So the Fish Said...

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear.

- Walt Whitman

Meet the Fish

I want to get a pet duck and keep it in the bathtub.
I am addicted to chap stick and altoids.
I am freakishly flexible.

World's Most Beautiful Child


World's Most Handsome Child


Other Important Things

Clive Owen

Clive Owen
Pretend Celebrity Boyfriend

RSS Syndicate this site (XML)

Design by Emily

© Copyright 2004
All Rights Reserved.

so the fish said...
  home links archives about contact


« May 2005 | Main | July 2005 »

The update nobody cares about

So gosh, over a year ago when nobody read my blog other than my husband and Casey, I wrote about my old friend Mark.

In the post, I said I had emailed Mark that morning, but the truth is that I had emailed Mark and written the post several months earlier, before I even started my blog. Anyway, I sent him a note, he responded after several days, and for some reason it took me about two months to write him back. I didn't hear from him again after that. I was sorry about it, but we hadn't been in touch for a long time and I figured we just had too little in common anymore to pick up a friendship.

But then this morning, I got another email from Mark. I answered it immediately.

Thanks, Mark. You made my day.

Again with the breasts

I got my first nursing bras yesterday, and let me assure you they are incredibly sexy. I seriously considered posting a picture of me wearing one, but I didn't think you would be able to stand it and I didn't want to be responsible for the spontaneous combustion of the entire internet due to my amazing hotness. It's a burden, really it is.

It's much funnier out of context

Let me just preface this with saying that in the context of our evening, this exchange made perfect sense.

Him: I just knocked my own socks off.
Me: Better than tossing your own salad.

Yes, I could explain it, but it is more fun for me this way.

Miss Lima Bean

Now, don't even bother asking, because I'm not going to tell you, but I think that maybe, just maybe, we might have named the baby last night.

I'd been getting a little worried that we were going to have to put Lima Bean on her birth certificate.

Prognosticate Away

Ok people, it's time for everyone's favorite game of Guess When This Kid is Going to be Born Already! Oh come on, you know you want to. Here are the rules:

You can guess the date and time of Lima Bean's arrival, or you can guess weight and length, or if you are feeling really lucky you can guess both.

My "official" due date is July 31. You may not guess any date prior to July 8 (37 weeks) or any date after August 14 (42 weeks).

My OB predicted at least 8 pounds, but we all know that is meaningless. Anybody who guesses more than 10 pounds gets a smack.

Winner(s) will receive the instant celebrity afforded by a mention on this fine website and probably jack-all else as I will be slightly preoccupied trying to deal with an infant.

Um, I guess that's it. Ready? Set?? GO!!!


What? Like you never got distracted and totally ignored your blog for a while? At least I answered all my emails at 4 AM Saturday morning, and if that's not dedication I don't know what is. Have I mentioned that I am almost entirely unable to sleep? Have I also mentioned that I am almost entirely unable to eat? I don't even want to talk about what it takes for me to roll over in bed, but I can promise you that it isn't pretty. I will tell you, because I have no shame, that in the space of two hours last night I had to pee at least 6 times. It's magic living with me these days, truly it is.

Anyway, I had a busy week, considering I was on vacation and all. My house is painted, my carpets are cleaned, some of the baby clothes are washed and sorted and put away, and there are four big bags of clay sitting in my bushes waiting for my poor husband to haul them out to the corner. (Anybody wanna come help with that? They can't weigh more than a couple hundred pounds a piece.) My crappy old sliding doors have yet to be replaced by my beautiful new french doors and I have not heard a peep from the contractor in over a week, so I figure I will give him until tomorrow to call me and then I will break out the wrath of the pregnant lady who's nesting instincts are being trifled with and I'm sure that will get him right into line.

I had two experiences this week that made me think "holy cow, I have to blog this!" but as it turns out they were really only funny if you were there. The first was when I was in line at the ATM behind someone who, as far as I could tell, was trying to use the ATM to transfer funds to a numbered Swiss bank account. She just kept hitting buttons. There's nothing you can do with an ATM that requires hitting that many buttons. The second was the 20 minute lecture I got on the features and benefits of the automatic toll paying doohickey we have around here. I went to exchange my husband's non-functioning doohickey for a new doohickey, because I am an excellent wife, and the guy behind the counter was really, really into it.

See, not funny. Told you.

