It's A Girl!

I can't imagine anyone was on tenterhooks waiting for this next post, since everyone who reads my blog has heard the news otherwise (or at least I think so), but if not: Sorry for my absence!

I really need to get some belly photos up. I have grown QUITE a bit since this 19-week mark. (Holy shit, I'm 24 weeks this Tuesday!)

Around the time this photo was taken, William and I were at Izzy's, an ice-cream cafe here in St. Paul where they have the most extraordinary flavors. I was standing behind a grandparent-age couple, and they struck up conversation with us. They were out-of-towners, so they were looking for flavor advice. I gave them mine—midnight snack!—and we joked around a bit. Then the woman said to me: "When I was pregnant, I lived across the street from an ice-cream shop in St. Louis. I gained 70 pounds!" It was a moment for me: Someone dared to assume I was pregnant and comment on it, without commenting on it. I told her I'd be careful on the ice cream. 

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Last weekend, I was at the doughnut shop a few blocks from where I live. It was one of the first truly chilly mornings of the fall, and I was dressed in a swing-style sweater coat and leggings. When I got up to the counter to pay, the owner of the bakery dropped an extra doughnut into the bag. "For the baby," he grinned and said.

I was surprised he noticed. I guess I still think I'm in the stage where it's a could-be-or-couldn't-be, and I thought the coat just looked like a swing coat. I expressed my gratitude—and surprise. He's an adorable Vietnamese-American man and he said with all the charm in the world: "Oh, you showing up now. This your first?" I told him yes. "Oh, you will have more," he predicted. "I have four. All verrrrry different."

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I got a haircut a couple of weeks ago. When the stylist, who I adore, pulled back my hair and put the black cape on, I said "Whoa, my face...it's getting fat!"
"Mmmm, I'd say it's just losing...dimension," he hedged.
"No, it's OK. It's getting fuller for sure."
"I'll cut layers to help with that," he reassured.

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I'm on to full-on ravenous mode. A far piece better than the sicks early on, although no less urgent in its nature.

Things I have craved:
Pickles (I am a giant cliché)
Salami/pastrami with cream cheese on everything bagels (and pickles)
Mini rye bread loaves with cream cheese and salted cucumbers (hmmm, sensing a pattern here?)
Ikea Swedish meatballs with mashed potatoes and lingonberries
Spaghetti and meatballs (with LOTS of garlic)
For the love of God, I have eaten AT LEAST a full peck of Honeycrisp apples since apple season has started here in Minnesota. I want to cry because so many of our farmers lost significant portions of their crop, so we'll have a short season (my favorite orchard told me they lost 70 PERCENT due to a spring frost and early cold fall here).
Chili
Early on: Laffy Taffy, cherry Icees, Granny Smith apples, dried-fruit-rollups
Cereal (specifically honey-nut Cheerios)...I never eat cereal, really.
Chewy Sprees (I do like these normally, but not the way I like them now.)

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The baby is now kicking hard enough that she can make my belly jump when she wants to. I can rely on her to move when I switch positions in bed in the morning, after I eat, and when I lie on my back to read at night before I go to sleep. Some days she moves more than others. and it kind of freaks me out when she moves less, but my doc says it won't be until late 20-some weeks where I might feel her move reliably all day long. She seems to respond to Wm's voice when he talks to my belly. I was working late one night, lying in bed, and listening to an REM concert on YouTube while I typed. She kicked through the whole thing, and she also kicked a ton at the Louis CK show we saw this weekend.

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I can't stay awake. If I'm on the couch, watching TV, and the right temperature, I'm out. I managed to stay awake for Louis CK this weekend which STARTED at 10:30, but I had to close my eyes in the car on the way home, and I was totally wrecked yesterday afternoon. I slept for a good few hours on the couch in the afternoon, fell asleep watching TV at night, slept all night.

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Nesting is kicking in. Last weekend we made a giant list of things we'd like to see done before the baby comes, among the engagements we know we have already this fall, holidays and birthdays, and the like. Oy. It's a lot. But I feel motivated to tackle a bunch of things so that it's not happening when the baby goes to college. I know the BABY won't know the difference, but we have been living in this house a year and still haven't painted.

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We hired a doula! More specifically, a doula team. I already feel more empowered. More to come on this.

OK, hopefully I'm back on the blogger wagon with this post. Life has just been so hectic and when I fall asleep so early at night it makes it hard to get a post up. Now I'm off to read  a chapter in Birthing From Within. (Just finished Ina May's Guide to Childbirth, for those keeping track, and for my own records.)

