Wednesday, April 29, 2015

The Jug

There are a lot of moments in my life that I’m not proud of; or, I should say, lots of moments in my life that others react so shockingly to, that I pretend I’m equally as shocked and appalled at my behavior/misfortune/adventures. But usually, these moments don’t really faze me until someone is like “it’s not normal to consider it a ‘good travel day’ to take a train that caught on fire while you were on it to the airport, where you were then delayed for five hours.” And I’m like “It’s not? I was busy playing solitaire and dominating on my phone. I didn’t really notice.”

But there’s one relatively recent moment that got even me to admit that there are limits to what I’ll share with you guys.  And that’s gotta’ tell you something. I’ve told you a lot. CB cringes all the time. And yet, after this one occurrence, I was like “I cannot ever, ever blog about this.” Partially because I apparently had a certain level of respect for myself, and partially because people at work might read this and then THEY’LL KNOW.

Notice that I used the word “had” in that second-to-last sentence? Self-respect is fleeting, you guys.

So, it starts with a pee jug, as most good stories do, and it ends with two more pee jugs. Which makes sense if you’re in my life.

You see, for several years I had high blood pressure – mainly because my body likes to prepare me for what it’s like to be old because I’m so close to acting elderly as it is, that we figured we’d just go ahead and get there sooner. But also because it’s hereditary and I like salt and yadda yadda yadda. But, since I actually didn’t want to die at 45, about a year and a half ago I changed my diet and exercise routine a bit and was able to marvel modern medicine by coming totally off of blood pressure meds because I’m amazing.

But when I got pregnant (since I’d had a “history of chronic high blood pressure” and I’m geriatric) they started monitoring me pretty closely during the sassy baby development process. Basically to make sure I didn’t stroke out and/or make the baby too big or too small, is the long and short of it. I read between the lines.

And part of this monitoring process is a torture device in the form of a giant, brown pee jug.

Here’s what you do: you pee into the jug – AND ONLY THE JUG – for a 24 hour period. You put your dignity and self-esteem in a box, kick it down the hallway, and never think about those two useless traits again. You use a lot of bleach-based products, as well as hand soap and sanitizer, and pretend like this isn’t totally ruining any sex appeal you possessed when describing in detail later to your husband what you were experiencing, even though he really, really didn’t want to know.

And also, you bring the jug to work because the doctors hate you.

You see, they told me that I had to start the next day. And the next day was Wednesday, a day where most adult people work. And I was like “Wait, so I have to bring the jug to work?” and they were all breezy about it, like that wasn’t ridiculous and embarrassing. I mean, they gave me a plastic bag to keep it in after all. Why did I have to be such a diva about it?

And so, because I was taught not to question authority, I packed up the pee jug the next morning, held onto it as if this was normal on the train, and went to work to lead my life like a person not carrying a jug of pee.

Can we think about this a minute? Where does the pee jug go in between visits? How does one covertly bring a giant white plastic bag into the bathroom with them and then try to pretend like people can’t tell that you’re peeing into a big, hollow jug that makes big hollow peeing-into-it noises?


And so you use the private handicap-accessible bathroom so that you have some dignity and privacy, people.

What you also do is fast-forward a few hours to where you bring your pee jug back into the bathroom for a visit and realize that you may have not secured the lid tightly last time and so, yes, the bag is now holding some contents itself. Not in the jug.

And then you quit your job, change your name, and never speak to anyone who knew you pre-jug again.

OR you panic. You stare. You get hormone-tears in your eyes for what’s happening. And you immediately realize that you should always question authority, especially when they tell you to bring your pee jug to work.


I’m going to spare you the details and just skip ahead to the part where I throw the jug in a dumpster, sanitize everything I’ve ever owned or touched, and call the doctor’s office to consult.

Me: “So, I need a new pee container.”
Nurse: “You need a new container?”
Me: “Yes. Something happened to my other one.”
Nurse, sounding confused: “Ok…..”
Me: “I don’t want to gross you out, but basically I lost a morning’s-worth of pee and need to start again.”
Nurse, sighing into the phone: “Well ok……you’ll need to come back to the office to get another receptacle.”

RECEPTACLE! Much nicer word than pee jug. Noted.

