Blessed and Then a Breakdown

I had fair warning that this weekend was going to be hectic.

My calendar had been full for months.

I knew what I was getting myself into.

But, being Classic Me, I wasn't really that phased.

After all, I'm a pretty high-energy person. I can get a lot done on any given day. And I'm kind of relentless when it comes to doing and joining and making things happen.

My husband calls me an "execute-r" for a reason.

Still, after a busy Friday, spent entirely on my feet, I went to bed tired.

Tired but excited.

I was going to spend all of Saturday with some of my favorite people doing some of my favorite things: exercising and celebrating my baby girl.

So, when I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday, I was feeling chipper.

When I corralled up a bunch of my clients, I was feeling downright plucky.

And when I lined up with them at the race line for a local 5K we were all planning on running, I was, dare I say, giddy.

And then the race gun went off.

I won't go into too many details here. But let's just say I vastly underestimated how this race was going to go.

Granted, I did the entire thing. At 31 weeks pregnant. Pushing a 3 year old (one of my client's kids.) In a very uncooperative jogging stroller. On a 3.1-mile route that was made up almost entirely of rocky terrain and bumpy, uneven sand.

But the pictures of me crossing the finish line, in which I'm insanely smiling, also reveal the ugly truth: Running a 5K on a hot, humid Southern day when you're super pregnant and pushing a heavy load? Not the most athletic and graceful of moments a woman can experience.

Still, I did it. So did all my clients. We had a great time.

Except, I couldn't stay around to celebrate. I literally crossed the finish line and kept running to my car.

Because, before the race that morning, my baby shower had taken an unexpected turn.

My good friend hosting the shower here is newly pregnant herself. And sick.

Let's all take a moment of silence to ponder that.

Yeah, exactly. I have been there (so have many of you) and any woman in that position is lucky if she can sit upright long enough to focus her eyeballs without wanting to gouge them out.

The first-trimester is no joke.

Anyways, when said sick, pregnant friend called me at 7:30 Saturday morning to tell me that not only was she not up to snuff but her 1 year old was sick, too, well, we were up a creak without a paddle when it came the baby shower she was throwing for me and another pregnant friend of ours.

There was no way we could have it at her house. It wouldn't be fair to her, her son, or our (un-infected) party guests.

Still, we had 25 people expecting a party in little more than six hours and nowhere (uncontaminated) to host it.

So, we did the next most logical thing, seeing as I only live six houses down from my poor, dear sick friend.

I told her we'd just move it to my house. I'd go run my 5K, sprint home, and hope and pray I could clean my house fast enough to make it shower-presentable.

Blessedly, another friend of mine, sensing my panic, agreed to help and actually run the shower games, etc. (Part of my anxiety stemmed from the fact that now, I appeared to be hosting my own baby shower. And call me sensitive, but I was afraid of looking tacky.)

Anyways, with all hands on deck - the other pregnant friend who was also being honored at the shower jumped right in to help, too - I figured we'd just make it.

Enter me, in Whirlwind Mode.

So, yes, I ran the 5K, sprinted home, and kept running around my house, getting it ready. My husband went into work late to help me clean, but he did eventually have to leave, and I then managed to hoist a leaf into my dining room table, dig through my china, and climb on my furniture to hang streamers and decor, all while the few girls who rallied to help me cooked in my kitchen, text-ed me frantically about punch and appetizers, and tied balloons to my mailbox.

Finally, I managed to throw on a sundress, do my hair, and add some make-up about 15 seconds before the first guests arrived.

And then it was all baby games - the best being Baby Pictionary, in which one of my favorite clients screamed out, "VAGINAL BIRTH!" as her guessing option for the phrase "cut the cord," sending us all into hysterics - snacks and drinks, and the gift-opening tradition, in which I had to stop myself from crying about 18 different times because, seriously, I am so blessed to have met these women, all of whom I've known less than a year, but all of whom have embraced me because that's what we, as military spouses and mothers, do to survive and thrive.

The shower went smashing-ly. The last guests left my house at 7:45 - more than three hours after the party's original end time.

And, then, things got a little scary.

You see, about two hours earlier, I'd started to notice some nagging aches in my abdomen.

Thinking I was probably dehydrated, I downed a couple glasses of water. But I didn't stop moving because there were people in my home and a mess on every surface. If I wasn't socializing, I was cleaning.

Problem was, I noticed the aching getting worse. The pains were getting more severe. I actually kept having to stop and catch my breath from the cramps.

So, when the last guests left, I ignored my dirty kitchen and the piles of leftovers left on the buffet, and I sat down.

