Work & Pictures Have Been Plotting My Demise (OR Surprise Baby Shower Video)

So, Catholic guilt did win (read: I thought about posting all last week). However, work decided to enter the ring and play dirty. There was hair pulling, some below-the-belt hits, and thus the blog sat without an update.

Stupid work.

Anyway, we've had two baby showers in the last few weeks. Pics from the first one (thrown by mom, the pops and my mother-in-law) will be up soon. The Mac and I just have to learn to work together. This should only take until Oliver is growing facial hair...

In the meantime, enjoy a video of the surprise shower at the hubs' work. (Surprise to him, not me. I was so in cahoots.) The hubs' amazingly prompt, detail-orientated, and incredibly sweet assistant is behind the shower, video and pics. She needs no Catholic guilt—this is just how she rolls.

Surprise shower video.

Please excuse how humongous I look. I'm 32 weeks along and have cravings for ice cream. I'm told double chins go with the territory.

I also was fooled into thinking I looked small. All the ladies in the office said so. They are either incredibly nice, blind folks or terrible liars. Either way, I think I'm hanging at their office more often. I'm okay with blind folks or liars—as long as they tell me I look thin. And don't take anymore pictures. Photographic evidence is a preggo lady's frienemy. It seems all fun and harmless as you pose, but then you look at the pic and see it's been talking some major trash behind your back.

Stupid pictures. You and work should hang out some time. Maybe knock over some old ladies on your way to make fun of babies and kick puppies.

(Shutter)

But go ahead and enjoy the show. I've got an ice cream cake in the freezer with my name on it, literally and figuratively.

How Catholic Guilt Will Save This Blog

Seriously? It's August September? Before you know it, Oliver will be graduating from college and I’ll only be up to 20 blog entries. Maybe.

Really, I blame the pregnancy for my writing laziness. To know me is to know I'm a multi-tasking, overachieving, to-do-list-creating kind of chick. I don't get overwhelmed; I simply kick things into high gear. If I don't do a task (weekend of no dishes, anyone?), it's because slacking off was actually on the agenda.

What? I said I have issues. I believe that one falls around number 243 on the list.

Enter pregnancy. Pregnancy doesn't give a damn about you. It has its own agenda and doesn't care what it does to your emotions, plans, or shoe size. Frankly, it's a disrespectful little turd.

And let’s not forget that pregnancy is a public condition. As you grapple with understanding the tricky beast, you are completely on display. You walk in a room and everyone stares at you. Actually, they stare at your growing belly. The phrase, "Hey, I'm up here," has taken on an entirely new meaning.

As they would say in Fight Club, “I am Oliver’s womb.”

I have become a glorified incubator for a parasite. The smartest, cutest darn parasite there could possibly be, but a parasite nonetheless. Pregnancy takes my energy and eats away at my creative thoughts. I can now only think of doctor’s appointments, child birthing classes, and ice cream. And naps. And foot rubs, glorious foot rubs.

New plan of attack: from now on I’m going to let my Catholic guilt gnaw at me to update this site more often. It should be an even match for the pregnancy—a real Goliath versus Goliath battle. The heavens will tremble; lighting bolts will be thrown.

Just to be extra prepared, I’ll pray and eat ice cream.

Also, I’ll don my mouth guard.

And possibly a helmet.

Stay tuned next week for the results. This is going to be epic, people.