Tales from La La Land

This is not a post about the celebration of my first late-night pregnancy run (tacos from Jack in the Box and Krispy Kremes) last Saturday evening, but rather about our incredibly shrinking bed.

We have a queen size bed. Lately it feels like a twin bed. I don’t know if the timing is coincidence, but about a month ago I started to feel like Laef was on top of me (and not in the good way), thus increasing my body temperature by 25 degrees, and also depleting my oxygen supply. I used to just kick him away and he’d roll over to his side. But, now, it seems as though his “side” is the whole bed. I guess this is what happens when your limbs are giant and you are hella tall.

Issue number 1 is that his elbow is always under my pillow. He has very bony elbows. Issue number two is his legs are in my back. Issue number 3 is that I roll over in my one inch of space and my arms hang of the edge, and I often wake up once all the blood has flowed completely out of my arms.

So, anyway, I brought up the possibility of upgrading to a king-sized bed. Like, immediately. Laef was not completely against it, so this is a good start.

We were able to test what a king-sized bed would mean when I stayed with Laef at the UCLA team hotel Friday night. Get your mind out of the gutter…the only testing that was done was sleeping through the night from 11 p.m.-9 a.m. It was like we weren’t even sleeping in the same bed. It was so glorious. I realize this makes us sound 100 years old, but I will accept that.

Progress was made in moving forward with the purchase.

And then today I came to work and my coworker asked if I was OK and why I had been crying.

Um, I have not been crying.

I look like I drank the bong water.

So. tired.

Anyway, speaking of bong water.

As I mentioned, I stayed with Laef on Friday night as he has to stay in a hotel for home games as well as road games. I usually do not drag my ass over to the hotel because I am lazy, and he usually works until 10 p.m. anyway. But, on this particular Friday I decided to rally because I have spent the past 17 Friday’s on the couch watching Dateline, and frankly, it’s getting embarrassing.

Besides, staying at a hotel makes you feel like you are on vacation. Even if said hotel is on Sunset Blvd., 1.5 miles from your actual house. And, the only thing on my pillows at home are Laef’s elbows. Hotels have chocolates on the pillows.

Shortly after arriving, I assessed the scene. The mini-fridge was stocked to the brim with mini-patron, mini-Kettle One, mini-Bombay, among many other very fun mini things that I can not have.

Laef: “Thank God I don’t have to worry about leaving you here alone with those.”

Me: …

So, he left, and after further investigation I found the treat basket. This included Snickers, Gummi Bears, Chips, etc. I looked at the chart and realized that the Snickers was $4. It tortured me all night. In an effort not to torture Laef, I did not eat it. Which is a miracle because these days I would cut a bitch for some chocolate.

Or a good night’s sleep.

I apologize in advance. I am breaking all my blog rules in this post. I don’t usually fawn all over Laef here.

When we decided to do the coupons for Valentine’s Day, I figured hilarity would ensue. But, after using two ideas that came off those coupons, I don’t have much to say that won’t gross you out.

On Sunday, we went on a 5-mile hike in Brentwood. We ate a picnic lunch at the top of the hill, talked for an hour about anything and everything. It was a gorgeous day – not too hot, and we were able to see LA from the ocean to the Hollywood sign. It was a great day.

When we got in the car, Laef said: “That was so fun. Are you going to blog about it?”

Me: “I don’t know. I really don’t want to brag about our perfect day. I was counting on you to do something that would make it funny.”

Laef: “You peed. Twice.”

So, there was that. I can no longer make it more than 30 minutes without having to go pee. I was trying not to drink too much water so that I wouldn’t have to go every 3 seconds. But then my hands got totally swollen from me being dehydrated. You just can’t win in the game of pregnancy, I tell ya.

When we got home, we took a nap. Prior to falling asleep we read about Week 24 of pregnancy. More glamorous things coming, including a dark line that goes the entire length of my stomach. And the book mentioned something called skin tags. (WHATEVER you do, don’t google image that shit).

Me: “Thank God I don’t have that. Gross.”

Laef: …

Me: “What?”

Laef: “You have one. Let me show you.”

Me: “WHAT?! Why didn’t you tell me???”

So, I have an iddy-biddy tiny one on my boob. OF COURSE Laef knows EXACTLY where it is.

Supposedly it will fall off after pregnancy.

We can hope.

Anyway, yesterday was Valentine’s Day and Laef decided that he wanted to cook dinner for me. This is also one of the coupons. I got a text from him during the day with a giant grocery list of things he would need for this dinner.