At this point, I was experiencing really painful cramps in my belly. And I hadn't felt Baby Girl move in hours.

I laid down promptly and started to poke my belly. She kicked right back, thank God.

But my pain got worse.

And then I noticed myself breathing rhythmically and deeply, just like we were taught to do in my birthing class.

And then, it hit me.

I think I'm feeling contractions.

I tried sitting up to get more water. And the intensity in my abdomen only got worse.

I ran to my purse to grab my cell phone, just in case. I wasn't yet convinced that I should be truly alarmed, but I wanted to have it on me, on the off chance I humored my weaker side and decided to call the midwives.

What alarmed me was that I'd had Braxton-Hicks in the past, and while slightly uncomfortable, they weren't nearly as intense as these. The pain was alarming, though not unbearable.

Still, I kept trying not to think about the fact that Braxton-Hicks aren't supposed to be painful. These were definitely not the same old Braxton-Hicks I'd been feeling.

So I lay there.

And lay there.

And lay there.

It took about 90 minutes for the pain to lessen, during which I just breathed and talked to my husband, feeling Baby Girl move around as if nothing was wrong.

It took another 30 minutes after that for the pain to go away.

More than two hours later, my face white but my "contractions" lessened, we finally breathed our first sigh of relief.

When I could finally manage it, I looked up what I'd experienced.

Apparently, I had been having contractions. Contractions brought on from exhaustion and fatigue and simply over-doing it.

It made sense, considering I'd been on my feet, adrenaline pumping, for about 16 hours straight.

Luckily, because I hadn't lost any fluids, wasn't experiencing any swelling, and, most importantly, because I could feel Baby Girl moving away, I seemed to be out of the woods. I wasn't really in any danger.

Thank God.

It was, quite honestly, the only time in this pregnancy I worried that I'd done something wrong. That maybe, just maybe, I'd hurt the baby.

Thank heavens, it seems Baby Girl is even tougher than me.

I spent the rest of the evening hobbling around, sorting through baby clothes and helping my poor husband, who blessedly cleaned up the majority of the shower mess so I could stay off my feet.

Lesson learned? I do have limits.

My body can do a lot. But it can't be pushed to the points it used to reach before. At least not right now. Not while it's growing a baby.

Combining a strenuous race with a social event in my honor that had to be unexpectedly moved to my unprepared home was too much for Pregnant Me, it seemed.

I hated to admit that. After all, I like being the "execute-r." I like being able to do it all.

Except, sometimes, I can't.

And it only took me 31 weeks into my pregnancy to find my limit.

***

Due to the fact that I was so caught up in prepping my house for the shower, I didn't take a single picture of the event. Not a one.

If there's one thing I would change about my weekend, it would be that. Because, despite my test-brush with contractions, the day had been pretty heart-warming and fabulous. I hate that I didn't capture that.

However, we do have pictures of me running that darned 5K. Because, honestly, who doesn't want to see a huge pregnant woman, sweating her face off, attempting to cross the finish line in a reasonable amount of time?

Dear me.

Anyways, I'll try and share those photos and more race adventures this week.

Until then, I'm learning to rest and realize that, at least for the next nine weeks, I can't do it all.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

I Should Have Been a Doctor...

...especially, if my handwriting is any indication.

Literally, my handwriting is that bipolar. It's that spastic.

Sometimes, it's illegibly. Sometimes, it's so tiny and typeset-like, you wouldn't even know it was written by the former illegible hand.

So, while I'm not a big link-up or "Tag! You're it!" kind of girl, I had to show you all how ridiculous my handwriting is, especially because Sam tagged me to participate in this handwriting meme.

Plus, this is the perfect time to do this because I'm heading into one crazy, crazy weekend. I'm running a 5K - at, ahem, 31 weeks pregnant (which either means I'll do great or die trying) - with a host of my clients, and then I'm going to my first baby shower, which is a co-shower my friends here are throwing for me and another pregnant friend.

My husband will also be MIA, as he's locked away studying for his last week in this phase of his training. So he'll be no help.

And this all comes on the tail of one long, busy week, which will only going to be matched by next week, which is shaping up, if you can believe it, to be even longer and busier.

Whoa, buddy.

Thus, why I needed this little ditty for the day.

Thanks, Sam, for thinking of me!

***

The Handwriting Meme

Questions:
1} What's your name and your blog's name?
2} What's your blog's URL?
3} Write: "A quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog!"
4} What is your favorite quote?
5} What is your favorite song?
6} What are your favorite bands and singers?
7} Anything else you want to include?
8} Tag people.

Answers:
And I tag anyone who wants to play along and who needs some good blog filler like me.