I also had two baby showers, and there is no longer any way to deny that the Bean has an absolutely embarrassing amount of stuff. I am seriously ashamed of myself. The shame is nicely tempered, however, but how freaking cute everything is. The shower yesterday netted our stroller and car seat and having them sitting in the living room last night finally made me realize something. I'm going to have a baby. I'm going to have a baby and have to bring it home and take care of it and she's going to cry and spit up and have trouble with Algebra and date scummy boys and break her collar bone playing field hockey and I am in no way prepared for any of it and I am scared out of my ever-loving mind and don't know how I can possibly stand to wait another 5 weeks to see her.

All pregnant girls are bipolar, right?

No contest

I am totally winning.


Oh yeah, vacation

Did I mention that I'm on vacation this week? No? Well, I'm on vacation this week. The stay at home and nest kind of vacation, not the jet off to Paris with my pretend celebrity boyfriend kind of vacation, but I think I prefer the nesting at this point anyway seeing as how I can't drink and what is the point of Paris with no wine?

I digress.

Anyway, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking "Beth, if you are in the middle of a sit on your ass at home vacation, how is it that you are 5 days behind responding to email?" The answer to that is simple. I am lazy. Oh, and busy, also busy. I have a to do list as long as an umbilical cord and am gradually making my way through it. For example, yesterday I did 18 loads of laundry. This baby has way too many clothes. Also, I have had painters in the house for the last two days painting most of my house. For illustrative purposes, I will tell you that the cats have been locked in the master bathroom for the last couple of hours because it is the only door in the house that is not being painted. The good news is that they are almost done, it looks great, and they finished a day early so I get the house to myself for an entire day before they come to clean the carpets on Friday.

Anyway, I have two very important bits of news to share with the internets. First, I went to the OB today and it is her professional opinion that my baby is huge. She's predicting at least 8 pounds, maybe more. Anybody have any good tips on getting a baby born a week or two early?

Second, and really more importantly, my best girl Casey has big news of the big shiny rock on her finger variety, so you should all go tell her and D congratulations.

Callie pulling her weight

After 18 years of basically sitting around and doing, well, nothing, Callie has discovered her true calling in life. She has decided to dedicate herself to a new career as a baby product tester. It all started with the swing, and now she just can't stop.

Here, you can see her checking out the adorable Pooh crib sheet sent by the very groovy Amy.

Pooh sheet.jpg

From there, she moved on to testing the lovely fleece Pooh blanket sent by the amazing Kristin.

Pooh fleece.jpg

And to round out her day, she put this beautiful fleece and satin blanket from fabulous Rachel through it's paces. (Rachel, honey, if you have a site I don't know it, but if you do let me know so I can link you.)

Green satin.jpg

Many thanks to all of you for your kindness. Chris, I and the Bean appreciate it greatly, and we appreciate you greatly. (Although to be honest, we appreciate you internet people with or without baby gifts.)

I do want to give you all fair warning that if you are kind enough to send the Bean a gift off her registry, Target sends me your full name and address on the packing slip. I use this only to send a thank you note and then immediately throw it away. Swear. Just, you know, I am being all weird about not giving out my address, so I wanted to warn you in case anybody else was feeling all weird about it too.

34 Weeks

In another 6 weeks, I'll be making my own gravity.

34 weeks.jpg

I feel this is a good time to mention that on Saturday I painted my own toenails. They look like crap, but just getting close enough to do it was a major accomplishment.

I've gained 31 pounds. Where's the ice cream? Have I mentioned how many times my mother-in-law has casually mentioned that she only gained 18 pounds? No? Well, it's a lot of times. Are you going to finish that cookie?

Also, does anybody know if there is a point at which if you don't already have stretch marks you aren't going to get them? I don't have any, yet, but I check obsessively every morning because I'm worried that one night they will all gang up and attack.

All tuckered out




Thanks for getting me all knocked up and stuff. Lima Bean is a very lucky little girl to be getting you as a daddy, and I am a very lucky girl to be taking this wild ride with you.

Happy First Ever Father's Day.


And you wonder where I get it

My mother? I love her, but she's a freak. I have decided to post this email she sent to me and my brother today as evidence of why I cannot stick to a topic for more than three sentences.