I immediately worried about what he was taking on with this meal. I cook almost every night for us, but let me be honest. Some of those nights are soup and sandwiches, bean burritos, Cesar salad. I’m certainly not whipping up anything special on weeknights.

Then I got another text about an hour later: “I also need everything for red velvet cake and 24 oz. of white chocolate.”

At this point I am really worried for Laef. Not that he can’t do it, but that he has no idea what he is taking on. The only time I bake AND cook a difficult meal is on the weekend when I can start early and take a nap somewhere in the middle of it. It is a lot of work. Especially baking. It’s exhausting.

But, I oblige his requests and get everything at the store. I was tempted to get him 2 lemons instead of the 4 he requested to see if he would stomp his foot and say, “Baby wanted 4 lemons!”

He started cooking dinner at 6:45 ish. He didn’t want any help so I watched my shows and was dying to go into the kitchen to assess.

At 8 p.m. he presented me with this:

Are you fucking serious? I was speechless. It’s Chicken Piccata. And it was really, really good.

And this is the thing about Laef. He doesn’t really like cooking. Or doing dishes. Or doing chores. But when he starts something, he goes all the way. It would never occur to him that making me dinner on Valentine’s Day would be something simple.

The dinner would have been plenty. However, when we were done he kicked me out of the kitchen again and at 8:30 p.m. he started with his dessert.

At 10 p.m., I finally asked if I could please come in there because it is now past my bed time and he has been cooking for 3.5 hours. He says yes, and I stumbled upon cake balls:

So, he had to make a cake. Mash it in the mixer with frosting. Create little balls, and then dip them in white chocolate.

A. Lot. Of. Work.

And looking at him in the kitchen working so hard just melted me. I am really trying not to gross you out, but it was one of the sweetest thing I have ever seen.

I had two cake balls and went to bed. I have no idea what time Laef got done and came to bed.

He told me this morning: “I’m so tired. I don’t know how you do it. I really appreciate everything you do and making dinners and taking care of all that stuff.”

I make fun of Valentine’s Day because I think people get suckered into spending money. But if it gives us an opportunity to do something for each other that we normally wouldn’t and helps us appreciate and love each other for all we bring to the table, then I’m all for it.

Because I certainly am not looking forward to doing all the dishes. I really appreciate that I don’t have to worry about those everyday.

I’ve written about Valentine’s Day before. We are not big Valentine’s Day people. I don’t remember the last time we exchanged gifts. I tend to think of it as sort of a sham the same way I think of Baby Registries and Wedding planning. I don’t feel any less loved if I don’t get roses on February 14.

Also, I might have gotten a ticket for “running a red light” in Santa Monica. I disagree whole heartedly with this ticket as there would not have been ample time for me to stop at the yellow without slamming on my breaks. Unfortunately, whole heartedly doesn’t mean shit – not even during Valentine’s month – in the LA court system and I had to pay … $480 FUCKING DOLLARS.

I won’t go into the pain that writing this check caused me. The stroller I registered for is less than this. The camera I want so that I can start documenting our lives without a cell phone camera is about the same price. I could have decorated the entire nursery for this much. It stabbed me in the heart like you wouldn’t believe.

But, as Laef said, “It’s over. It’s done. And it means we are definitely not doing Valentine’s this month.”

However, yesterday I was killing time at the bookstore on campus and I stumbled upon the “Valentine’s Day” table. There are books about hot sex and romantic dates. There are pink and red stuffed animals. Chocolates.

And coupon books.

Tons of coupon books.

You know the sort of thing that people used to make for free on their home computer with little coupons that said, “A blow job whenever you want”?

Now the industry has taken that phenomenon and stolen it for itself. To quote Matt Damon, I dropped $5.99 on a book of coupons that I could have gotten for 25 cents in toner ink at home.

I flipped through the coupon book and gave 200 side eyes at some of the shit written: “Kiss your partner so passionately that you both drop to your knees.”

Dude. If Laef and I even attempted that, we would bust up laughing immediately.

“Have your partner cook dinner for you.”

Um, this one is not that bad, actually.

“Spend an entire evening in the dark. Take a bath, eat dinner and watch a movie. All by candle light.”

No fucking way. Mostly because Laef is 8′ 2″ tall and we have tried to take a bath together once, and aside from the fact that he barely fits in the tub, we end up just staring at each other freezing cold because the water is below our entire bodies.

“Re-inact your first date.”

Doble. However, our first date was in Hawaii. But, I figure we could go to Manhattan Beach, close our eyes and pretend it is Hawaii. I will make Laef unhook my bra with one hand. No, seriously. He did that. And thought he was really awesome. I am amazed that we are married after that incident.