***

Be back next week with baby-shower tales and a running woes!

Happy Friday, everyone!

Sweet Memories

We had company this weekend.

Good friends of ours came down from North Carolina for a visit.

It was great fun, and I was going to recap all our long walks and adventures from the past few days.

But then I realized that most of our treasured moments this weekend involved something along these lines:
And, in an unparalleled moment for me, I decided that a picture is worth more than the 1,000+ words I normally choose to prattle off.
Enough said.

Be back tomorrow after I recover from the sugar coma.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

Let the Walls Come Crumbling Down: Bloggers "Convench" 2010

Normally, when I blog, I'm sitting at my desk or my couch, in various states of undress - pajamas, sweaty workout clothes, a bath towel - and talking about my husband or my job or my friends.

Honestly. Openly. Tragically, at times.

But what I'm not always telling you is that I am, in fact, doing so in such various states of undress. Amid piles of unfolded laundry. Periodically checking a cell phone that's been broken for months and now resides in a plastic Ziploc baggy.

But who's judging?

My husband? No way. The man enjoys walking around butt naked.

My dog? Not a chance. He considers the piles of unfolded laundry another bed to lie on.

So you all know me, here on the old blog. But you don't really know me, know me.

You don't know the undressed, sprawled out, unkempt version of me.

Until now.

Because not only did I spend a weekend with two fabulous bloggers, but they stayed in my house.

With me.

In person.

For three days.

They saw my holey pajamas, my teensy, old-school kitchen, and my husband's penchant for all things electronic and un-human.

Heaven help me. There's no hiding now. They saw the real me.

Luckily, I loved it.

I mean, I loved it.

Susannah from The Edwards Edition and b.e.g at brown eyed girl were so warm and accepting. Honestly, we turned our little home into a regular sorority house that weekend, and I never wanted these new-found sisters of mine to leave.

Even if they did take excessive amounts of joy in the fact that I did indeed cart my Blackberry around in a plastic bag the entire weekend because, in my giddiness of picking the girls up at the airport, I dropped it on the concrete for the 16,000th time and broke my cell yet again.

Still, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do when that girl considers cellular stores and their service reps the equivalent of the ninth circle in Dante's Inferno.

Eating ice cream and texting. In my trusty plastic bag.

Not that the humiliation ended there. Because these girls also learned that I...

...can't parallel park...

Susannah actually had to get in the car and fix this little mistake for me.

...love a cheesy apron...

Look at Sus, modeling the heck out of my little kitchen number!

...avoid wearing bras at all costs...

Contrary to popular belief, I am actually clothed in this picture. Apparently, I just have an enormous back for maxi, halter dresses, which makes me appear naked. Which I never am. In public, anyways.

...and am willing to wear T-shirts I let my former high-school students design all by themselves (but honestly seem to be more appropriate for scary molesters and the like.)

This was my former student's 2010 yearbook staff shirt. They really aren't a bunch of "creepers" - a phrase my students threw around a lot, and never in reference to actual, ya know, creepers.

But other than revealing all my deep, dark secrets, the weekend held several other personal mantras and motifs that we lived out to their fullest extent.

Mainly, and most importantly, food and all it's various forms.

We kicked off the weekend by indulging in every blogger's dream: Copious amounts of cake balls.

b.e.g, laughing at one of our many variations of "ball" jokes. Because honestly, no one is mature enough to resist a good ball joke in the presence of this many, well, balls.

But, like all good foodies, we tried to balance out the sweet with the salty. So Sus and I treated our Yankee friend b.e.g. to a host of Southern-fried cuisine, or, as b.e.g. called it, "carnival food."

Our waitress made us write our own order down during our Saturday lunch at Hyman's Seafood in Downtown Charleston. Now that's dedication to good food.

No matter how you slice it, it was delicious. And fattening enough to make me workout three times a day for the next month to work it all off.

The photo no personal trainer should ever let loose on the Internet. Oops.

This is precisely the reason we did so much shopping after the fact. To walk off the calories and buy some new pants that would fit our new Southern-fried hips.

Clothes were bought; purses were bartered, and b.e.g. willing tried on more random articles of clothing than Lady Gaga.

That's a necklace on her shoulder, my friends. Or, at least, it's a necklace as far as we can tell.
A hat at the final close-out sale of Sak's Fifth Avenue. Wonder why that's still left on the 90-percent-off rack?

A vintage Nashville salt-and-pepper shaker for our friend Laura at Groovin' with the Grizas.

A Lilly Pulitzer suit for a man? A woman? Who knows? Even b.e.g. wouldn't try this hot little number on.