"Your Aunt Judy's boyfriend, Joe, died unexpectedly yesterday. He was 84, the same age as Papa. She is really a wreck, very heartbroken. Your dad talked to her last night, and she sounded awful.

How's the pup doing, E?

How is Baby B, Beth? And Mommy B, too, of course!"

Um, hello? Could poor Aunt Judy and Joe at least get their own email?

Johnny clarification and Breasts! Yes, more breasts!

First of all, I want to go on the record as saying that in my dream, Johnny Depp was recently showered and groomed and wearing clean clothes. I do not go for the grungy thing at all. (Although if he had been grungy I could have made him take a shower, which has definite potential.) Second, my husband has publicly accused me of having luring dreams about Johnny Depp and that is flat out untrue. The total lack of luridness is the entire problem with my dream. I can't understand why I wasted all that time making the world safe for democracy with Johnny Depp when we could have been doing really important things, like smooching. The truth is that my lurid dreams tend to feature my husband rather than hunky celebrities. I know, I'm pitiful, but you can all shut up about it because I am not the least bit ashamed that I love my husband and think that he's a hotty. (Still though - would a little dreamland Johnny lovin' really do any harm?)

Anyway, I unfortunately still do not have any crazy or amusing boob stories to share with the internet. We went to the breastfeeding class last night, it was informative, we went home. The only slightly odd part was that the instructor had a stuffed breast on a string to use as a visual aid. I was wondering about the string, and then I started to think that maybe it was a stuffed breast yo-yo and I got all excited. Stuffed breast yo-yo! That rocks! You could learn how to walk the dog with a stuffed breast! Or make it sleep! I totally need to get one of those for the baby. Why give her a stuffed bear or cat or hippo when I can give her something she will really like - her very own breast! Sadly, it turned out that it was not in fact a stuffed breast yo-yo and rather just a plain old stuffed breast attached to a string for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps so you can walk down the street jauntily twirling it? Like a pocket watch?

I apologize for letting you all down with my lack of interesting breast stories. I will strive to do better in the future.


Last night, I dreamed about Johnny Depp. Can we all just take a moment to ponder what a sexy, sexy man he is?

Anyway, in my dream, Johnny and I were fighting evil and also flying, but we did not get to make out at all, not even a little bit. I am highly disappointed by this, because if you can't get it on with Johnny Depp after saving the world from certain destruction, when can you?

Dis jointed

I am feeling a little random and disjointed today, due mainly to lack of sleep. Sleep is hard to come by lately, what with the belly and all the peeing, but the last couple of nights have been worse than usual. You see, my dear, sweet, wonderful husband has been a little under the weather, poor thing, and it has led him to snore like an ever-loving freight train for the last few nights. I roll him over, he snores. I kick him, he snores. I call him names, he snores. I stuff 14 rolled up sweat socks in his gaping mouth, he snores. No fault of his own, of course, poor dear, but I still think it was rather unreasonable of him to get sick and start with the snoring thing.

Anyway, that is my excuse for this random entry.

My favorite part of today so far is that there is apparently one of those virus things going around on AIM. I've gotten two or three IMs with the virus, and at least 14 emails warning me NOT TO CLICK THE LINK. Thanks, gang, I didn't get the message the first 13 times, but that 14th email really drove it home.

I have these handy dandy maternity pants that have an internal elastic belt that has holes in it that attaches to buttons, so as you get fatter, you just let the elastic out a hole at a time and voila! Fat pants get fatter! I had to let them out four holes this morning. I last wore them a week ago. Four holes in one week cannot be a good thing.

However, it may explain why Chris had to get me off the couch last night. Now, Chris has gotten me off the couch before, but honestly just because I was being lazy. Last night, I'm not sure I would have made it on my own. Sure, I probably could have rolled over and gotten to the floor, but then I would have had to get up off the floor, which poses its own challenges.

Does anyone else get the feeling that I am obsessed with breasts lately? I'm going to a breastfeeding class tonight and am forcing my previously mentioned long-suffering and ill husband to go with me. I tried to get him excited by suggesting that maybe they will show the men pictures of breasts not currently in use by babies to keep them interested, but he thought that was pretty unlikely. I am considering taking my own pictures and when I notice him tuning out I can hand him a picture and revive his interest in the whole breast concept. Anyway, I am hoping to get a crazy breast story out of the class tonight to make up for my very boring and mainstream La Leche League experience.

