Sometimes I have a little trouble getting home from the store with everything I purchased. I left a picture frame ($14.99) in the shopping cart at Target around Christmas, for example.

Yesterday, McPantses and I hit the grocery store and we snagged a bottle of Act ($4.99) because the dentist said to dip her toothbrush in it and brush it over her soft, cavernous teeth every morning and night and, let me tell you, the kid is highly excited about the addendums to her dental care routine.

And then we had a major meltdown in the car in the parking lot at the grocery store involving me requesting (fairly politely, too) that McP get into her seat so we could get fastened in and leave. Rather than simply comply, McP laughed and flashed me the dangerous eyes of a child who knows she’s suddenly completely in charge, and so, our trip home began badly.

We got the groceries into the house (this is a favorite McP activity and she loves to help in any way possible), which is a process that delights the dogs, and we put things away and by the bottom of the last annoying plastic bag (I hate those bags), I could see that I must have left the Act somewhere in the store or in the cart.

I got over the picture frame easily, but after the parking lot meltdown and, I guess, because of the contractions that seemed to go on and on and on and on (much like the girlchild when she’s in a state), I was up-SET with myself. I, who said a benevolent “fuck it” regarding a $14.99 picture frame a month ago, was seriously considering driving back to the store for a replacement freebie bottle of Act.

Fast forward to bedtime last night. McP gets her teeth brushed (well, she brushes first and we brush after she does) and then dashes off to her bedroom to fetch the bottle of Act she spirited away from a grocery bag and stashed secretly.

Now, that’s a first. I hope she doesn’t start hiding things with rot potential.

(or have you heard) that Cake song, No Phone?

(Imagine, here, my embarassment if, in fact, that’s not a Cake song.)

Oooh, thank you Google. Cake, it is.

Replace the chorus with the following words, if you will:

No milk.

No milk.

No miii-iii-iii-iiiiiilk.

Celebration: I am 35 weeks. Only FOUR MORE WEEKS of this pregnancy nonsense.

I have absolutely no use for teat milk of any sort until about 45 min. to an hour after Third makes his way into the world by hook and by crook. NO USE WHATSOEVER. Do you HEAR ME, milk Gods?

NO MILK!

(I’m jes’ sayin’, is all. It’s not like I might have had any milk incidents last night or at any other time because, really, that would be just strange and mortifying and would certainly not be anything I’d write about on the internet. Geeze Louise.)

Oh, for you breastfeeding purists, feel free to sing “No colostrum” instead, okay?

Sooooooo, I sucked up some guts and bought my new printer at lunch yesterday. We won’t talk about the breakdown sure to come if it turns out the printer has nothing to do with my pixelation problem (I suspect it might not, but I wanted the printer anyway, so…). I did manage to extract myself from Office Max without the $199 HP upright, super-cool glass scanner for which I have a real hankering, though, and I’m proud of that. It was touch and go for a minute.

Then I headed to the probate court building to do some county biz license stuff and stood in line behind a man getting a license for his tractor sales/repair biz.

It took forever or five minutes, whichever you prefer to believe, but let me remind you that I am 17 months knocked-up and I needed to pee something fierce. Another gal behind the counter finally took pity on my waddleage and stepped from the marriage license side to the biz license side and helped me. She took my paperwork across the room and hollered back at me “Fray-uhnn-cesss McWhaaaaaaaat?”

And I said, “McPayuntses,” because it’s the South and that’s how we tawlk.

And she said, “McWhaaaaaaaaat? Mc-pee-ay-ehnn-teeee-whaaaaaat?”

“S-e-s. McPantses.”

And the tractor man was about to fall over at this display. In between answering questions about wholesale and retail, about selling tires or engines, about repair or no, he managed to turn his entire body towards me and give me the snake eye, the crook eye and the stink eye all at once, which is saying something for a large redneck man wearing farm overalls and a beret (a beret?). I suspect that tho he was glaring disapproval at my whimsical biz name on the outside, he was laughing his ass off on the inside. Dude, we cayuhn’t awhl be Tractors-R-Us and ain’tchew jes’ glad I’s jes’ thar ’bout a silly lil payper bidness and not ’bout mah own competin’ traychter bidness? An, hey, how’s yer mama n’em? Lawsy, man.

It’s actually difficult to type in redneck. Who woulda known? The Husband and I have a roadtrip game where, when we drive past utter squalor, we fight to see who can say, in the best godawful hick accent, “Lil piece of heaven, right here on earth, bayby.” You probably have to be there for it. I think I might call him right now and just screech that into the telephone. It might make the rest of his hair fall out, tho.

I am totally going to get caught picking my nose in my office.

After McPantses’ dentist visit this morning, I have three words for you:

soft

cavernous

teeth

Yeppers.

Jest like her daddy, it seems. The Husband had nine cavities filled two days before our wedding. The dentist was so thrilled with this business that he gave us tickets to a primo sporting events party.

My father in law has the same teeth.

The men are cavity prone. I think you could go spelunking in their cave-like teeth and I fear McP’s going to turn out the same way.