Twas the Night Before Christmas...Sorta

Dear Babycakes,

I haven't been posting, because I need to get my photos ready, but tomorrow is a big day, and so I need to put this out there, photos be damned. (Note: Please don't talk like your mama.)

Tomorrow we get to look at you, all up close and personal-like, in your little baby chamber. 10 a.m. I have to drink a big, big, big glass of water, hold it (ow! that's going to be harrrd! I'm hoping the magic of ultrasounds distracts me) and then we get to poke around and have a look-see.

We'll look at your organs, and your teeny baby-head (which I know will smell delicious once I get to hold you in my arms). We'll measure stuff, count fingers and toes. Take an inventory.

We're a little nervous, baby, even though have no real reason to be. Everything seems to be moving along like it should. In fact, we've been feeling you kick for a couple of weeks now. It's magical, each and every time. After I eat lunch or dinner, I get a few good burbles from you. I like to pretend you are approving of my diet. And when I lie down at night, you move about. I didn't think your dad would be able to feel it this early, as soon as I could, but he can feel some of them. Sometimes it feels like you're giving me a sly, secret elbow: Hey, don't forget about me! I'm here! As if I could forget. You can nudge me all day long if you want. It's reassuring.

But worrying about all this—it's just my nature. I've been talking to you about how you need to shape up and be a good, healthy baby, and that I'm doing my best on my end, but just so we're clear: We will love you no matter what.

But I sure hope the Powers That Be will declare an all-clear on you, so that we can move forward with even less hesitation than we have now. That we can just focus on the Big Question, the one everyone keeps asking:

Are you a boy or a girl?

Now, to be clear, your dad and I have a "Vote No"* sign in our front yard this election season (wow, did I pick a bad season to stop drinking, but I'll do it for you). Gender, or how you identify yourself as you get older, and often its accompanying question of who it is that you love, is not as rock-solid as we all once thought. Boys don't automatically mean trucks and girls and, well, more girls. Girls don't mean pink and dolls and chasing Prince Charming. Your dad and I get that. But I think that if there are some things that I can "control" for before you arrive, it sure would help me get prepared. And again: Whoever you come out being, we love you and accept you for who you are. How could we not? We made you.

I can't believe that this day is upon us. Kind of symbolic, in a way, that it's the day after Labor Day. The first day of school. I'm too excited to sleep.

Consider my crisp, lined notebook open and my sharpened pencil poised. We have so much to learn.

Love,
Mama

*Note to non-MN residents: We are voting this November on whether to add an amendment to the constitution defining marriage as one being between one man and one woman. We will be voting against it at our house, and hope that others do the same, in the name of equal rights and protection under the law. Not to mention the pursuit of happiness. And asinine things like: We don't need the amendment anyway if you're against gay marriage, because duh—gay people already can't get legally married here. It's just mean. And stupid. And unfair. And short-sighted. And many other things. I hope my child grows up in an atmosphere of tolerance and love, and that starts with getting to the voting booths in this pregnancy. We plan to be on the right side of history.

Getting to the Point

Well, I sort of feel human again.

**FRANTIC KNOCKING ON WOOD.**

After the aforementioned terrible sick days (bolting from work one morning and taking a sick day: see previous entry), I reached the end of my rope. I was lying on the couch in the I Quit The World Is Ending kind of mood. Desperate for some relief. Every time I stood up, I got dizzy and faint. I felt wildly sick to my stomach. No food appealed, but I felt hungry. I had to talk myself into eating a few crackers or something starchy or carb-laden, then would feel OK for approximately two minutes, then cycle back to feeling thoroughly rotten. I had a perma-horrendous taste in my mouth.

Then, I started to cry. Because I didn’t feel like I could take much more of this feeling. Because someone had said, not unkindly, “Wow, fourteen weeks in and you’re not feeling better by now?” So of course I waltzed right down Bad Thoughts Avenue: Jesus, no, I’m not. And I should be, you’re right! And what if I’m THIS sick for nine months? I cannot do this. Game over.

But crying even proved to be too difficult, so I gave up on that and went back to the listless lying about in the sunroom, watching the Olympics. Then my brain started clicking. What ELSE could I try? I tried hard candy, ginger (which gave me some relief), carbonated beverages, Saltines by the bed. I tried sleeping it off. I tried doggie snuggles. I tried calling my mom. I tried reminding myself that women have done this for millenia. I tried whining. No dice.