On Sunday, our waist lines and our pocketbooks needed a break. So we braved the sun and went to the beach.

Sus and I, obviously, were both excited...
...hence the matching facial expressions.
We're like twins, except with the umbrella, hat and sundress, I'm obviously more terrified of the sun, and, thus, willing to look like a 75-year-old grandmother on a public beach.

Meanwhile, b.e.g. did all the hard work, anchoring our umbrella into the packed sand.
Looks like it worked, doesn't it?

If that's not Klassy with a 'K,' I don't know what is.

Oh, we laughed so hard. Harder than I've laughed in a long, long time. The weekend positively flew by. I actually teared up as I drove away at the airport, leaving my new "sisters" behind so they could fly back to their husbands.
Thanks, girls, for a bang-up girl's weekend! We must do it again soon.

I'll bring the cake balls if you bring the fun times.

And an extra box of Ziploc baggies. Because I still haven't replaced my phone yet.

***

Quick Note: As usual, I took no pictures over the weekend. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Bad blogger am I. So thanks, girls, for keeping me on the straight and narrow. And thank you for sharing your wealth of images with me.

Another Quick Note: Our other blog friends, Mrs. Potts and my Name Twin at Molly Lou Gifts, had emergencies come up and couldn't make the weekend as planned. But we missed them a ton and can't wait to include them in our next bloggers "convench."

Happy Tuesday everyone! Be back tomorrow with more tales of visiting friends!

Who Let the Girl's Out?

There is no time to blog.

None. Zip. Zilch.

Because as you read this, I am whisking around my house trying to make it presentable before I go to the airport and pick up this girl and this girl.

Then we have to race back home before this girl and this girl arrive.

Because for six months, we've been planning a girl's weekend here in sunny South Carolina, and it's finally here!

Better yet, I'm hosting!

Yippety skippety!

I'm seconds away from a weekend of old-fashioned, sleepover fun with some of the most lovely women to blog east of the Mississippi.

There will be eating and talking and shopping and talking and walking and talking and touring and, well, talking.

I am thrilled.

And nervous as all get-out. Because I can't let my blog girls see my dust bunnies and my threadbare sheets and my everyday flatware.

It's time to break out the good stuff.

And put on some perfume and make-up so I don't scare the pants off these wonderful women.

These are some of the first girls I met through blogging, and I finally get to meet them in person and hug the heck out of them.

It is definitely time to party. And talk into the wee morning hours.

So I'll be back next week with all the girl-y details! Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

Let's hear it for the girls

Ever have a flashback to being young and single?

You know, when all you needed was a sturdy duffle bag and big, ole Thermos full of coffee, and before you knew it, you were on your way to some sort of ambiguous adventure on half a tank of gas and the promise of maybe, just maybe, catching a glimpse of a celebrity or two?

That's the kind of weekend I had.

What started out as a 2.5 days with some of my blogging buddies turned into a full-frontal laughfest.

It was nothing like I imagined it would be.

It was better.

Because something happens when you throw together four very different women who are grounded in one simple thing: Blogging.

Upfront honesty and comedy ensue.

It's glorious, really.

So glorious, in fact, that I'm stalling. I'm afraid to write about it. Because I fear I won't do it justice. Because these ladies had me in stitches, and I'm afraid you really just had to be there.

Still, I'm going to try. For the sake of married women everywhere, who all a deserve a weekend away with the girls.
So, let's meet the characters, shall we?

First up, we have Justine. A young, married blogger over at Almost There, she works as a nanny by day and has various other specialities by night. One of which includes public vomiting. And the ability to laugh about it later.
Next up, we have Jess. A hip, happening radio promotions aficionado, who blogs over at All-American Jess, she has connections like no other. And she has a freakishly good sense of smell. Which can prove to be dangerous in a variety of situations.
Third, we've got Lil' Woman, who hails from Little Woman, Little Home. This engaged little fireball will say anything, to anyone, at anytime. And leaves you with the pictures to prove it. She's also willing to hug a lonely military wife, just to give her some personal contact.
Finally, we have me, from, well, here. You all know enough about me, already. But suffice it to say that, on this trip, I managed to get us lost in my own hometown and struggled with a skin irritation brought about thanks to my extremely pear-shaped figure. My thighs will never be the same.

So, let's started, shall we?