Me: “Ok, no problem, I’ll come by at lunch.”

Fast forward to 2 hours later when the nurse met me in the waiting room with a new “receptacle” and brand new white plastic bag and gave me side-eyes while saying: “Now be careful with this one.”

Dear Judge-y Nurse,
You have no idea what I’ve gone through to collect my pee for you people. GIVE IT A REST. I’m building life and just trying to keep it together.

Oh, also, I did it over the weekend that time because they can suck it and I’ll never bring that thing to work with me ever again. It’s called dignity, people. I found it that day at the bottom of that white plastic bag.

However, I put this all behind me, didn’t blog or breathe a word of it (except to pretty much all of my friends), and acted like I was still the lady I’ve pretended to be for years.

UNTIL THIS WEEK. When the jug returned.

Me: “Noooo…..I have to do this again?”
Sympathetic doctor: “Yeah, I know it sucks, I’m sorry. But we just have to check your protein levels again. It’s the last time.”
Me: “Oh man, this thing haunts me.”
Doctor, laughing because she thought I was kidding.
Me: “I’m going to do it over the weekend, if that’s ok?”
Doctor: “Sure, that’s fine. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

SEE, Judge-y Nurse? THAT’S how you talk to a hormonal pregnant woman with a pee jug. TAKE NOTES.

Anyway, you’re welcome, blog readers. I’ve literally just shared the most embarrassing thing I’ve done since at least 2014. And that’s saying something. So feel good about yourselves and be grateful that you don’t actually know me in person.

You haunt my soul, pee jug. 

Happy Wednesday! 

Monday, April 27, 2015

And then CB wrote a love song.

So, last week CB and I pretty much sealed the deal on this marriage thing. I mean, it’s not like we were up in the air about it before then, but there were definitely more than a few moments over the course of one day, in particular, that we both looked at each other and were like “well, we’re in this thing now!” And maybe high-fived? Which is how you seal any sort of true love pact, if you didn’t know.

You see, last Sunday I woke up feeling so dizzy that I thought I was going to be sick. The room was spinning, I couldn’t open my eyes, and I basically laid in the fetal position on our bed for about an hour until it subsided enough for me to eat something (which is always my end-game). CB rolled over to see me gripping my forehead in pain and said “You ok?”

Me: “No. I really don’t feel good.”


Me, about 30 seconds later: “Um, when I say I don’t feel good, you need to respond.”
CB, sitting up: “I was thinking about it.”

Which is when he became lucky that the room was spinning so I couldn’t locate his torso and slug him. (this is not the love part.)

But then he sprang into action, getting a cold compress for my forehead, bringing me water and a granola bar (I thought maybe I was dehydrated and/or had low blood sugar) and generally being sympathetic to my pain. Which, if we’re being honest here, is all I wanted anyhow.

Eventually, though, the spinning subsided enough for me to sit up, actually eat a proper breakfast, and even watch a little tv before deciding I just wanted to go lay down and read (note to self: when you’re feeling spinny, DON’T READ, dummy.)

Fast forward to about 15 minutes later when the room started violently spinning again so much that I was sure this was not getting better (I should really have gone to med school). So I called to CB in the other room.

Me: “CB…..”


Me, a little louder: “CB…..”


Me, louder and hating him: “CB!!!”

And then he came into the room. (this is still not the love part)

CB: “Yeah?”
Me: “I’m going to be sick. Can you get me a bucket? I can’t sit up.”

And then, though my eyes were closed, I could tell that CB went into panic mode and began running, knowing that my willpower to keep from vomiting on our bed and/or floor was not quite as strong as his desire to really make sure that it didn’t happen. So within a few seconds – and a lot of banging around out in the living room and kitchen - he returned with our recycling bin and a plastic bag. Ingenius.

So I’ll skip the part where I may have missed the bag a bit or that I think all of my insides came outside at that moment while CB held the bucket (we’re circling in on the love part), and will just fast-forward to about 10 minutes later when I was finishing up a call to my OB. She insisted that it was time to head to labor and delivery and make sure baby and me were vomiting and spinning for reasons outside of baby problems. And so I slowly started to get up, with CB’s help (who was still holding the Lysol can he’d been spraying throughout the entire apartment), and we made our way into the city to get checked out.