She seems to have, today, as many cavities as I have had in my lifetime: FOUR. They’re in her back teeth–some kids (chime in, dental brains) have flattish teeth and some kids have crevasse-filled teeth and McP’s one of the unlucky. The dentist’s younger son has the same problem, which I find oddly comforting. They tell me that no matter what, she would have these cavities and that the fact that we brushed often and well (!) shows because the cavities are still so small.

But, still. FOUR?

I’m still recovering from the fact that the Husband had NINE at once in 1998. I had never heard of such before that. My mother didn’t visit the dentist in my entire life (you will want to cue dueling banjoes, I’m sure, but she had two good reasons.*) and when she finally went in 2001, she had nary a cavity. She also has perfectly straight, gorgeously white teeth and never wore braces.

My poor girl.

* When I was little, my parents opted to send the kids to the dentist over themselves. It was all they could afford. When I hit the teen years and my mom was waiting on me to get my teeth cleaned in the reception area, she decided to make an appointment for herself on the way out. Then she heard the wench behind the desk talking about how disgusting someone’s teeth were and she named names and it was a friend of my mother’s. It took another ten years for my mother to make an appointment after that incident. The bitch receptionist was long-gone by then. I’m not one for naming names myself, but I will tell you that she shares a very unusual name with the title character from a Toni Morrison book.

My father, on the other hand, started going when I was in junior high or high school and was sentenced to a lifetime of “deep cleanings” from the periodontist. It was bad news for him and I remember pureed food for him afterwards. He had to go every six weeks for something like a year. He’s a big proponent of regular dental visits now.

I, on the other hand, love going to the dentist. I love the clicky feeling my teeth get afterwards and the whole nine yards. I dislike the odd, gritty texture of the toothpaste, but I can get past that. I did have a bit of a “dark spot” somewhere last visit, but we won’t think about that. After all, tomorrow is another day.

ETA: McP may not have been to the doc in a solid year, but we shall make up for it with the dentist, it appears. When will I learn to keep my big mouth shut?

Debbie, we hardly knew ye.

I can’t decide if it was funnier back when Tiffany did it or not.

Note: Sugar Free Key Lime Tart may sound like the most wonderful food ever to someone in my predicament, but let me assure you, after carting a slice as large as my head into work this morning, that it’s just not.

Someone asked the artsy fartsy coffee shop, now owned by a pasty chef (lucky me, missing out on all the delightful cookies, etc.–last week, I hauled McPantses in there for a wee gelato and had them stick a Chocolate Espresso cookie in the gelato cup so she could try it and I could live vicariously through her because I’ve been dying to try them. She gave it a sticky thumbs-up.), to make one a few days ago and then the silly twit of a customer never showed up to fetch it, which means she can’t possibly show her humiliated face in there for a good long while (which would suck if you’re an artsy coffee or baked yummies whore).

Sooo, the coffee shop is selling it by the slice. Splenda in the filling. Sugar-free gingersnap crust.

My tongue fuzzes over at the mere taste-memory. Good Lord, it was horrible. It was bitter in the worst, most chemically way. Gingersnap crust cannot be made sugar-free, it appears, and neither can key lime filling. The consistency of both was perfection. But sugar-free is a dealbreaker. Figures, hunh?

I left my 34 week checkup today with the news that starting at 36 weeks, I will have weekly non-stress tests. I was not looking forward to this at all. I am fully aware that it could be a necessary evil to keep an eye on young Third and how well he tolerates contractions, etc., but I feel this kid move all day, every day, and it takes a big chunk of time and I just didn’t think it was necessary.

This afternoon, my doctor called and said because my GD is diet-managed, I can skip the NSTs. Also, because of the diet management, Third is not as at risk for lung immaturity (my main concern for him, besides general good health) as he would be if I were managing GD with insulin or if I suffered from juvie onset diabetes. That was news to me and it is such a relief to erase that worry.

There is also no need for a size-determining ultrasound (I’ve had three us so far, which is at least a dozen less than with McP) because they think he won’t be too terribly big and because of the c-section, but the nurse told me at my appointment that the doc’s curiosity may call for one anyway. If it’s just a matter of curiosity on his part (and, let’s not lie: wild curiosity on the Husband’s part, who is just dying to know “about how big he is”), I will feel no guilt turning it down. Don’t need it.

And in the good news department, let’s congratulate the Husband, who had some pleasant news at work today. Good job, man!

McPantses alternates regularly between being a sweetheart of grand proportion and testing boundaries like all get-out. She manages both really well, but the testing makes me want to tear my hair out and weep and scream all at the same time.

Bad news: the crapmo grocery around the corner from my house has replaced whoreganic milk with Atkins carb something milk. What in the samhill is Atkins milk?

Semi-bad news: I have much paper biz work to complete. I am also much tired. In the paper-scissors-rock of my current existence, tired is winning. Throw in the messy house and the lack of clean and ironed clothes and you have one mama who is tempted to take to bed for a bit.