Chris suggested last night that maybe it was time for me to consider cutting back on going to the gym. Why can't I get my OB to say that? Why?

Um, I think that's it. I'm all random and disjointed out. I know you are all so, so sorry.


There's one thing I hate about being pregnant, and considering all the inconveniences and indignities that go along with being pregnant, I think that only hating one thing about it is supremely reasonable. Lots of maternity shirts have these little ribbon things on the sides that you are supposed to tie in the back. I dislike the ribbon things because I don't quite see the purpose. Am I supposed to buy everything four sizes too big and use the ribbons to lash the shirt to my body? What I hate though is the part where you tie the ribbons in the back, because I cannot for the life of me get the damned bow perfectly centered in the middle of my back and I walk around all day obsessing about my lopsided ribbons. Seriously. I worry about this a lot.

Any volunteers to come over and dress me in the morning? Obsessive, high-maintenance personality required.


Last week, I found myself in a rather unusual position. I can't say exactly what it was, but let's pretend that someone asked me if I would like to be kicked in the head. It was entirely up to me, but if I said no, a friend of mine would get kicked in the head instead. I had about 20 minutes to decide, and it was really a hard call. First of all, I had been half expecting to get kicked in the head eventually and I was ok with it, but I expected it to come later. I wasn't ready for it last week. But still, since I was already resigned to the head kicking and my friend wasn't, I wondered if taking it myself was the right thing to do. There was no good answer. It would be terrible for me to get kicked in the head, and it would be terrible for my friend as well. It would be very hard on my family and it would be very hard on her family.

In the end, I did what was right for me. I said that no, I did not want to be kicked in the head, knowing full well that by saving myself I was sacrificing my friend.

I feel bad about it, I do. But I feel terrible that I don't feel worse about it. I feel like I should be wracked with grief and remorse, but I am not. I am very sorry for my friend and I will do everything I can to help her recover from the head kicking, but I am not sorry about the choice I made. It was the right choice for me, for us, and sometimes I guess you just have to be selfish.


Now first, I want to go on the record as saying that my cats are spoiled rotten and treated better than most children in this world. They live very good lives and are much loved. However, they occasionally have to put up with my whims, including testing the new baby swing.


Poor Callie.

Second, I wanted to show you the lovely baby gifts we recently received from the wonderful people of internetland. Sam very sweetly sent us this lovely pink blanket that is just perfect for rolling around on the floor and drooling all over.


And Etherian very kindly sent us a set of Winnie the Pooh receiving blankets, which I have used to practice my swaddling. How'm I doing?


Thanks ladies!

Crazy boob fiends!

I really wish I had a better story for you today. I figured that if I got nothing else out of the La Leche League meeting last night, I would at least get several amusing anecdotes to share with the internet. Sadly, that is not the case. I went to the meeting, the women there were remarkably normal and rational and non-militant and there was not a single eight year old taking shots off the breast in between rounds of Grand Theft Auto on his Playstation. The only remotely out-there comment was about using breast milk to cure pinkeye, which I have heard before from fairly reliable sources.

I have to admit that I am slightly disappointed that there was not a single crazy boob fiend in attendance - at least not one that made her presence known. Instead, they were friendly and kind and seemed genuinely interested in being helpful and supporting to the first time breeders in attendance. Also, they had some really cute babies. I didn't learn anything new - I've already read quite a bit about it - but it was reassuring to spend a little time with women who do this and to worry a little less that it will be too hard for me.

I'm sorry, I know that you are all as disappointed as I am. I promise to dedicate myself to having and reporting on a bizarre breast experience just as soon as possible to make it up to you.

Shower. And also, boobs.

I had a work baby shower today. It was given by a friend from work, we went to lunch, we had fun. I invited four people. You see, I support a group of about 100 people and I didn't want a 100 person baby shower, so I thought that by inviting only my four very closest friends - you know, the ones I have actually had personal conversations with - it would be clear to everyone else that there was no reason to be offended or even want to go because obviously, it was just a small little gathering of the people I am actually close to.

In the first 10 minutes after we got back, two people complained to me about not being invited. One of these people was the woman who called me a bitch when I interviewed her for a promotion a few months ago. The other one, I don't even know her name.

Whatever. They can bite me. I will be too busy setting up the baby swing I got and trying it out on the cats. You have to test these things you know - for safety.