Three hours, several tests, and an adorable ultrasound later, we were on our way back home with a referral to a neurologist because nothing was wrong with baby, and OB people just do baby stuff. (I’m paraphrasing.) I was still dizzy, but feeling good enough to sing along to the radio, and the Survivor song “The Search is Over” came on.

Don’t pretend like you don’t know that song, you guys. It’s a classic.

So I started singing along and said “It's sort of like the story of us!” 

To which CB responded:

CB: “Yeah, except they left out the last verse.”
Me: “What’s the last verse?”
CB: “Where they get married and he’s cleaning up her puke. Why doesn’t someone write a song about wiping puke out of the wastebasket? Now that’s a love song.”

To which I laughed until there were tears in my eyes, high-fived him in agreement, and realized that we’d pretty much honed in on the love part of this story. Granted, our love part includes puke, but what good romance doesn’t?  

Of course, apparently our love part also includes a week of CB sleeping on an air mattress in the living room so that there was no movement in our bed to make me spinny and pukey again. But if we’re being honest, I think that was a two-fold decision by CB: I have a shot at sleeping and he can sleep on his back and snore without being kicked.

I think we should definitely write a new love song.

Happy Monday!  

Friday, April 24, 2015

Friday Wrapup

Let's get to it!


You guys. I haven't even watched "Grey's Anatomy" from last night and I already know what happens. Thanks a lot, all news outlets.

Also, we should re-examine what we consider "news"......


This week's book is appropriate since all I can think about these days is the fact that a human being is currently living inside of me and will, in about 10-11 weeks, come out.

Which is cool and terrifying and makes me cross my legs, which I think is how you keep it from happening in the first place? Live and learn.

Anyway, it's called "Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born" and I just downloaded it onto my Kindle, even though my sister blogged about it several years ago. I'M A LATE ADOPTER, you guys.

Click here to check it out and browse around for some other great books out there!


Speaking of pregnancy and babies, CB and I have had quite a ride over these last seven months. This baby is SERIOUSLY sassy and has caused us to grow closer in ways CB was really hoping we never would. Stay tuned on Monday for the story that kept me from blogging this week! Oh the excitement.


And now, the Video of the Week.

Um, I'm an emotional wreck today, you guys. I, of course, blame the baby. IT'S SO EASY and makes me virtually blameless for pretty much everything. I highly recommend it.

I started full-on CRYING at my desk while listening to a song this morning that isn't even sad! And so I'm very fragile when listening to Pandora these days. You've been warned, people who sit near me.

However, I heard this song on the radio a few days ago while CB and I were driving through the city and it turns out that they're a local band that I am now seriously digging. So, hopefully you guys enjoy them, too!

Happy Friday!

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

I'll be back!

Sorry, guys, for being so MIA since the middle of last week! Had some posting issues Friday for the wrapup and have been feeling under the weather this week. But I'll be back on Friday and have lots of stories to tell you next week - stay tuned!

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Conversations from Cohabitation

Ok, so the bottom part of this conversation is from a year ago, but I stumbled across it yesterday and it still makes me laugh and will likely still embarrass CB. Win/win.  

But first, this is a conversation that happened yesterday. I was leaving for work while he was in the shower, so I was attempting to say goodbye to him through the bathroom door.  

Me: “Bye, I’m leaving!”CB, no answer.Me, a little louder and knocking on the door: “Bye, I’m leaving!”CB: “What?”Me: “I’m leaving!”CB: “I can’t hear you!”Me, exasperated and louder: “I’m LEAVING!”CB, swinging open the bathroom door, soaking wet: “What, you’re bleeding??!!”Me, laughing: “Um, no. I’m leaving. I was just saying goodbye.”CB, shaking his head: “Oh my God, Beck, why didn’t you just open the door and say that? I panicked!”Me: “Clearly. I also didn’t think it’d take me five minutes to tell you I was leaving or I would’ve just opened the door.”CB: “Between now and when you give birth, you can’t randomly yell things at me through the door.”Me: “Like ‘hey, I’m in labor!’”
CB: “Right. You have to open the door for that.”Me: “Good to know. I’ll make sure I try to accommodate you when that happens.”CB, closing the door back in my face: “You’re a piece of work.”