But, press on I shall. One set of thank-yous printed. Coming up: birth announcements times two; wedding shower stickers (so fun); more samples for the 1000 wedding thank-yous; wall art for two different people (poodles and monkeys!) and a whimsical drawing of the 1000 thank-yous girl’s mom’s four kids for the mom’s thank-yous. Add to this several things from my favorite enthusiastic business friend and you’ve got what’s on my paper plate this week.

I = not so good at drawing people, whimsically or not. I put a policeman on someone’s birthday invite last year and I swear, the man looked like a porn star. Must have been the moustache…

Finally. Really. I feel so much better all of a sudden.

Well, not truly all of a sudden. It happened yesterday morning–after a week of feeling like pure death every time I took a step (I’ve been afraid, but only a little, that my previous c-sec incision was going to burst open because that’s where it’s been hurting so much) and lots of throwing up in my mouth (the Husband had no idea that could really happen), I felt better. I could walk without wanting to d.i.e.

First, I got blonded on Friday afternoon. My last hilight appointment was supposed to be at the end of December, but a last-minute work thing forced me to cancel, so I was at least a month overdue. Getting blonded changes the very texture of my hair in a very good way and makes me rudely happy.

Saturday, we hauled McPantses to her Atlanta grandparents’ house so we could spend the night with my sister and have a great dinner out–a sort of a last hurrah before bebe deux.

However, on the way to Hotlanta, the Husband said, “Why don’t we stay at the Ritz instead?”

And so, we did, and we did it with pure, unadulterated happiness and none of that pit-in-stomach feeling of “good God, this is such a complete waste of money.”

Plus, the in-laws seem to have taken some sort of role-playing behavioral course on dealing with recalcitrant daughters-in-law 101, because they said all of the right things as we were heading out the door, and McPantses managed to strip down and reclothe herself in a full-length princess dress that (gack) matched her Barbie’s dress in the first thirty seconds we were there. They had it waiting for her, which I thought was quite brilliant. They promised that McP wouldn’t draw breath without them at her side and mother-in-law told the Husband that if McP fell into a hole, they would all three fall in because that’s how close they’d stick to the girlchild.

We had a quick late lunch at La Fonda, which is my single fave cheapie Atlanta eatery, and headed to the hotel to check in and rest for a minute.

While my sister was right about the hotel being architecturally uninteresting, we enjoyed the service something fierce. There’s nothing quite like being served (forbidden) hot chocolate as you walk in the door (I’m easily pleased.). Our room was luxurious, but not as nice as the mega-posh room we had at the Philly Westin a few years ago, so we’ve decided to make a hobby of comparison shopping between the Ritz and the Westin all around the world (because we’re such big travelers, you know).

We spent a quiet hour in a back corner of the lounge before heading over to my sis’s house. The Husband had scotch and I sipped decaf mint tea and eavesdropped on a hilarious conversation between a gorgeous girl from Luxembourg (tall, blonde, lithe: the works) and a cheesemographer dude who looked a good ten years older than she was. I mentioned how obsequious he was to the Husband on the way out and he said, “You were listening to their conversation? I didn’t hear a word they said! I was thinking rainbows and puppies in my happy place and your happy place was getting a conversation, verbatim, in your head?”

Pretty much, yep.

So, obsequious (and short) older man was rambling about how much he traveled and going on and on and on about where all he’d been recently and she said, while sipping champagne (sigh) and with a lovely lilting accent (sigh), “I travel internationally at least once a month.”

It was swell.

Then he started giving her advice about her taxes (she’s a student–Emory, maybe?) and he said, with great incredulity, when she mentioned that she had no idea how it worked, “What will you do if it turns out you’ll owe thousands in taxes?”

I wanted to say, “Listen, babe, chances are if you’re a student, your taxable income is nigh on nil, anyway, don’t fret much.”

But I didn’t. I figured nosey eavesdropping was done best sans commentary.

We had dinner at Agnes & Muriel’s and it was make-you-slap-your-granny good. Even the Husband, who gets picky on rare occasion, loved his meal and got past the crazy kitschy atmosphere. Post dinner, I spent banked carbs on chocolate mousse via room service ($31 for mousse and a carafe of decaf) while the Husband headed downstairs for a ceeegar, more Scotch and a cover-to-cover reading of the Sunday NY Times (the man even loves the wedding announcements, but don’t tell anyone I said so) all by his lonesome, without running commentary from his miserable beached-whale of a wife or his equally chatty four yr old.

We slept til 10 a.m., at which time I got out of bed magically and mysteriously pain free and, dear Lord, it was bordering on miraculous. After breakfast downstairs and thirty minutes in Brooks Brothers across the street at Lenox, we snagged a righteously spoilt McPantses (Build-a-Bear and Chuckie Cheese all in one day, God rest their weary, overindulgent grandparent souls) and hauled ourselves home.

The second miracle of the weekend? The laundry didn’t take over the house while we were gone.

From the card on my pillow at bedtime Saturday night (along with an orchid blossom and two chocolate mints): You see things and you say “Why?” But I dream things that never were; and say “Why not.”

George Bernard Shaw