But I hadn’t tried acupuncture. Friends, this is where a teeny-tiny ray of light began to peek its way down the dark, dark Bad Thoughts Avenue.

Then I remembered: I had a LivingSocial deal for two treatments!

I moved faster than I’d moved in days. I got up, called the clinic, and begged for an appointment that afternoon (it was already 1:30). Luckily, she could fit me in.

I’d never had acupuncture before. I believed that it provided a lot of relief to people, but hadn’t really thought about investing in it until now. I wish I had about 12 weeks ago.

After a brief consult, in which the therapist kindly said that acupuncture treats nausea particularly well and that she ahd worked on many pregnant women successfully (and that I should have called sooner), she got to work. I laid back in a recliner while she stuck my hands, wrists, inner forearms, ankles, feet, and backs of my knees with needles.

I know if you have’t done it, you’re wondering: but does it REALLY hurt?

From this wussy girl to you: No, it does not hurt. Not one bit. Not even a little. Some of the places she needled me registered more like a very quick pinprick, but I wouldn't call the sensation painful. Some I didn’t feel at all. AT ALL. Even though I watched them go in.

Then she snuggled me up in a blanket, and told me to sleep until she returned. So, in the dark, with some tinkly spa music playing…I thought to myself “Eh, I’m not tired but I’ll just relax…” That was my last thought. So, it’s also entirely possible to fall asleep with thirty needles sticking out of your body and face.

She woke me 45 minutes later, and I felt…refreshed. But that could have been the nap. I reserved judgment, and drove home.

By the time I got home, I felt …. HUNGRY. In a way I hadn’t felt hungry in weeks. WEEKS.  I ate about a half a box of Triscuits with some cheese, and then ate a full dinner (warm vegetables! Pork chop!). I still felt dizzy and weak, but I was eating!

I went to bed early. When I woke up the next morning, I felt…normal. As normal as I’d felt in a long time, anyway. I still had the hiccups/burps. But I was upright! And showering! And getting dressed! And putting makeup on! And I didn’t have to lie down in between! I went to work and worked all day.

WHAT.

I know.

So now I’m all cult-y. You guys. It works. If you are having any kind of chronic problem, or pregnancy symptoms (it also works for headaches and sciatica and other things, she told me), and you don’t want to medicate, or can’t medicate, or you’ve always wanted to try acupuncture, or whatever: get thee to an acupuncturist.

I went back for a second treatment that Friday. I was starting to feel woozy again, but nowhere near where I’d been earlier in the week. And once again, a few needles, an hour nap, and voila! Almost-normal Katie!

I was supposed to go back this week for more, but I honestly have been feeling so awesomely decent I didn’t think I needed it (she told me to “listen to your body and call when you're ready”). I do want to go back this weekend, possibly, or early next week.

Now, some of this might be the final bits of the first trimester wearing off. But I’m telling you that within 12 hours I felt like a different person. Like, I actually felt like a person instead of a trash heap.

Now, some people have asked about expense. It runs the gamut. I actually went to a place that is considered “community acupuncture” so it’s done in one big room, with recliners spread about. So no spa room. But most of the points you need to access are on your limbs. So you get good treatment. My place has a sliding scale from $15-$40 a treatment, which is considerably less than a spa or Chinese medicine clinic. But it might be a good way to start out and see if it works for you. The “group” atmosphere didn’t bother me at all; the first time, I was alone. The second time, there was one other woman in there with me and we were across the room from each other; I couldn’t even see her. It's also dark in there.

To, to encapsulate: it doesn’t hurt (I promise! And sometimes you can feel this energy radiating from the needle, which is kind of rad), it can be affordable, and I felt a very real relief from it. I highly recommend it. I mean, if you’re already considering it, what can trying it hurt? I’m just saying, I think it saved me from jumping off the roof of my house.

Fourteen Weeks

Dear Babycakes,

On Monday, I had to leave work after being there for only two-and-a-half hours. Then yesterday, I took a sick day. I could work from home on Monday, fortunately, but if you expect cute clothes and, oh, I don’t know, food and care for you during the day once you arrive, you gotta knock this crap right off. (I’m not going to be afraid to tell you that once you get here, either.)

The shakiness, the vomitousness, the food aversions. I could feed you a lot better if you would let me. I know you’re trying, though. I can feel it. I’m trying, too. I’m trying to reform my ways and get you to bed earlier, to drink even more water even though it wakes me at all hours to pee, which then wakes the dogs, and do all my research. I’m trying to learn to say no, so that we can relax together.