Coming out of the bathroom after showering:

Me:  “So I accidentally shaved off part of my eyebrow.”
CB: “What?! How does one accidentally shave off their eyebrow?”
Me: “I’m not really sure.”
CB: “You’re not sure? You don’t remember having a razor near your face?”
Me: “Well, I was about to shave and this one hair kept falling into my face and so I went to wipe it away…”
CB: “With a razor in your hand?!?”
Me: “Yeah…it was just an instinct.”
CB: “That’s a terrible instinct.”
Me: “Not instinct. I meant impulse.”
CB: “Well, try not to impulsively do things with a razor in your hand in the future.”
Me: “But then I felt to see if I cut my face and didn’t feel any blood, so I just kept showering. But I just looked in the mirror and part of my eyebrow is gone. Can you see it?” (leaning in to show him my eyebrow)
CB: “Yes of course I can see it. You look like you’re constantly surprised with one eye now.”
Me: “Oh no, really?!”
CB, laughing: “It’s really not that bad. But now that you point it out I can tell.”
Me: “I guess it could’ve been worse. I could’ve, like, shaved off the whole thing. And it could be the day before our wedding. Or I could’ve blinded myself accidentally.”
CB: “How about we just don’t put razors by our face anymore, ok? You could’ve really injured yourself.”
Me: “I know. I’ve learned my lesson by rendering myself perpetually surprised for the next week or so.”
CB: “There’s something not right about you.”


Hanging out with a few friends Saturday night, I remembered to tell CB something that happened outside of his earshot earlier that day:

Me: “Oh, by the way, I think I may have accidentally told your college friends that you sometimes wrap me in paper towel in a sexual way.”
CB: “What?!?”
Friend, laughing: “You have to immediately tell us how that happened.”
CB: “Yeah, how does someone accidentally say something like that?”
Me: “Well, you were telling the story about how you guys wrapped Chad in paper towel while he was passed out and I made some side comment and said ‘Yeah, he does that to me sometimes, but for other reasons.’ And then your friends looked at me and were slightly confused and impressed?”
CB: “Jesus Beck, why would you say something like that?”
Friend, still laughing.
Me: “I don’t know, it just seemed like a funny thing to say. But then I realized that they’d just met me and maybe didn’t know I was kidding.”
Friend: “About CB wrapping you somehow seductively in paper towel?”
Me: “Yeah, I mean, how on earth would that be serious? They had to know.”
CB: “Oh God. Some of these people are going to be at our wedding, Beck! And now they think we do freaky things with paper towels!”
Me: “It could’ve been worse.”
CB: “HOW could it be worse?!”
Me: “It could be true!”

Friday, April 10, 2015

Friday Wrapup

Let’s get to it!

This week’s book is “The Narrow Road to the Deep North” by Richard Flanagan. Just the description of a “subtle, horrific, deftly layered and deeply moving story” means it’s going on my list. It also means that CB will, once again, point out that I get my darkness from my parents. I mean, my mom once actually said the sentence “Well, the good thing about that murder was….” And that was at Christmas dinner.

Anyway, enjoy! I’m definitely adding it to the list – what about you?  Click here to check it out! 


So, I hung a sweater over our kitchen chair the other night to air dry so that I didn’t accidentally shrink it (as I’ve been known to do). But when I went to put it on this morning, it had weird chair bumps on the shoulders that I needed to iron out asap.

CB was in the bathroom brushing his teeth and I was unsuccessfully trying to iron out the bumps, so I called him into the room to help.

Me, handing him the hot iron: “Could you iron these bumps for me?”
CB: “Wait, on you? Why do you have the sweater on already?”
Me: “Because I tried ironing it flat but it didn’t work. So I figured it’s easier to actually see the bumps when it’s on me.”
CB: “But I’ll burn you! This is a really bad idea.”
Me: “Oh, it’s fine. I iron clothes on myself all the time, I just can’t reach these.”
CB: “You do this all the time??! That’s really unsafe!”
Me: “Oh my god it’s fine, could you please just do it? Just be gentle so it doesn’t burn my skin.”
CB: “Beck!”
Me: “C’mon!”
CB, ironing my back: “This is an awful idea.”
Me: “But it’s working, look! Ok, now do the other side.”
CB: “This isn’t normal, I can’t believe you have done this before.”
Me: “Relax, I unplugged the iron, so it’s not like it’s getting hotter. Which is why we have to move fast before it cools down.”
CB: “There, I think it’s done.”
Me: “Perfect! Thanks so much!”
CB: “I really need to start videotaping these moments. Nobody would believe the stuff you ask me to do.”
Me: “Yes, your life is very hard.”


