the verdict is in

It's okay folks. You don't need to break the news to me. My mother very kindly told me this afternoon that my new favorite song did, in fact, sound too dirty to like.

Things have taken an energetic downturn in the Olmstead household this week due to the husband's timely case of H1N1. He has been a very sick man. A very sick man who is mysteriously around all the time. I've been a little weirded out by his constant presence as I attempt to keep my routine, but he fixed that problem by getting me sick with some kind of throat thing. So now I just don't have the energy to care.

I do not do sick well.

gently people

This morning I was reading on c jane's Guide to Provo blog - a personal favorite quick stop that has led to the most important discovery in my husband's eating life: the Rice King - and I was reminded that Down East Outfitters is Provo based. This got me to clicking. Oh, how I love to click out of curiosity!

And in all of this clicking, it dawned on me, does the rest of the world not have Down East Basics in their malls? Have I truly taken for granted the cute, modest, affordable clothing store with three locations all within reach of me? You know, the only woman's clothing store that my husband doesn't complain about going into with me. Not that I am a big clothing purchaser, but I am a huge window shopper and nothing makes me more happy than perusing a store with a happy husband in tow pointing out all of the things he thinks would emphasize my attractiveness, so the idea that not all women of the world enjoy this cheap date night made me suddenly very sad. (The twenty pounds of helloooo baby tell me I am allowed spontaneous emotions for the next three weeks.)

Why is this not a national epidemic? Or is it? Am I overreacting? If I am, tell me gently. (Remember, helloooo baby.)




P.S. Also, is it wrong that I've developed an unexplainable love for Ciara's Love Sex Magic, regardless of the husband saying "Dirrrrrty" everytime he hears it?

once upon eight years ago

Last night I ran into a blast from the past - my first boyfriend - at Target in the bodywash isle. I felt trapped and morbidly pregnant next to his wife. The whole experience was tense and ridiculously uncharacteristic of my usual self as I attempted to melt into the husband's back and then randomly abandoned him. Thankfully the husband is horrible with physical cues and extremely serious about his bodywash selection. I held my tongue about the whole thing until the husband and I were driving home.

Oh teenage years, how you haunt me in the most unexpected ways.

all the things I should be doing...

I'm supposed to be allowing the husband to live vicariously through me this morning. His request, before walking out the door to work, was a warm bath and another two hours of sleep.

I should be doing that.

There are clothes in the dryer that need to be folded and put away. Dishes from breakfast in the sink. Folded clothes on the couch that have been dying to be put away. Floors that haven't been vacuumed in a month. Dust on every available surface.

I should be taking care of that stuff too.


I am ignoring the child in my uterus having a tumbling hayday and letting The Killers sing me sweet lies. This feels like a fair trade.

if I could have anything in the world...

I'd like my landlord to turn the pipes back on for our swamp cooler. And a large greek salad. With maybe some stuffed grape leaves.

And Kenny Chesney serenading me wherever I go.

Is that really so much to ask?

oh baby

Yesterday, baby bee and I ventured into Orem for our unexpected ultra sound appointment. With slight trepidation, I waddled my way to the OBGYN area of the clinic and read the pregnancy mags like every other woman. (Interesting fact: If you sing a familiar song to a child during vaccinations or circumcision, their stress levels go down.) At ten past four, the ultra sound tech beckoned me back to her room, commenting on how small I looked for someone in my 33rd week. I already knew this. This is why baby bee and I were here. To make sure he was okay. Doctor's orders.

I am a magician.

I can measure small with a baby that is too big for his due date. That's right folks. Too big. Baby can come as early as next week if he so pleases and be completely fine. Preferably, he'll spend a little more time bruising my innards, but the truth is this:

Our lives are in the hands of a fetus.

awe....wait for it....some

The husband and I love Neil Patrick Harris.

Any one who takes the time to get to know us, knows that the husband and I don't have that much in common, big picture wise. Which is to be expected when an IT guy from a small, farming community in Utah marries an Art History major from a capitol in the deep south. Oh, sure, we both share a deep love for the music of Michael Jackson and cooking, but I still get excited when we stumble upon another shared interest to add to our little list.

This is done by exposure. Slow and gradual exposure to all of the random things in our lives that the other has not tried. We have some hits - farmer's markets; we have a lot of misses - guns, cars, museums - but in general we're both tolerant and loving enough to accept each other for our own little quirks. (It also helps that we're ridiculously in love with one another.)

Which is why when the husband took so fondly to How I Met Your Mother, I was delighted. We don't own a T.V. The husband grew up without a T.V. So when I say that he loves Neil Patrick Harris, it's not because of Doogie Howser, M.D. - a show that had to be carefully explained to him over the course of several evenings. It's not because of his work on Broadway. It is not even because of Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog. His love for Neil Patrick Harris is solely due to the character of Barney Stinson on CBS's How I Met Your Mother. That womanizer of womanizers, suit wearing champ. And as another Tuesday descends upon us, allowing us to upload last night's episode, I just want to give a small nod to a hilarious (and equally frivolous) part of our lives.

Neil Patrick Harris, here's to you. Please keep us laughing.