Grass it is.

Me: What do you want for lunch?
Rocco: Ring Pops.
Me: No Ring Pops for lunch. What do you want?
Rocco: Pockapoes. (popsicles)
Me: That's a treat, not lunch. What do you want?
Rocco: Treats.
Me: What do you want for real?
Rocco: Pancakes.
Me: We had pancakes for breakfast. What else?
Rocco: I wanna eat grass.
Me: Nevermind.

It's like going insane but in 4D

Since my last clearly insane post, we've added a beautiful baby daughter to our family. Mila Elizabeth was born April 14 (thanks to a little date I had with castor oil and OJ. [Not the murderer.]) With only two children, I can already relate to the crazy mom on Malcolm in the Middle. Sometimes it's like you have two choices: be a bitch or go completely insane. There is no third option. (Joe gets a daily text which, I'm sure, gives him an inkling which option I went with.) Choosing both is the easiest option, but I'm trying hard to stay out of Building 22, at least until I'm 50.

We spent a week at Joe's parents' house while they were visiting his sister in New Haven. We were SO excited to have a mini vacation because that's what it's always been, a vacation. Not so with a two-year-old and four-month-old. From an unexpected gecko in the living room to Rocco getting stuck in a huge clay pot, things got "interesting." He's realized that when I'm feeding Mila or putting in a load of laundry, he has a window of opportunity for misbehavior. "Oh, you don't want me to suck a melted Kit Kat through holes bitten through the wrapper? Well maybe you should have expressed that, because how would I know?""Crayons AREN'T for eating? Then why do they make them so deliciously waxy?"

My friend Rena joked about how years ago I said I wanted to have four kids. It's still a possibility, but just not until Mila is getting on the bus to Kindergarten. Having three little kids would end up in me having one option instead of two, and that option would be chosen by the tiny voices in my head...

I guess four green peppers is my limit. Good to know.

Last night I planned on going to the grocery store. I made my list and was ready to go. Then I started feeling exhausted and decided that it might be better if Joe went instead. This meant specifying each item on the list with quantity and type. On my list was written, "1 red bell pepper, 1 orange or yellow bell pepper." I thought this was specific enough, but boy was I wrong. Joe came home with three green bell peppers. Maybe if we didn't already have two green bell peppers, maybe if I was feeling better, and maybe if I wasn't a crazy, hormonal pregnant woman could I have held it together, but five green bell peppers was just too much for me to handle.

Me: WHY DID YOU GET THREE GREEN PEPPERS?!
Joe: Because they were on sale and the other ones weren't.
Me: But we already have two! What am I going to do with FIVE green peppers?!
Joe: I don't know.
Me: I don't get why you bought these? We don't need them and I specifically said "red" and "orange or yellow."
Joe: They're the same thing!
Me: No they're not! Are you crazy?
Joe: Yes, they are.
Me: If what you mean is that you pick the green ones earlier than the red ones, then yeah. But they are different. That's why they cost different amounts and that's why they taste different and look different.
Joe: Well, they were only ninety-nine cents.
Me: That's a total of three dollars. If you would have gotten one red and one yellow it would have only been a two dollars and sixty cents.
Joe: Whatever.
Me: Jesus Christ.

So it's a day later and we're still not over this. Joe wants to do a taste test (which I am happy to do) because he doesn't think there is a difference. I tried to explain to him that it's like grapes and raisins. They ARE the same thing, but not really. If a recipe calls for raisins, you don't use grapes. In the mean time, does anyone have any recipes that require five green peppers?

It's like a daily baptism

We have soft water!

I haven't had it since I lived with my parents, and I guess I didn't realize how much of a difference it can make. Until now, I've lived in apartments, and apparently landlords don't think renters deserve silky, manageable hair and soft skin. I took the first soft water shower today and I swear that instead of a washcloth, it was tiny angels, lathering and singing to me, while they washed away the memories of lime build up in the tub and mineral residue in the dishwasher. I've seen the light and I don't ever want to go back to my old demonic, hard water doused self. If someone told me that it was holy water coming out of the shower head, I'd believe it.