So I was feeling all frustrated at work this morning and the baby was kicking to tell me to cut it out. And then this song came on and I started bopping my head and instantly felt better. Ne-Yo has that effect on me.

Plus, I want CB to refer to me as “fly effortlessly” since usually he’s having to pick crumbs off of my outfit before I leave in the morning. Which is my own version of independence.

Happy Friday!

Thursday, April 9, 2015

An update

I passed the glucose test! Thanks for all of your support, guys.

However, I'd like to give Nurse Shannon some advice when calling to tell people good news: pretend you're excited for me, Shannon! (note: it helps, when reading the voice of Shannon, to do it in a slightly robotic/neutral/monotone voice, to really get the point across.)

Shannon: "Hi Rebekah, I'm sorry we've been playing phone tag."
Me, trying to sound calm and like I had low blood sugar, just in case: "Oh, that's fine, I understand." Totally breezy!
Shannon: "You passed your glucose test."
Me: "Oh thank God!!! That's so exciting!"


Me: "I was really nervous!"
Shannon: "I can imagine."


Me: "Wow, that's such good news."

Silence, maybe some keyboard typing.

Me: "Ok, well thanks so much for letting me know!
Shannon: "Congratulations. Have a nice day." 

For reference, this is the reaction I
was expecting. 
And that was it. Shannon didn't offer to go out for cake with me, or start excitingly talking about how nervous SHE was until she got the results back from the doctor, or ANYthing. It was just straight professional, monotone, show-no-emotion Shannon.

Which is why I may need to request her in the delivery room, because I have a feeling I'm going to be a little excited/panicky/potentially yell-y, and Shannon will be all like "Now push. Push. Congratulations, it's a boy/girl. Have a nice day." (that's how labor goes, right?) And I'll be crying and overreacting to regular human experiences, per usual, and Shannon will be all like "Ok, I need to go make some glucose phone calls. Your baby is beautiful."

Also, it's possible that this is what CB is referring to when he says that I have "strong emotions" and/or "have only on or off, no in-between."

Anyway...I passed, you guys! Who wants to eat celebratory cake and gummy bears?! (not Shannon.)

Happy Thursday!

Monday, April 6, 2015

Conversations from Cohabitation

Update: I didn’t faint OR stab the nurse, so Friday was a success! I’ll likely get the results today or tomorrow, so I’m mainlining sugar just in case. Pretty sure those were doctor’s orders. Thanks for all of your comments and support!


So over the weekend I was in major spring cleaning mode and started going through my and CB’s drawers to organize and de-clutter. However, as I started going through his sock and underwear drawer, I realized that my husband had a whole secret, weird level of his personality that I never realized: he’s a sock hoarder.

About 30 minutes after I went through everything, he came into the bedroom.

Me: “Um, we need to have a discussion at some point about how we haven’t been featured on the show ‘Hoarders’ yet.”
CB, laughing: “Why, what are we hoarding?”
Me: “Um, ‘we’ are hoarding about 80 pairs of your socks.”
CB, still laughing: “I take good care of my feet.”
Me: “Right, but why do you have 30 pairs of black socks, 20 pairs of brown socks, some argyle, a bunch of white socks with yellow toes-“
CB: “-They’re called ‘Goldtoe’ remember? They were featured on ‘Jeopardy.’”
Me: “You have some serious issues.”
CB: “I don’t want to ever find myself needing socks.”
Me: “Uh, mission accomplished! You literally could not do sock laundry for a month and still not run out of socks. You have, like, 8 pairs of underwear and one million socks. WHO needs that many black socks?”
CB: “I had a scare once where I ran out of socks.”
Me: “You have sock PTSD. I never knew this about you. It actually makes me feel better knowing that you’re weird, too. You just hide it. In your sock drawer.”
CB, laughing and leaving the room.
Me: “Anyway, I need you to go through the rest of the socks on the bed and find out if they have mates.”
CB: “Ok, no problem.”
Me: “And then maybe get rid of some of the socks you don’t need?”
CB: “I need all of them.”