Your daddy is trying, too. He is working so much, to help us get ready for your arrival. He’s practicing his patience, because I am definitely trying it, and he is so excited each Tuesday night when we lie down to go to sleep and I read him our baby book, which tells us about what’s you’re up to in my belly. He kisses you and asks about how you are doing all the time. He is going to be one giant sucker for you, kiddo. Another piece of unsolicited advice: Learn which side your bread is buttered on.

I have been drinking up information about parenting and pregnancy from all my friends and acquaintances who have been there, done that, especially on days where I feel like I'm all I Quit the World Is Ending. One told me her mom told her, upon finding out she was pregnant: “Whatever you expect it to be, it won’t be that.” That pretty much sums up everything my friends have told me—it’s so much wilder, crazier, more awful, and yet, more awesome than I can even imagine right now. 

The outpouring of love and well wishes must have reached you there in your little amniotic haven, right? So many people have turned out to hope that you are doing well, and someone even sent us a tiny pair of Minnetonka Moccasins. Your first shoes! I had a pink pair when I was a baby, and so you get to continue the tradition. For my part, I bought you a bib and burp cloth the other day at a craft fair where Daddy and I were working. It has deer and other woodland creatures on it. I’m going to try really hard not to make you wear ads, baby. I want you to learn from style, not from licensed characters, but we’ll see how that goes. Still, it feels weird to buy baby gear, or accept baby gear. I’ve always been the one giving it. And, although I haven’t worried about this nearly as much as I thought I would, I’m still making sure you and I will stick together for the duration. If will and desire has anything to do with it, we will. That’s what I go on every day, especially the days where you are not making me sick (relief!) and then I start to worry something’s not working in there (total terror!).

Some days are better than others. We’re going to figure that out together. This will all be a process. It’s our very own adventure and the idea that by this winter—the worst part of winter in Minnesota, where I sometimes feel like there's no hope or sign of life—I will be a mom just blows me away. Brand new life. I promise I’m going to do my best to be up to the task.

Love,

Mama

PS: To my readers: I promise the blog will not only be letters and baby info! Just easing back in. 

A Big Announcement

Dear Babycakes,

I’m gonna level with you: Man, this is weird. You and I have been hanging out together for 13 weeks, and still I have these serious moments of disbelief—like those dreams where my teeth are all falling out and I tell myself in the dream, “No, you dream this all the time, this isn’t real,” and then I tell myself in the dream, “Yes, those were dreams but this is the real thing, all your teeth are really falling out,” and then I wake up and have to touch my teeth or look in the mirror to make sure they are all still there—there you are.  You’re the real thing. I don’t know what more confirmation I could really be looking for.

I mean, you have upended my life already, like it or not. My body: not my own. My emotions: not my own. My energy level: Not my own. For some reason, you have nixed my appetite even though in theory I want to get all earth-mama-hippie and eat organic vegetables and salmon chock-full of Omega-3s to build up your brain. I can’t. The thought of cooked asparagus makes me want to vomit, even though it is one of my favorite dinnertime foods. I have eaten like a seventh grader for weeks: granola bars, dry cereal, Laffy Taffy, and Icees. Ice-cold sour Granny Smith apples with sea salt. Popsicles. And the ill-fated strawberry Jell-O. We won’t revisit that one again, I heard you. You didn’t have to be quite so emphatic.

Baby, it has been hot here. That is not helping my “condition,” as it is. Funny thing is, I met your dad when it was scorching outside. Our first date was right after the Fourth of July, seven years ago, and you could fry eggs on the sidewalk. This is that same kind of summer, and it makes me feel like I will love you with the same searing intensity I love your dad. We just celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. Unbeknownst to me, your dad bought me the fancy-pants Champagne I love to drink, the kind we drank on our wedding day in south Maui. But I surprised him right before the anniversary with the news that we were having you. So the bottle of Veuve Cliquot is sitting in your future nursery, and we will drink it when you arrive instead, which is due to happen January 29.

We know all of this thanks to science and technology (herewith begins all my unsolicited advice to you: make science and technology your friends and be smart and kind with them). Once we glimpsed you, although it was mostly circularish blobs. But we have heard you twice, and baby, that is the best sound I have ever heard in my life. Better than Michael Stipe singing "Find the River," better than a Led Zeppelin guitar solo, better than cardinals whistling in the trees after a long winter, better than laughter.