Friday, 5:30 p.m.: I meet Lil' Woman in the parking lot of a random Best Buy. We both scream so loud upon seeing each other that her fiance' all but pushes her out of their car.
5:58 p.m: Lil' Woman and I arrive at our hotel. We are met with valet parking, which is distinctly "too classy" for the two of us, as evidenced by the fact that we both ran helter-skelter to the hotel door with about 18 bags slung over each arm, positively giddy with excitement. Still, we manage our way through it and find a seat in the lobby to wait for the other two girls. We also take a photo with an Orlando Magic fan who just happened to wander by dressed like a chicken. To better capture the local color, of course.
6:18 p.m.: Lil' Woman and I realize we're at the wrong hotel after the other girls call us, telling us they're standing in the lobby, too, and they can't see us. Whoops. Thirty minutes into the trip, and I'd already gotten us lost. In the very city where I was born and raised.

6:19 p.m.: We rescue my car from it's first (and only) run-in with valet parking. I'm now $5 poorer.

6:32 p.m.: We arrive at the correct hotel, hike up nine floors, and find our room. We begin to converse, catch up, and talk about - what else? - cervical mucus.

6: 45 p.m.: After Justine explains to Lil' Woman how fertile cervical mucus resembles the texture and stretchiness of egg whites, Lil' Woman swears off men, conception, and child-bearing forever. Or at least considers it.

8:30 p.m.: After several other confessions in our new "Circle of Trust," we all head out to dinner at the classiest place on Earth - the Olive Garden. At this point, we were basically holding hands, skipping, and revealing exactly what names we want to bestow on our first-born children.

9:00 p.m.: The waitress brings us our first order of salad and breadsticks. Lil' Woman, starving, goes in for a big bite of iceberg. But spits it out before she can even taste it, yelling, "Oh, &#*^, are we supposed to pray or something like that?" This makes Jess laugh so hard, she almost chokes on her unsweetened iced tea. People are officially staring, so Justine and I give the most hasty of graces ever.

9:05 a.m.: We begin to discuss our favorite topic: Blogging. Justine and Lil' Woman - a Midwesterner and Northerner, respectively - mentioned how so many bloggers were "obsessed with that thing. That thing called Seck?" Jess and I just looked at each other, until finally, we muttered, "Wait, do you mean the S.E.C., as in the Southeastern Conference?" Word to the wise for Southern bloggers: SEC reads as "seck" to Northerners who don't watch college football. But don't worry. Jess and I immediately rectified the situation (and threw in a little propaganda about how "Seck" is the best college-football conference in the country to boot.)

9:10 p.m.: Justine begins to feel queasy and retreats from the table. The rest of us are stumped, having never actually had to physically comfort a blog-friend through nausea before. I seriously ponder if I should leave a "Feel better soon!" comment on her blog while she's in the bathroom.

9:18 p.m.: We leave the restaurant quickly so we can get sick Justine to bed.

9:25 p.m.: We return to the hotel and begin to book it toward our room. But not quick enough. Because before Justine - who is power-walking like no other - can make it to our bathroom, she throws up. Right smack dab in the middle of the lobby.

9:26 p.m.: Lil' Woman - who's apparently overcome her recently confessed fear of bodily functions - accompanies Justine to the nearest bathroom. Jess and I wither under the stares of hotel staff who seem to think we've been on some sort of bender, though none of us - including our resident projectile vomiter - had imbibed a drop.

10:10 p.m.: We finally tuck ourselves into bed but continue to talk about a host of different topics, including how several of our friends - knowing we were meeting up with "people we met on the Internet" - feared we were walking into some sort of trap, where we'd end up tossed into a Dumpster after being harvested for our internal organs. We all made a pact not to steal each other's kidneys and then dozed off around 3 a.m.

Saturday, 9:00 a.m.: Desperate and hungry the following morning, we arose in search of food and found a little gem called Keke's Breakfast Cafe, where I expressed my undying love for their pancakes and swore that if my husband didn't return from boot camp, I'd have my marriage annulled and marry into the Keke family, just so I could have "Florida Style" breakfast goods every morning.
9:15 a.m.: Another group of women watch us from a table away, until one finally turns to her friends and whispers, conspiratorially, "Oh, they're all bloggers." We're all thrilled by the fact that we've been coined with our much-preferred job titles.

11:10 a.m.: We headed toward Universal Studios, where we made our way from attraction to attraction. We humored Lil' Woman, who has an apparent penchant for all live characters and had our photo taken with every Homer Simpson, Spiderman, and stuffed bubble-gum shrimp in the park.
12:00 p.m.: We bounce from attraction to attraction, laughing all the while.
1:15 p.m.: Due to all the profuse walking, my capri pants start to irritate my legs, or, more specifically, my inner thighs. I begin to wish I'd worn spandex athletic-wear.

2:00 p.m.: The inner-thigh irritation worsens.