Also, you should all definitely pray for me or something, because tonight I am going to a La Leche League meeting. I am a little worried that they will take my boobs hostage and refuse to release them until I vow to nurse the Lima Bean until she leaves for college. I'm making a friend go with me in case they are all psycho crazy breast fiends. Safety in numbers.


There's nothing I love more than an all day meeting, which is where I will be for the rest of today.

However, I couldn't let the entire day go by without boring the internet with a story about my fetus. The other night, I fell asleep while Chris had his hand on my belly. The next day, he told me that after I fell asleep he could feel the Bean moving around in there. I was really excited about it, because I feel like it was the beginning of their bonding - the first time he "made contact" with her without me really being involved. I am also proud of the Bean that she has found a way to start manipulating her father before she is even born.

Special Request

Dear Lima Bean,

I can deal with the heartburn. I can deal with the lack of sleep and the getting up five times a night to pee. I can deal with the 30 pounds I have already gained and I can deal with having 8 weeks of gaining weight left to do. I can deal (mostly) with outgrowing my maternity pants. I am even starting to come to terms with the whole labor thing. However, I have one special request. Would you pretty, pretty please stop kicking me in the liver? Thanks bunches.


Why my husband rocks

He never goes out in public without a shirt. Mind you, he could, being a total hotty and all that, but he also has class and therefore never does it.

He went out in very ominous weather to get me Prilosec and ice cream. I told him I wanted broccoli and wheat germ, but he got me ice cream instead.

He let me take the first shower, even though he had already said he was about to take a shower and therefore had to wait for me, and I take much longer, and also meaning that he had to use the wet towels.

And many other reasons, that's just so far today.


So far, all of my dreams about the baby have involved not knowing what to do with her. Last night, I dreamed that I couldn't find her. I ran all over the house and thought maybe I had left her at the grocery store, but it turned out I had left her in her car seat in the car all night. This is unlikely to happen, as I am pretty sure that Chris would notice and ask me where the baby was. However, now I am stuck with this dream image of a screaming, dehydrated, sweaty baby with hair plastered to her face sitting in her car seat where I had left her for, oh, say 12 hours or so.

Eight weeks, people. God help me, eight weeks.

32 Weeks

This is what happens when the baby has a growth spurt. I'm sure it has absolutely nothing to do with the cookies.

For reference, this is two weeks ago:

30 Weeks.jpg

And this is five weeks ago:


(Still an innie - my apologies to the fetishists.)

Random Bits

I'm not getting fired tomorrow, so you know, happy joy dance. However, some people will be getting fired tomorrow and I always feel guilty for being among the un-fired when there are firings afoot. Therefore, happy joy dance tempered by sympathy for my fellow man.

I have spent the last two days at work staring out my windows, which is not very interesting. However, my computer was very broken. After two days of helpdesk intervention it is still broken, but less so and therefore, hey, progress.

I said yesterday that I was ok with Chris meeting hookers; I did not mean to imply that I was ok with Chris utilizing said hookers for their traditional purpose. That I would be somewhat less ok with. I told Chris that when he met the hookers, he had to prominently display his wedding ring because hookers care about that, right? Hookers commonly turn down married men on moral grounds. Actually, wouldn't it be nice if hookers were the only ones who had no qualms about married men? Well, nice for the wives anyway. Sadly for all involved, the great hooker hunt ended with nary a hooker being found.

You know what's more freakish than being freakishly flexible? Being seven months pregnant and freakishly flexible. Yup, I'm still exceptionally bendy, only now I have to find something to do with my belly and when stretching my belly tends to hit the floor several minutes before my head.

We have a magnolia tree in our front yard, and I will never sell this house until we figure out how to take the tree with us when we move because I love it. Over the last couple days, it has gone from a very large and rather non-descript tree to the focal point of Magnolia Mania 2005. The tree is right outside the nursery window, and it may just be my hormone-influenced imagination but I think there is an especially high concentration of flowers around the nursery, like my tree is decorating for my baby.

Oh wow - I think I just made myself gag a little.

Now, does anybody have any advice on how to get up and pee in the middle of the night without actually waking up?

Why I am the best wife ever

My husband told me last night that his goal for today was to meet five hookers. I was totally ok with that.

Best. Wife. Ever.