The day we saw you, you were only 7 weeks into your pre-life, which is like having, what, 110 percent of your life ahead of you or something (I’m not good at math; I hope you are). I laid in the dark on a table while a lady used an ultrasound to show us that you had indeed taken up residence. She let us hear the heartbeat for just the merest of seconds. I was so awed I didn’t think to ask her to prolong it, but both your dad and I were deeply disappointed that was all we got once the appointment was over. You see: We’re already hooked on you.

Then we had to wait another five long weeks before we could hear you again. (The rest of this feels like a terrible case of lasting, amped-up PMS, plus a hangover—promise me you’ll never have one of those—plus stomach flu.) It’s not so much the romantic waiting-for-baby thing one might think it feels like. 

I waited it out on the couch in the sunroom with the dogs, watching reruns of The Wonder Years, nibbling like a bird on snacks and groaning whenever your dad walked by so he’d take pity on me and rub my feet or kiss my forehead, or re-up my ice water because I was so desperate for comfort in a sea of sick.  Sometimes when I’d have a break in the day at work, I’d count on my calendar how many days until the doctor would let us hear your heartbeat again, and reassure us that everything was fine.

This past Monday, we saw Dr. M. We used a Doppler to hear your heartbeat. She warned us that sometimes it takes a second to find it, because you are so small right now. The suspense was exquisite, but didn’t last long. She found it right away, and suddenly, your rabbit-quick heart sounds filled the little beige room. Your dad said, “Sounds like a choo choo train,” and I cried on the table, filled with an almost incomprehensible relief that my Laffy Taffy diet had actually sustained you and that nothing had gone wrong. My doctor is a pretty woman, whipsmart and caring. I’ve been seeing her for years and I trust her completely; she is confident and articulate, and she wears eyeglasses that are like works of art. On this day she was wearing all black, with carnation-pink glasses that nearly had flames coming off the sides, with red lipstick. She has very dark hair, and kind eyes. And she let us listen for a long time, over and over reassuring me that it was a good, strong heartbeat, that my uterus felt exactly like one carrying a baby, that you were indeed there. A showoff, she called you. Later, I sent a message to your auntie Cindy, telling her the news. She replied: “That’s what we want to hear! I’m not surprised the baby is an overachiever. A true Van Dorne,” which is a longstanding joke about our last name we will explain to you someday. Your dad and I wiped away tears and we kissed in the elevator on the way home. The rest of the week paled in comparison.

The last couple of days we were able to turn off the air conditioning and tonight the windows were open. Cool, sweet breeze poured in the front windows of the house as I read my book (Some Assembly Required, by Anne Lamott, in case you ever want to know) and relaxed after a taxing week (and, surprise, surprise, endured some nausea). I did my best to bask in the true Minnesota air, the kind I can’t wait for you to grow up breathing in.

Love,

Your Mama

Six Years

I'm sitting in the atrium waiting room with my mom and sister, the sun streaming down. We are waiting, anxiously, for the surgeon to tell us the news. Suddenly they perk up and look at the back of a doctor. She's wearing a white coat, and her fluffy hair is pulled back into a barely-contained ponytail.

"I think that's her," my mom says.
"Dr. K.?" my sister asks.
"Don't you think?"

I look over. I have no recollection of what Dr. K. looks like. None at all. I remember her having a youthful face, but that's about it. That time period is so blurry to me now, although the anxious feelings are not.

My sister starts to say something about how she thinks it would be nice to go over and say hello, thank her for the surgery she successfully completed six years ago, when she removed the cancerous half of my dad's lung. Then she gets that look on her face, and I know she's going to cry.

"You go do it," my mom says. I start to get choked up as I watch her talk to another grave-faced family. Those feelings come rushing back and I hope she is not telling them the opposite of what we heard that day. I hope they are hearing "It all went well; he is in recovery; we got everything." But none of them smile, no waves of relief pass over their faces.

I try to divorce myself from the profound gratitude I have, because if I don't, I won't be able to talk to her. She turns toward us, and I know I have just a small window of time to reach her. I get up.

"Excuse me, are you Dr. K.?"
She looks surprised.
"I am."
"Um, hi. I'm K. D., and--" I used my maiden name.
"D? I recognize that name," she says, looking upward as she scans her memory for the patient. I fill in the blanks.
"Mr. D. is my dad, and six years ago you took out half his lung."
"Oh?" Then she looks around, nervously. "Why are you here?"
I laugh. She laughs.
I point over to my mom and my sister. "We're here waiting for him to come out of a hip replacement surgery."
She is visibly relieved, putting a hand to her heart.
"We just wanted you to know how grateful we are to you for the surgery that day, and what it did for our family. We just wanted to say thank you."
She has a wide grin that lights up her whole face, hand still to her heart.
"Wow, that makes me feel so good," she says. "When was his lung surgery, again?"
"Six years ago this month," I tell her, and that is when I start to feel like I might cry, but I hang on.
"Six years? Well, you know what they say about that, don't you?"
"No..."
"They call that a cure."