An hour later I returned to the bedroom to find 7 random socks laying in a straight line on the bed.

Me: “Great, you went through your socks!”
CB: “Yep.”
Me: “And these are the ones without mates?”
CB: “Yeah. I’m going to have a memorial service for them later. They’ve been left alone in this cold, dark world with no partner and no one to love them.”
Me, laughing: “Great, as long as their memorial ends in the garbage, I’m happy.”
CB: “You’re a heartless, soul-less woman.”
Cut to: Yesterday, as I was getting into the car, I noticed a pair of brown socks in the back seat of the car.

Me: "Oh my God! You're hoarding socks in your car, too!"
CB, laughing: “I just want to have them on-hand in case I need them.”
Me: “What sock emergency are you having where you need a backup in the car?”
CB: “It’s like you don’t understand me at all.”
Me: “And for the first time in my life, I’m completely OK with that.”

Happy Monday, everyone! 

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Doctors and Nurses: You're on Notice.

There are times in life when you’re truly tested. For me, nearly all of them have occurred while growing a human being inside of my body and trying not to completely f it up.

For example: While pregnant, I’ve tried to make sure that I’m eating enough fruits and vegetables on a daily basis. I mean, this is not my go-to move. But also, let’s get real, most adults don’t do this on their best day, let alone when all their body-that-isn’t-their-own-anymore wants to do is eat a bag full of Sour Patch Kids (fruit flavored!) with a side of hamburger pickles. Or so I’ve been told.

But you look up the daily suggestions for intake, add two of each more to your day, and consider yourself light years ahead of the women who birthed babies back in the days when smoking cigarettes on their break from drinking whiskey was considered standard practice. However, I call foul on the doctors who have decided that part of this mom-test is checking to see if your alien body can tolerate sugar by basically putting you in a medically induced, low-level torture situation that involves orange soda, all of your blood, and no food.

You guys.

I mean, to be fair, this isn’t how it starts. They start by letting you eat like a normal (pregnant) person, giving you the sugar soda, making you wait an hour, not letting you pee, and then taking your blood. The torture test is only for those of us who under-achieve and fail the test so that the poor nurse has to call and talk to you in a soothing tone about the “next steps.”

Which I’ll be taking on Friday morning.

Let me set the scene for you: You’re 25 weeks pregnant (do the math), not allowed to eat or drink for 8-9 hours leading up to the test, and are then handed over to a friendly, sadist nurse who draws your blood, sets 8 oz of orange soda with three extra tablespoons of sugar added to it in front of you, and tells you to drink it in 5 minutes or less. AND YOU CAN’T PEE. Or throw it up. Or, I’m pretty sure, stab the nurse, but I'll double-check all of the rules on Friday.

And then you wait for an hour until they draw your blood again. And then wait another hour so that they can draw more blood. And then wait one more hour so that they can take whatever is left of your sugar-blood and then probably also remind you of your name, address, and the fact that there’s a baby person inside of you that is causing all of this chaos in your life. (Mother of the Year).

Which obviously I’m looking forward to and not at all being dramatic about. Except that doesn’t sound anything like me, so let’s just assume I’ve already jumped ahead to the days that I’ll have to say no to cake and prick my finger once a day as a reminder of what a mom-failure I am and how my sugary ways almost hurt the baby and made it forty-five times bigger than average upon birth or something (I only skimmed the article).

Which is why I’m baking two desserts for Easter this weekend and making sure I consume whatever I want on Sunday because I feel like it’s my last time to enjoy sugar until sometime in July. Which is also why I already gave the baby a pep talk about bucking up this weekend and not kicking me every time I eat a jellybean, BABY. I’m doing this for US.

Wish me luck! (and won’t be blogging Friday because I probably won’t even know what a blog is by then since I’ll be on hour 12 of my forced starvation and trying to eat my own sweater.)

Happy Wednesday!