We just got back from our vacation in San Francisco! I’ll post more soon, but between the unpacking, the cleaning and G-Man catching a stomach virus about five seconds after we got home, I need a vacation from my vacation. I have plenty of antics to report, from adventures with the TSA, to how my mom and I ended up in back alley in Chinatown. Stay tuned, because I’ll get it together after I have a bath…and a drink…and maybe another drink…

• I hate waiting on cream cheese to soften.
• I hate putting pillowcases on pillows. Don’t get me wrong, I love my pillowcases, and my OCD even demands I have two pillow cases on each of my pillows. I just hate the actual act of putting the case on the pillow.
• I hate it when people open their car doors at intersections to spit on the street.
• I hate hard plastic packaging that requires scissors, a jackhammer and a pound of C-4 to open before you can free your newly purchased item from its’ clutches.
• I hate that my glasses fogged up when I walked outside this morning, and it’s not even July yet.
• I hate that I can’t go to the store without forgetting something, even when I have a list. I somehow develop selective blindness while in the store and pass over at least three crucial items I need for the week.
• I hate whoever keeps littering in our yard, and wish I could magically electrify the sidewalk to zap them every time they throw their drink cups, food wrappers and cigarette butts in my grass.
• I hate being grouchy, so I’m going to have a cocktail and get in a better mood.
• The end.

Let me preface this post by telling you that Bear thinks our house is haunted. He’s talked about this for a while, and I am sure it’s not helping matters that we let him watch My Ghost Story on A&E. Yeah…I get the gold star for questionable parenting choices sometimes.

Last night, my husband and I were jolted awake by the sound of our bedroom door rattling…loudly. The door was locked, and it literally sounded as if someone was on the other side of the door, trying to get in. I was instantly convinced that a bogeyman had broken into the house, and my heart pounded desperately. My second thought was that one of the kids had been shaking the door, because they don’t know the meaning of the word “knock.” I was prepared to either fight off the bogeyman with a baseball bat, or explain to my kids in no uncertain terms that shaking the door at 3:00 AM was not in their best interests.

My husband jumped up and went to investigate…and found absolutely nothing. We racked our brains as to what could have caused the rattling door.

Obviously, it was neither an intruder nor a wayward child, and we were both severely freaked out. I could find no rational explanation for what could make the door rattle all by itself. Maybe Bear was right and our house really was haunted…

We went back to sleep, and as I drifted off, I wondered if this was a problem that would require copious amounts of holy water and that little old lady from Poltergeist.

Weeeellll, guess what I found out when I woke up this morning:

See that blue box? That’s a freaking EARTHQUAKE!

Of all the possible explanations for the mysterious rattling door, I never would have guessed earthquake…this is Louisiana for cripes sake!

So, the good news is that we don’t need a voodoo priestess.

Yet…

Well, things are changing around our home. Up until this point, I’ve kept quiet on what’s on the horizon, but very, very soon, I will be able to fill ya in on all the details. Tune in Friday for some big news.

I’ve hit the point in my pregnancy when I have to see my OB every couple of weeks. Luckily, my doctor has been awesome in her timeliness, so these visits have not eaten up as much of my days as I feared they would.

Though I usually snag the first appointment of the day, I always have about 45 minutes from the time I drop the heathens off at school, to the time I need to report to my OB for another devastating date with her evil, lying scale. (note to self—that weight probably isn’t going to come off as easily as it came on, and I doubt Bean is 30+ pounds, so you really need to quit deluding yourself and put down the chocolate)

Annnnyyyway, those extra 45 minutes are a rare occurrence in my otherwise frantic days, and if I weren’t quite so exhausted, I could probably use them productively. For example, I could run home and fold a load of laundry, or clean a bathroom. I could probably even mop my kitchen floor, which still looks like a Rorschach test after an unfortunate orange juice incident earlier this week.

Sure, I could squeeze another iota of productivity out of myself during those few extra minutes on doctor appointment days…but I don’t. Instead, I go to Starbucks, order a hazelnut cappuccino and a cinnamon-chip scone, and spend 30 minutes lounging in a comfy chair, reading my Kindle Fire. As an enormously pregnant, sleep-deprived, working mom, those 30 minutes are like a mini-vacation, and stealing them for myself is a wonderful treat in this final sprint to the pregnancy finish-line.

The kitchen floor will still be there later, as will the laundry and the science-experiment-bathroom. Especially the bathroom…I live with three guys, after all.

Our internet service went down the other day…conveniently, this was a day the heathens needed the computer to complete multiple school assignments using internet research. Yes, I was aggravated. But I dealt. Trying to research famous hurricanes on an iPhone for my 9 year-old was not my idea of a good time, but I sure did it.