2:30 p.m.: We decide to see/ride "The Disaster" show/ride at Universal Studios. The ride engineer asks for some volunteers to help make the ride's "disaster movie." Lil' Woman jumps at the chance to play an evil villain. Justine and Jess shove me on stage after the man asks for "someone over 19 wearing close-toed shows and pants, who considers themselves slightly athletic."

2:31 p.m.: I'm not thrilled about my new acting gig.

2:35 p.m: But before I know it, I'm dunked in a pit of balls and told to flail my arms about, scream, and act like I'm drowning, all in front of a live studio audience. This, mind you, is all captured on film. Meanwhile, Lil' Woman is laughing maniacally.
2:45 p.m.: We watch a video where I appear to be drowning in water - not balls - thanks to the wonders of green-screen. The entire 200-person audience laughs.
2:46 p.m.: I'm not thrilled.

2:55 p.m.: We exit the ride, and I realize my inner-thigh irritation is getting worse. It's now graduated to full-on chafing.

5:00 p.m.: We wander over to Islands of Adventure to force Justine on at least one roller coaster before we leave.
5:01 p.m.: My chafing worsens.

5:35 p.m.: We wait in line to ride the Incredible Hulk roller coaster, only to realize we're standing in front of a middle-aged man and three scantily clad 13-year-old girls - all of whom were attending the theme park for a cheerleading competition.

5:36 p.m.: We observe the man kissing, hugging and downright ogling the girls.

5:37 p.m.: We realize the man is not the girls' father.

5:38 p.m: We are legitimately freaked out and ponder calling the police or grabbing one of the girls and asking her if she needs help extracting herself from this wholly inappropriate coach/chaperone/sexual predator situation.

5:39 p.m.: We all proceed to glare at the man, and Lil' Woman even manages to sternly say, "Please take your hands off her."

5:40 p.m.: The line finally splits, and we're separated away from the now-coined "Lester the Molestor" and those poor adolescents. I'm still kind of worried about them, and I vow that I will never let my future children wear a bikini top, be a cheerleader, or go on a trip with a creepy male chaperone.

5:55 p.m: My chafing worsens.

6:15 p.m.: We finally ride the coaster, and though I've done it before, I'm not as young as I used to be, and I almost trip getting off it. I'm disoriented from the spinning and looping and intense speeds by body underwent. And also from the intense pain of my chafing.

7:00 p.m.: We finally go to leave the park, and I'm forced to waddle, so as to minimize contact between my inner thighs. Justine tells me that it's A-OK, though, because, after all, it's "good practice for when you're pregnant."

8:00 p.m.: We get dressed in some finery and head out to dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. But not before I lotion my thighs, though even that didn't make the waddle go away.

8:40 p.m.: We meet Ro, a nice waiter who poses for pictures after Lil' Woman tells him we're all in Orlando together because we're at a (fake) bloggers' conference.

9:00 p.m.: I order a salad for 12; Lil' Woman orders a grilled cheese the size of her head. We're not shy about food around these parts.
9:30 p.m.: Ro adores us so much, he gives us free Godiva chocolate to go with our cheesecake. We tell him that this officially earns him a spot on our blogs. Here's to you, Ro!
10:15 p.m.: We return to our hotel and run into the poor staffer who had to clean up Justine's vomit incident. She inquires if he's "the guy who had to clean up my throw-up yesterday." He nods sorrowfully that he is. We wonder if he deserves a tip.

11: 00 p.m.: We head back to our room for some more slumber-party fun. Though the fun became all too much for this teacher, and I passed out talking - literally - mid-sentence. I'm blaming the burning pain in my inner thighs. The girls then send me an e-mail while I'm snoozing at 1 a.m. so I can know what parts of the conversation I missed out on. Only in a group of a bloggers...

9:00 a.m.: We arise, but not before I proceed to put pajama pants under my maxi dress so I can minimize Sunday's chafing.

9:30 a.m.: We head back to Keke's Breakfast Cafe. The waitress gives us an odd look and shakes her head, mumbling, "You're back." Yes, we are! Bring on the Florida-style pancakes!

10:10 a.m.: We return to Universal Studios because, lo and behold, Ellen DeGeneres is taping two episodes of her show. Both of which include musical guests. One of which is Rascal Flatts. Whom I adore.

11:00 a.m.: Lil' Woman fashions a flashy, hot-pink sign that says "Bloggers 4 Ellen," in attempt to get us onstage to meet celebrities.
12:00 p.m.: The show begins taping, and we are unfortunately not onstage. But we are dancing away in the crowd and peering as a host of celebrities - Mario Lopez, Sharon Osbourne, some girl from American Idol, and Portia de Rossi - come on and off the stage, including Ellen and her stunt double.
12:34 p.m.: We watch Usher perform. We realize that Rascal Flatts is performing later.
1:30 p.m.: We hop in line in hopes of getting in to see the second taping. I grab some staffer and tell him we're bloggers, in hopes that this will give us an edge. Instead, he hands us ponchos and water bottles. I was not entirely sure how that was an equivalent, but we took the free loot anyway.

