see it to stay in their seats until they give the ok for them to open the emergency doors and slide down those huge inflatable slides that you think would be really fun to go down except when YOU'RE LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE.

Edgar hates flying. He's a nervous enough flier as it is, especially when he's by himself. It's safe to say that he was absolutely petrified at this point. He was so scared, to the point where he still can't fully describe what was happening to him. He told me that he started thinking about all of the things that he would regret, like not seeing me again and not having a child yet. At which point in his story-telling I promptly stripped down naked in baggage claim #3 to fulfill his wishes.

Luckily, there ended up being no problems. Turns out, there wasn't a problem with the brake. It was a problem with the light on their display panel for the brake. FUCK YOU AMERICAN AIR AND YOUR SORRY-ASS LIGHTS! My husband thought for 22 straight minutes that he was about to die.

It wasn't real. He wasn't in any danger. But the fear was real. He, along with every other person on that plane, thought that they were looking at mortality. They thought they would never see their families again, never see their loved ones again, never smile again, never cook dinner again, never fall asleep on the couch watching TV again....never BE again.

When he told me this story when I met him in baggage claim, my heart dropped into my stomach. To think that I was thisclose to never seeing him again, had that light been for real....I don't even know what my life would be like today.

So, my advice to you: hug your husband, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, mom, dad, whatever. Give them a kiss. Tell them you love them. Because no matter how many times that I say that to Edgar, or he says it to me, you never know when it will be the last time.