After a day or so, I started to wonder if it was a problem with something in our house, instead of the service itself. After all, a full day would have been plenty of time for any service problems to be resolved, right?

Soooooo, I called AT&T technical support, and after navigating the never-ending automated menu, I finally ended up with a person who clearly resides in a country other than my own. No big deal, but he had to repeat every sentence at least twice before I could understand what he was saying. This made for a very long process.

THREE hours later, and after following instructions dealing with computer settings and command prompts that I had no business messing with, my technical support “friend” declares the problem to be our modem, and breaks the news that I’ll need to shell out $125 for a new one.

Fine. Bleepity-bleep-bleep…fine.

THE VERY NEXT DAY, I go to the doctor to find out that EVERYONE in my town’s AT&T internet is down. Despite three hours with technical support, those clowns somehow missed that the problem really was on their end.

Well, dang.

So, I called technical support again, hoping to cancel said modem order. What I got was a recording informing me that they knew there was an outage, and to press “0” if I needed further assistance. Which I did. The line would ring once, then HANG UP ON ME…three…dang…times. Finally, I called another number, and kept repeatedly pressing “0,” despite the automated voice trying to convince me it really needed to know more about my problem to help me. After the tenth “0,” a huffy computer voice finally transferred me to a real, live person, who told me it was too late to recall the modem.

Now, I will have endure the hoopla of sending the modem back, but no big deal. At least I could bask in the knowledge that my internet would be restored soon.

Until, last night.

Oooooohhhh, last night.

When I finally saw the mystical internet light on my modem blink green, I rushed to my computer to rejoice in my connectivity…not that I’m an addict or anything, but I sure love my Kindle Fire…which needs Wi-Fi…as does every computer and the main TV in our house.

As it turns out, my “FRIEND” in technical support had me change so much crap on our computers that our in-house wireless network now isn’t functioning. If I want internet, I have to sit on the floor of the empty nursery, and plug directly into a modem that, up until this point, had been concealed in a cabinet. All other computers, my Kindle, the TV, etc. are now cut off for at least the next two weeks, until my husband is able to come home and fix it.

I am not happy, Bob…not happy.

In fact, after trying to fix the mysterious issue for another two hours last night, I erupted into hysterical tears that were completely disproportionate to the situation at hand.

I know it’s the pregnancy talking, but I’m starting to take this personally. AT&T…you and I may be headed for a break-up.

Gak.

My husband and I have caught some type of germy cold that has made the past three nights a restless hot mess. It sure doesn’t help matters than Bean thinks bedtime is dance time, or that my day off today ended up being more work than play. We are all looking a little worse for wear. My poor husband even tried gargling a mixture of water, salt and cayenne pepper to get some relief from the crippling congestion…don’t ask me where the yahoo came up with that crazy plan, but I hear from the heathens it was entertaining to watch.

TGIF is all I can say.

The ten year anniversary of 9/11…it feels weird even writing that. And even as I write it, I have no idea how to finish that sentence.

Ten years ago, I had just found out I was pregnant with G-man. My husband was at work, making coffee and selling books at a small store in our college town. I was waking up in our decrepit garage apartment, getting ready for another day of class and trying to figure out how I was going to finish my senior year of college before giving birth. Not to mention, what exactly was I going to do with a baby anyway?

I hadn’t turned on the television that morning because I was already running late. As I hopped in the car, with the fond hope of at least hitting the cafeteria before class, I was dismayed to find that my favorite radio station was playing what sounded like news…and I was in the mood for some get-up-and-go music. I quickly flipped the station, only to find that every damn station was broadcasting news. When I finally stopped my frustrated channel surfing long enough to listen, what I heard sounded more like “War of the Worlds” than a real broadcast.

I turned my car away from the university and headed straight to my husband’s job. The only way I could deal with the most enormously frightening tragedy I had ever heard was with him next to me.

The rest of the morning was a blur, and the horror I felt then was nothing compared to the images I later saw broadcasting in the university cafeteria. I saw deep sorrow, panic and utter helplessness in the faces of everyone I met that day. I think the panic was the worst. My first OB appointment was scheduled for the next day, and I needed gas for the hour drive into the city. That night, I had to wait in a line of cars at the gas station for over two hours. It made me angry, this desperate panic that had infected our small college town. I was angry at the selfishness I saw in that line, especially when we were so very far from removed from the true victims.

Louisiana is a long way from New York. And our experiences are those of distant observers, who could only watch that terrible day unfold and keep those unknown souls in our hearts and prayers.

As I reflect on that day, now decade later, I still don’t have the words. Only the prayers.