L-O-V-E means watching DUMB movies like this. I mean, Jeremy Piven would, I am sure, prefer to get mercury poisoning again than admit that he made this film. This is right up there with Glitter (sorry Mariah). So while I sit here trying to distract myself from this movie I post blog posts like this.

I must really love my husband.

Turns out. I do.

I once had a friend who was so in love with this girl that she was with she went to a StarWars convention dressed as an Ewok. I had another friend who took a month of French to say a couple of sentences to an exchange student. I mean, with Garrett, I didn’t convert to another religion or do anything else extreme- but I DO find myself having to watch mind-numbing movies and listening to way more Creed than I would otherwise listen to. But I love him.

So I sigh and stare at him with goo goo eyes as he laughs like a hyena at Ving Raines attempting to resuscitate an already VERY dead acting career.

What do you do for love?

So. Garrett and I went in this morning to have my membranes stripped.

HA! What a joke!!!  You wanna know what happened? My contractions got closer together with no change in intensity. So now my vagina is just all hurty and my back is all crampy and my front is all contraction-y, with no progress.

So. I check in tomorrow for good ole pitocin. I am a little frightened that I won’t be able to handle pitocin induced contractions, but at this point I am so angsty and bitchy that I might just stand up and grunt this baby out all Zena the Warrior Princess style (ew. gross visual!).

Hey remember all that lofty and mature crap I was spouting in the last post about not controlling life… EFF that! I am ready to see this baby and move on to phase two.

Check back in a couple of days, when I am sure to be all squishy and happy and in love with my little girl and this annoyance only a tiny blip on my maternal radar.

I have never made French Onion soup and maybe had never even had French Onion soup, but I saw the recipe in Real Simple and it sounded delicious so I thought we’d try it. Plus, as you probably know, a major component of French Onion soup is a toasted hunk of bread with melty cheese on it and I am a sucker for toasted bread and melty cheese.

So Rusty and I set out to make this soup, and let me preface this next section by letting you know that I have terrible knives. Terrible, awful knives that require a sawing action to cut through tomatoes. Tomatoes! I am perfectly aware that my knives are crap so I knew that thinly slicing three large onions would take me about 8 years, not to mention the arm exertion and smelly hands I would have for three solid days. For some reason I happen to have a mandoline in my kitchen drawer. I have no idea where this scary kitchen tool came from, I certainly didn’t buy it, but I imagine Rusty’s mom had something to do with it’s existence in my drawer. I have acquired a corkscrew, a pie pan, and several cups via Carol’s Kitchen so it wouldn’t surprise me if the mandoline was another stolen utensil. Anyway, given the three large onions I had to thinly slice, and the prospect of smelly hands, and the crap knives, I decided the mandoline was the way to go, never mind the fact that I am a real dunce when it comes to sharp things and once tried to use a cheese knife to cut some lemons.

Basically I was planning to use scary kitchen utensil that I had never used before to make a soup I had never even tasted before. Maybe you can see where this is headed.

I got through the first 1/2 onion with no problem, but then one of the prongs broke out of the safety cover and since one was already broken out I was left with only one prong. I was ready to admit defeat and finish up with my crap knives but the onion smelling hands were just too much for me to handle so I thought I’d just wildly over-estimate my cutting skills and finish the onion slicing on the mandoline…without the safety cover.

Again, maybe you can see where this is headed.

There we are, Rusty and me in the kitchen with an ever growing pile of thinly sliced onions. My hand is precariously close to the sharp edge, sans safety cover, and Rusty has a look of dread on his face. “Don’t worry!” I say, mentally scoffing him for his lack of faith, “I’ll be careful!” Ahhh…those pompous words. They weren’t even out of my mouth before the outside of my right thumb went sliding through the slicer, just behind a hunk of onion.

We both gasped and then Rusty goes “Ack! Do you need stitches!?” And then I’m standing there in the kitchen holding my bloody thumb, looking around for something to put on it. What I really needed was a werewolf, ready to tear off his shirt and sop up my blood (New Moon, anyone?). So I’m just standing there, looking around, with blooding pouring off my finger,  and Rusty starts to back away from me going “Umm. I don’t do well with blood..” He was obviously looking for a place to pass out so I said “Well get away from me!” and then ran to the bathroom to finish trying to figure out what to do. And I’m still just standing there when Rusty comes in with the first aid kit and hands me some gauze.

We do all the appropriate things, like staring at the blood as it drips in the sink, putting pressure on the wound and wondering at my amazing amount of stupidity and then I decide that I should maybe wash it. There was onion juice in the wound, you know. So I tell Rusty to get the alcohol (rubbing alcohol, though tequila would have been alot funnier) and help me pour it on my finger. He reluctantly agrees and we go back into the bathroom. He carefully pours some alcohol into the cap and holds it over my hand, gritting his teeth and grimacing. He looks at me for permission because he knows its going to sting like the dickens.