1:45 p.m.: It begins to rain, and we are ushered into crowd by Ellen staffers to watch Rascal Flatts sing. We are also forced to throw away our hot pink poster. But not before putting in a good word for our friend Gina and her little boy Logan. It was the least we could do, considering the only reason we got out of bed after four hours of sleep Sunday morning was because we knew Gina would have done it. (Hence our new motto, "What Would Gina Do?" WWGD bracelets coming to infomercials near you.)
2:00 p.m.: It begins to rain.

2:02 p.m.: I begin to sweat under my layers of pajama pants, a maxi dress, and the most unbreathable poncho known to man.

2:30 p.m.: Rascall Flatts and Ellen come on. We cheer and sing along to "Life is a Highway" together in the pouring rain. The girls are reminded about my penchant for cheesy country songs. I don't care. I do care that Ellen is freakishly tan and tiny in person. I want to know if she's really using all those Oil of Olay and CoverGirl products she endorses.
3:15 p.m.: We fight a torrential downpour and a huge crowd to vacate the park and head back to our car. But Ellen actively waved at us through her own rain-soaked hair and poncho. Success!

3:17 p.m.: I report to the girls that, although I'm soaked in sweat and rain, that the pajama-pants and maxi dress minimized the chafing and put a halt to almost all of my inner-thigh pain.

3:30 p.m.: We find a Walgreens, where we exchange photos, and we hit a Chipotle up for a super late lunch.

4:30 p.m.: We plan our next bloggy meet-up, which will celebrate a certain somebody's bacherolette party, and we're inviting all of you! Stay tuned because you won't want to miss out on this!
5:15 p.m.: We finally wrench ourselves away from each other, remembering we have jobs and families and responsibilities that are way less fun than celebrity-stalking, sober vomiting, and soothing chafed thighs.

6:15 p.m.: I fight the urge to call in sick, turn my car around, and head back toward the girls. But my sensible Teacher Self wins the argument. And I keep driving down the rode toward home.

***

Whew! Re-living all that made me tired again. I'll be honest, if I wasn't storing up personal days for my husbands' return, I'd have called in sick to work yesterday. And probably today.

Because unlike those younger, single days - when I could bounce back from sleepless nights and day after day constantly on my feet - I can't do it anymore.

Fun times like that leave me with deep, body exhaustion; headaches; and a strong desire to bathe my legs in aloe vera and never wear abrasive fabrics again.

Still, just like when I was younger, it was worth it. Every last minute of it. I'll sing along in the rain with Rascal Flatts any day, thank you very much. Especially with these girls.

But now, somebody hand me my sweat pants. My thighs need a break.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

There's so much to say...

...That I just can't say it all today.

Because my weekend with the girls - the blogging girls, to be exact - was so much more than even I anticipated.

And that's saying a lot, because I'm pretty much always the girl who's got high hopes.

For now, let's just say we conversed about the following, in no particular order: Marriage, custom domains, Friday traffic, college football, cooking, husbands, Twitter, cervical mucus, Lent, teaching, the power of prayer, honeymoons, blog followers, Northern culture, Southern culture, autism, menstrual cycles, men, babies, Vera Bradley, Santa Claus, homeless people, weapons (normal ones and those of mass destruction), moving, college, friends, pregnancy, red meat, computers, the military, Justin Timberlake, WordPress, the Duggars, Manhattan, co-op education, and Starbursts.

After 2.5 days of it, I'm exhausted and refreshed all at once.

And that's not even considering that we saw, in person - and again, in no particular order: Rascal Flatts, Ellen DeGeneres, Usher, Portia de Rossi, Mario Lopez, Sharon Osbourne, and Ro (the world's most fabulous waiter.)

So, yes, it's a lot. I'm overwhelmed right now. With my ungraded papers, my unfolded my laundry, my unread Google Reader, my unpurchased groceries, my unfinished life.

But I'm also overwhelmed with my huge blessings. Because I got to spend the weekend with three beautiful women who I genuinely, unabashedly, love and respect, who were brought into my life because of this little thing called a blog.

What a gift.

So it's only fair that my post to our weekend does them justice. More justice than I can give them at midnight on a Sunday night before a jam-packed week.

Tomorrow, though, I will tell-all.