And just like that, six years later, she delivers one of the most powerful gifts I have ever received, just five small words. Thank you, Dr. K. Again.

A to Z

Yes! Memes will get me writing again! I can do this! Step inside and learn all about my weird neuroses.

Age: 31

Bed size: Queen. William and I just ordered a mattress this weekend with the President's Day sale. We really needed it. I can't wait. It's supposedly George-Clooney approved.

Chore that you hate: I hate getting my car washed!! I have an irrational fear of the car wash, so I never go. This weekend William drove through it for me and I closed my eyes and sweated my way through in the passenger's seat (this was after our mattress-buying or I would have asked him to go alone). GAH! My heart is racing just typing about it. I don't mind the obvious, like laundry or cleaning toilets. I'd rather do those than dishes.I love having a made bed, so I do that, but I hate putting the fitted sheet on if I accidentally put the wrong corner on first—it always makes me go into a cussing tirade even though it's easy to fix.

Dogs: Well, this is as good a place as any to announce that we have two new bundles of fluffy joy in our house; Murray, a 5-year-old Coton de Tulear, and Ernie, a four-month-old shih tzu/bichon mix. Another post to come on this.

Essential start to your day: Coffee. I can do anything if I have coffee.

Favorite color: I love color in general. Pink is probably my favorite; purple close behind. I pick pink first because I love all kinds of pink. I'm very particular about purples (no Easter eggy colors ... but the right purple is maybe my favorite color of all.) Recently I have been loving yellow and orange and chartreuse.

Gold or silver: I am an equal-opportunity metallics lover. Recently I've been wearing much more yellow-gold. (I assume they are not meaning white gold in this question...can you tell what I do for a living? Answer revealed below!)

Height: almost 5'7". I used to feel tall until I married a man that's 6'3".

Instruments you play: I played flute for many years in band (I miss it still)..I can play a few chords on guitar. I wish I'd learned to play piano and trumpet.

Job title: Style editor.

Kids: Someday. For now I just have furbabies.

Live: In my hometown. Never thought that'd happen again!

Mother’s name: Eileen. As in, Come on, Eileen..Oh I swear on my knees...at this moment, you mean evvverrrythiiiing....

Nicknames: my initials, Kitty, Smalls

Overnight hospital stays: None so far (knock on wood).

Pet peeves: Agh, I have so many pet peeves, especially about drivers and grammar/spelling, I can't even begin to say here. I am actively trying to let the little things bother me less, though.

Quote from a movie: I can extensively and frequently quote Annie, Dumb & Dumber, Almost Famous, Love Actually, Reality Bites, Speed, Wayne's World... (Am very sophisticated.)

Right or left handed: Right. As my mom says, my left side is only there to match the right. 

Siblings: One of each, both older. They are two of my bestest friends in the entire universe. I am so lucky.

Tattoos or piercings: Just my ears. Four holes in one, three in the other, although I only wear my first piercings now. I got them on my golden birthday—I was 10—and my mom snuck me to Two Plus Two at the mall to get them done. I got my birthstone for my starter studs. She told me not to tell my dad and just wait for him to notice. I was so happy.

Underwear: I love pretty undies. I do not use the p-word.

Vegetables you hate: Raw onions, because they make me sick. I  hate canned peas. I love most veggies, especially if they are fresh.

What makes you run late: Snooze button, my dogs having accidents, figuring out an outfit to wear, traffic jams. Also, I have terrible time perception. Ask my husband.

X-rays: Teeth, foot when I broke a toe in college, that's about it. X-rays are pretty cool. One medical thing I can look at that doesn't make me want to faint.

Yummy food that you make: I just made homemade Snickers bars this weekend and they are TO DIE FOR. I usually do pretty well if I have a recipe...but I'm not a great freestyle cook. I need a framework.

Zoo animals: Zoos make me sad in general. I hope I can get over this if/when I have children. I do love animals though, as long as they follow my "fur or feathers" rule. Geckos being maybe one exception because they eat bugs and other nasties, plus they never try to touch you or look at you like they're going to eat your face. Also, I think bats are cool, but I think they have some fur? There is a local band called Zoo Animal that I like.