And then he pours. And he’s bouncing up and down on the balls of hit feet yelling “Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh my gosh! It’s ok, you can yell if you want to!” and I’m just standing there looking at him because seriously? I don’t feel anything at all. And then Rusty, in true Rusty fashion says, “No really. It’s ok if you yell and cuss. I won’t get mad at you. They’ve scientifically proven that cussing helps deal with pain” and I’m like, “No really, Rusty. I don’t feel anything at all.” And then he walks away, amazed at my pain threshold.

Two onion scented hours later the soup was done, and wouldn’t you know it, it was gross.

So my finger is disabled and I had no idea how much I used my right thumb until today when I popped the cut open a good three or four times. The soup was a failure and I’ve been through more than my share of jumbo sized Band-Aids. But at least my hands don’t stink like onion.

The other day, at our routine checkup, the amazing Dr. Crownover asked me how I was feeling. A blush came over my face and I started to explain:

Jasmine: Dr. Crownover, before you see my belly I have a confession to make…

*Dr. Crownover gave a very medical, yet attentive look…*

Jasmine: So…. as my belly has gotten bigger I have become increasingly insecure about how hairy my belly is. In a moment of weakness I decided I would wax my belly.

*Dr. Crownover’s attentive look melts away and he doubles over in laughter*

Jasmine: Seriously! Don’t laugh. I got into the first strip, and I thought, “Who the hell’s idea was this! But then I was already in over my head and I had to finish it… now it is growing back, and I am all itchy. GAW! What is wrong with me!!!!”

*Garrett interjects*

Garrett: I told her not to be insecure about it. I told her that her body was normal.

Jasmine: Shut up Garrett! You don’t get an opinion! You shaved your face into a trucker “stash” …. people who look like that don’t get opinions on what is normal.

*Side note: Days before Garrett shaved his beard into a handlebar mustache and decided that he loved the trucker look. I laughed at him every time I looked at him. THEN he thought it was an awesome idea to wear it to my appointment. Because, ya know, that look is cool? What! No! It isn’t cool. All he needed was a cut- off flannel shirt and an “I love mom” tattoo… geez!

Dr. Crownover: OH! I didn’t even notice your mustache Garrett, I like it… I like it *Up until this point I believed my OB was a great honest man, now I believe he is a filthy filthy liar!*

My belly itches like an S.O.B and the little red bumps from my shirt rubbing the hair that is growing in is not very pretty… it is actually worse than being hairy. Because now I am hairy/bumpy/red. A dead sexy combination.

*Fast forward to today*

After a vigorous step aerobic workout Sadie and I decided to go to lunch. We talk about a plethora of things. Sadie is smart. She is a real brain. But today, she looked at me with all seriousness, she, “When we get closer to having the babies we should go get our nails done, and then make someone wax our lady parts so we will look all nice for the delivery…”

I evaded the remark. I was having flashbacks of a couple of weeks earlier where I got that dumbass bright idea to wax my belly. I don’t think Sadie and I can be friends if she starts suggesting things like this. Next she will ask me about anal bleaching….

Nearly 75% of the 11 hour drive is on I-40 and since we have been driving the route about 2 times a year for 3 years, the scenery is increasingly familiar to us. The trip would not be quite the same without the Rose Leach sign in Oklahoma; the lonely trees and endless plains of eastern Oklahoma and western Texas; the leprachauns of Shamrock, Texas; the Biggest Cross in the Western Hemisphere!; the Big Texan restaurant with its promise of a free 72 ounce steak; the horrific weather of Amarillo, the stench of cows in Hereford, and the Allsup’s in Elida. These are the landmarks of our trek to and from New Mexico. Without them, I don’t know that I would be able to find my way home.

This trip however, I noticed another characteristic of that route. There is an incredible number of billboards for adult superstores. I counted at least 7. Christie’s Toybox, Adult MegaMart, and Fantasy Land all advertise their goods several times on I-40 and even though Christie’s Toybox and Fantasy Land sound harmless enough, almost like a good place to stop and let the kids stretch their legs, we all know that they are just cleverly named sex shops. And you should probably find another place to let your kids stretch their legs.

So my brain had been busy all day translating “Christie’s Toybox: 7 Miles!” into “Naked Shop!” and because of that I really cannot take responsibility for the fact that when I drove past the Recreation Department in our small Arkansas town and read “Adult Basketball Sign Ups!” I immediately thought, ‘Ew. Naked basketball.”

I blame Christie.