I will divulge about our weekend of giggles, our bites of cheesecake, our dances in the rain. I'll recap how we tackled restaurants, theme parks, and celebrity talk show hosts. And I'll tell you why one of us is now known as "The Period Whisperer."

If you need me before then, I'll be swimming under the weight of my un-tended Google Reader.

Happy Monday, everyone!

Would you like a slice of diaper cake? I made it myself!

On Saturday, I co-hosted a couples' baby shower for some of my best friends, Sherri and her husband Jesse.

The shower had been months in the making. We'd selected a color scheme, a basic theme, some games, and even some decorations.

We were ready.

And by "we," I totally mean me and two other lovely women who agreed to help me host this little baby-honoring shindig, one of which was one of my other best friends, Melissa.

Melissa, a woman who can handle basic arts-and-crafts projects and not make them look like a toddler's random scribbling.

Unlike me.

I can't paint; I can't knit; I can barely sew. I'm a decent cook, but a horrible baker. And when I bake, I sure as heck don't decorate the cakes/cookies/pastry-like blobs I produce. I'm not an excellent photographer; I don't do my own nails. Puffy paint eludes me. I burn myself with hot-glue guns. I break standard sewing machines. To be honest, I can barely do my own hair.

Are you getting the picture here?

I'm not crafty. At all.

I wish was, but I'm not.

So imagine my elation and glee when my arts-and-crafts-gifted friend Melissa offered to fashion a diaper cake for Sherri's shower.

I was overjoyed; I was relieved; I was ready to help buy supplies for games that required me to melt candy bars in disposable diapers. Because that kind of gross activity is right up my Easy-Street alley.

Thank you and good night. Case closed.

Until poor Melissa couldn't come to the shower.

Case open, my friends. Case open.

It was understandable on her part; I was really sad she wasn't going to be there, but Sherri, and I, and our other co-host totally understood she had more pressing obligations.

Until I realized that I was left alone without a diaper cake in sight.

Gulp.

Due to process of elimination, I had become the De-Facto Diaper-Cake Maker.

Oh, Lordy be, I was in trouble.

So, I did what any panicked, non-crafty woman would in this situation.

I pleaded with Melissa to send me any and all photos and directions she had of diaper cakes in her arsenal.

I scoured how-to Web sites for directions.

And I even debated selling my first unborn child to pay for a pre-made version of the thing.

But then I buckled down. Or, rather, sucked it up.

And I bought my weight in cloth diapers, binkies, bottles, baby spoons, pacis, chew toys and stick pins.

"Bring it on!" I said to the pile of baby stuff sitting in my living room.

Then I ran away and hid from it for about an hour.

But finally, with the assistance of a friend and with the distraction of LOST playing on the T.V., I dove in.

I was wrapping diapers; I was pinning them together; I was actually measuring and tacking ribbon in place.

We were throwing around artistic phrases like, "Do you think this binky looks too boob-like here?" and "What happens if I tie these bottles' nipples together?"

All things I'm sure Michelango pondered when painting the Sistine Chapel.

And after only a few small finger pricks and one severed cloth diaper, we managed to do it.

We finished my masterpiece.

I now present you with...

My First Diaper Cake
Melissa, I hope I did you proud. (And please, don't zoom in too closely and examine it. You'll see how homemade it actually looks!)

I conquered the Diaper Cake, my friends.

I lived to see the day I'd be able to create a crafty masterpiece all my own. (I also lived to see the day where I used that white cake stand my mother forced upon me one Christmas, which, I believe, I swore I'd never actually need because, hello! My attempts at cakes are never pretty enough to display. But it turns out, Mom, you were right. I used it. But to hold a poop-load of diapers. No pun intended.)

And now, just to prove that I did, indeed, make the diaper cake (and didn't steal the photo off the Internet,) I'm going to show you the rest of the shower. For credibility's sake, you see.

The expectant parents opening gifts...
Some decorations...
And just to prove that I was indeed at this alleged shower where I made the alleged diaper cake, here's the lone photo taken of me, scooping (non-home-made) ice cream...
Oh, and here's one of my hands. Holding creepy, ice-cube-frozen babies. Which we added to people's drinks to see which baby "could be born the fastest."
What? Just because I made a diaper cake doesn't mean I've lost my flavor for the silly and ridiculous.

And for the record, I froze those babies in those ice cubes all by myself.

I guess you could even say they were home-made.

***

Melissa, we missed you so much this weekend! I really hope we did you proud! But trust me, it definitely wasn't the same without you! Love you, my dear friend!

Hope everyone had a wonderful weekend! Happy Monday!