Tomorrow, I think I'll buy some nice shampoo and conditioner to celebrate. Biolage? Bumble and Bumble? Aveda? Who knows? I might even get crazy and get one of each. Or maybe two. And some nice bubble bath. The sky is the limit when you have soft water. Maybe I'll get some of those fizzy bath things, too. We'll see, Acala.

Who wants seconds?

Joe told me he loved chicken Marsala, so like a good wife (haha), I made it. I was so excited because it turned out perfectly. I even bought the more expensive Marsala wine in an effort to make it above the norm. After we were finished eating, I said that it was probably the best thing I've ever made. He said he thought chicken Marsala was something else, and that this tasted like shortbread cookies. Oh. Not exactly what I had hoped he'd say. He tried to make me feel better by saying the chicken and pasta were cooked perfectly but he thought Marsala tasted beefy and this didn't. His suggestion was that, "Next time you should make breaded chicken with beefy gravy." It would probably make me feel worse, but this is coming from the same guy who thought matzo ball soup was soup with balls of mozzarella cheese. Or that Nutella and Vegemite were the same thing. From now on, I think I'm going to have to clarify what I'm making for dinner, just in case he asks for piccata and expects pickles.

Sorry, Wilford Brimley

I failed the glucose tolerance test. After all that confusion, I could have drank the damn cup of coffee with real sugar and it wouldn't have mattered. I don't know why I failed but I did. I could attribute it to the fact that I ate jalapeno poppers and other unhealthy things the night before, but it's all moot anyway. The nurse called me Friday morning to tell me that I had to take a second test that is three hours long, and you have to have your blood drawn four times throughout the test. And you are a prisoner in the St. Joseph's Medical Center basement. Wow? That sounds great. I thought I was getting spoiled with the pelvic bone pain and terrible heartburn. I figured I'd get this thing over with sooner rather than later, so I went in on Monday morning. For 14 hours prior, you can't eat or drink anything other than sips of water. That means no poppers. That part wasn't so bad, since I was asleep most of the time. What was bad is that as soon as you get there, they draw your blood. Then they give you a whole bottle of the gross orange syrup that you have to drink for the first test, then only being a tiny cupful. I chugged it. The nurse was impressed. She even commented on how I didn't even have to stop to take a breath. This ain't my first rodeo, lady. Normally it's a mixed drink when I'm being rushed to leave to go to a different bar. So I sat there for three hours, doing the Star Tribune crossword, reading a book, and occasionally watching Law and Order SVU. (Ice-T is a terrible actor by the way.) No internet on my phone because I was in a virtual dungeon. I shouldn't complain because it wasn't THAT bad. As soon as I got home I immediately ate a piece of leftover Domino's Pizza. It's still not that good. Oh and if you're wondering about the "new" taste, they changed everything but what I don't like about it, the mushy cheese. Anyway, now I have heartburn again, but I do have good news. I passed the test! No ordering diabetes supplies from our good friend Wilford Brimley! I think I'll go pour myself a glass of straight Hershey's Syrup and toast to passing the test. Who knows, I might even cross the nurse who told me I looked "full term" and asked if I was positive there was "only one in there" off of my To Kill list. We'll see.

It tastes like sugar. But it's not sugar. And it made my fucking day.

I have my glucose test in a few hours. Pregnant women have to take it as a screening process to detect gestational diabetes. You can also call it what it really is: Giant Baby Disease. I lost the information sheet the nurse gave me, so I had to look it up online. Somehow I became confused and thought I had to fast for 8-14 hours and only drink water. I was annoyed all morning because I really wanted a cup of coffee. I Googled it again only to find that I can eat and drink, just not sugary foods/drinks. I smiled, but on the inside I was doing the cabbage patch and lighting off fireworks. Then the realization that I couldn't have any sugar in my coffee brought the party to a halt. Now what was I supposed to do? Google. That's what. "Splenda glucose pregnancy test." I came to find that Splenda doesn't raise your glucose level. What is this? Totally Sweet and Awesome Day? And here I thought my life wasn't exciting.