Another, more innocuous landmark of the trip is of course, McDonald’s. I don’t think it is possible to drive to New Mexico without stopping at McDonald’s to pee and get a cheeseburger. Its some kind of compulsion. The McDonalds’ along I-40 have seen some pretty bizarre sights, I’m sure, and we like to be sure to add our own little lunacies. For example, when Norah and I went to Roswell last summer we stopped at the arches to change a diaper and get some food. I thought it was just a routine diaper change, but when I pulled off her shorts, two adult sized handfuls of Cheerios came flying out the legs of her shorts and spewed around the bathroom stall. I, of course, left them where they were so that someone else could have the pleasure of trying to figure out how to clean up a hundred Cheerios in the big stall in the McDonald’s in El Reno, Oklahoma.

This time we stopped in Yukon, Oklahoma for the diaper and wardrobe change. This particular McDonald’s committed the cardinal sin of bathrooms and expected me to change my baby’s diaper without the aid of a changing table. Now, at my own house I change diapers on the floor because I think its easier but my floors are relatively clean and familiar. I draw the line at laying my daughter down in a puddle of unknown liquid at some bathroom on the interstate. That’s just nasty. Since Norah can obviously stand on her own now I didn’t panic. I simply unbuttoned her jammies and then pulled the tabs on her diaper so I could change it standing up. As soon as I pulled it off, she peed. And not just a little tinkle, but a full-on pee that left her standing in a nice warm puddle.

Norah is so awesome like that.

So anyway, we are back in Arkansas now. We are in the thick of transitioning Norah to a toddler bed, I am feeling the baby move like crazy, and tomorrow Rusty is going to sign up for naked basketball. I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving but maybe without pee puddles.

Here is a game we can play. You won’t win a prize, a giveaway, or shenanigans like that. You’ll only have the beautiful gift of feeling, for a brief moment, what it is like in my life.

Here are your clues:

1. I couldn’t find Isaiah

2. I found him in the towel closet

3. He piled up blankets

4. He pulled down his pants

5. He took off his diaper

6. When I asked him what he was doing he closed the door on my face and declared, “…..”

Tell me. What do YOU think he declared?

Give up? He screamed, “Close door mom! POTTY!!!”

Uh yes son, what was I thinking… I potty in the towel closet all the time! Someone want to come clean up my towel closet?

You know what is better than having Pneumonia and being pregnant?

You know what is better that all of that? What is better than that would be having BRONCHITIS, PNEUMONIA, and H1N1…..and being pregnant.

Listen ladies! When I do it, I go big…. or I go home. Okay. Actually my last two and half week experience was a big ole shit storm and as soon as my life falls back into order I promise to blog about it. Until then I will be downing Tamiflu, antibotics, and wondering how I got to be this amazing.

Contagious Smooches!!!

♥Jasmine

If you pee yourself… It is better to do so while at home being tickled by your son. It is also difficult to explain to said son how big boys don’t pee on themselves.

♥Jasmine

I ran out to the living room and yelled at Rusty SHE POOPED! SHE POOPED! and then ran back into the bathroom in case Norah decided to play with it or something. I cleaned her up and we showered and then ten minutes later she pooped in her diaper again. Ok, so the potty pooping was probably just a fluke, a case of blind good-timing on my part. But still, the next day I thought I’d try again.

I sat her on the potty and stupidly, this time I gave her some toilet paper before she did anything to earn it. She apparently has a better idea of what it’s for than I earlier thought because before I could stop her she reached down between her legs and starting dipping the toilet paper in the toilet water. So, she has a better idea of what its for, but she’s still not totally clear. And guys, I do not clean my toilets near often enough so basically Norah was playing in dirty bacteria poop water.

I swooped her up off the potty and ran to the sink to wash her hands as fast as I could because I just knew she was going to stick those poop water hands in her eye or her mouth and we’d end up with some kind of terrible disease that only comes from poop ingestion and then my pediatrician would know that I let my baby play with poop and don’t wash her hands, which I DON’T! So I sat her on the sink to clean the germs (on Rusty’s side of the sink, hehehe) and washed her hands until her skin was pink and disease bacteria free and the while she’s going “Gahh! Gahh! Gahh….” looking longingly toward the toilet and her precious pieces of toilet paper. The little sicko.

I picked up my clean handed baby to put a diaper back on her because clearly we are not ready for potty training and then I realized, too late, she’d already peed all over the counter. A bathroom fiasco in line with the time she flung a ball of orange Dorito poop dangerously close to her own head while I changed her diaper at school.

So yeah, maybe we are not ready to potty train. Norah’s interest in the potty seems to extend no further than eating graham crackers while sitting on the pot, repeating “cracker!” like a little naked parrot.

–Sadie

2. It wasn’t me who put Norah to bed early so I could play Mario Party 8 either.

3. It wasn’t me who let Norah dump and entire box of goldfish crackers into the back of my mom’s car.

4. It was definately not me who looked at Norah and laughed when she got ahold of a handful of salsa, ate it, turned bright red, and then proceeded to freak out and fling everything from our table at Taco Bueno onto the floor.

5. Hahahahaha! It was pretty funny though.

–Sadie