Anyway, there were a handful of coupons in the book, and it got me thinking.

Laef and I have exactly 4 months left of just him and I. Four months of the life we’ve known for 6 years. Four months of being able to do whatever we want, when we want, with no interruptions (this does not include making out until we fall to our knees). When Laef has a day off from work we struggle to come up with something to do together. We usually end up sitting around the house watching movies and taking naps.

I bought the coupon book and told Laef that we were going to pick out some of the ideas that were reasonable (a picnic, weekend getaway, him cooking me dinner) and do them. And then I am going to blog about them.

Everything was fine until I mentioned him cooking dinner and me filming it. I thought it would be funny. He was worried about his hair.

Fine. No filming.

He nodded yes, but I think he has some trepidations about us becoming “Valentine’s” people.

Will keep you posted on how we do. And, I promise: NO MAKE OUT OR BLOW JOB STORIES.

Well, I have hit the 22-week mark. Or is it 23? It is hard for me to keep count. Why do they calculate pregnancy by week? Wouldn’t it be easier to just say, “I’m 5 months pregnant.”? It’s less to remember.

Part of it is probably due to the fact that the baby literally changes so much from week to week. I have a book that goes week by week to tell you what is going on. Back at week 8 when the baby is the size of a pistachio you can’t help but wonder what it will be like when the baby is more like a real baby.

And you get some of those answers at week 22. And let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. I casually picked up the book the other night to let Laef know what was going on.

“OMG. She’s peeing now.”

Laef: “Inside you?”

Me: “Well, where else? OMG.”

Laef: “Add that to the list of things I don’t want you tell me about.”

(The list is very, very long at this point)

On top of this biatch peeing in me, I am having a hard time breathing while doing anything that doesn’t involve sitting down. I am suddenly a 400-lb smoker trying to walk from point A to point B without collapsing. Apparently this is common.

I am also hot as fuck. All. The. Time.

In case you live under a rock and didn’t know, there is some kind of snow happening all over the country. This doesn’t include LA where it is a peaceful 63 degrees with clear, blue skies. Well, according to Laef, it is freezing. So, every night when he comes home from work, he shivers around like it is -12 degrees, and turns on the heater to bring the temp in the house up to 71 DEGREES, OMG!

This has become the one thing we fight about regularly. I am so fucking hot I think I might die. Which is completely unheard of because I am usually always cold. Also, if I am cold, I will first resort to putting on fluffy socks and a sweatshirt. Laef does not like to wear so much clothes, and opts instead for the heater. The debate was finally put to bed last night when he stole one of MY lines:

“I work too hard to worry about saving 17 cents. If I am cold, I am turning on the heater!”

The, “I work too hard” line is a good one because you stop and realize that if you can’t allow yourself a few luxuries, what’s all the work for? So that bitch used it on me, and it worked.

(Sidenote: It’s not even about the 17 cents. It’s about me sweating my boobs off).

Since I don’t have much else going on, I might use the “your daughter is peeing in me” thing if I really, really need something. We will see.

Because of said increase in temperature and shortness of breath, my days of running are numbered. I am still able to manage about 3 miles each day during the week, but my long runs on the weekend are now maxed out at 5 miles. I feel extremely lucky that I am still able to exercise and move around because I know things could be different. Sometimes it is hard to accept that you aren’t what you once were, but I always remind myself that being able to get out there at all is a bonus.

During the week, I will usually do my running on the treadmill at the UCLA rec center. Because there aren’t a lot of pregnant co-eds, at times I feel a little awkward. ESPECIALLY when this one particular tall, blond chick gets on treadmill next to me. Or some hot guy. I don’t know what I was thinking, but the other day some guy – who wasn’t totally unfortunate looking – got on the treadmill next to me and I tried to suck in my stomach. As if I could do something about my, um, situation. Since that didn’t work, I promptly upped my speed to a badass 7.2.

This worked for all of 7 seconds when I realized that I could barely breath and I farted (another extremely unfortunate side effect of pregnancy). At this point, I decided to just give it up. Even though in my mind when I suck in my tummy and run at 7.2 on the treadmill I totally look like this:

This is not the reality right now. It is more like this:

Anyway, I will be packing up my running shoes sometime soon, and have decided that swimming will be my best option. Although, when I go try on bathing suits this weekend, I may have to update this decision. I am dreading the visual of me in a one piece right now. And the only pool I can use is the UCLA rec center pool. Something tells me that won’t be a good confidence-builder. Plus, how can I out-cute a 19-year-old hussy in a pool? What is the pool equivalent of going fast on a treadmill? The butterfly?