The thing is that now that we have a before and 95% complete after to show you of our 1 car detached garage turned office/man cave and laundry room I need a professional photographer to glamour shot the whole thing.  I could not get the entire room in one shot (how the heck do they do that, they must cut a hole in the roof or something) and the lighting is funky because photography is kind of like singing for me, I LOVE to participate while the rest of the world prays I would just give it a rest already.  So I am setting aside my annoying anal tendencies and showing you what I have because this, after all, is not a home makeover site.  So why do I show you this at all you wonder…because now we have an extra room in case we should ever need it, wink.  And also because I made this big scene a couple weeks back about the makeover of my life and as much as this falls short of seeing it live I must show you some proof.

In preparation for our mini renovation we are in the market for a new couch.  The one we have now is a wonderfully comfy hand me down that does not match the décor in our living room and will be relished to what Scott is calling (in an obnoxiously macho voice) his man cave.  Personally I dislike that silly expression, but it brings him the same joy I get from going to the Container Store and daydreaming about my, drum roll please, laundry room.  That is your teaser for what is about to unfold, but for now back to the couch.  (Okay, her is one little sneak peak at the before.)

Depressing, right?

Scott and I are lucky in the fact that we agree on the important things in life and marriage; warm weather over cold, vacationing means doing what the locals do and never taking a guided tour, we both chose charm and location over size when it came to buying a house, we prefer to stay in on a Friday night, birthday and Christmas presents are off limits, but great trips and just because gifts are awesome, working out keeps us sane, two kids sounds best because, as Scott describes it, one on one is better than a zone defense and when it came to decisions like picking out a TV I deferred to him and paint colors meant he deferred to me.  Compromising has been few and far between because we were the annoying couple that agrees.  Until the couch.

We have been to 15 furniture stores.  He wants comfort, that is the only thing that matters.  He wants this so much that he fell in love with a horrible burgundy thing that has about 200 pillows with the most hideous print that actually hurt my eyes.  I want a mix of style and comfort (emphasis on style) leaving me in love with a couch/chaise combo that is the most perfect shade of green.  And to be quite honest I figured all those stores on a football Sunday would leave him exhausted enough to acquiesce, but no.  Here we sit on our smelly old couch that is supposed to move to the man cave in one week and we are unable to find a compromise. 

We anticipate the next and hopefully only decision in life that will be this difficult will be naming a child.  How did you parents do it?

Click here, we dare you!

Last week I had a standing appointment for a facial because I fear getting old and wrinkly and more than that I fear needles, hence botox is out and moisturizer is in.  I walked in to find Courtney, my friend and esthetician wearing slippers.  Who are you and what have you done with my Manolo wearing fashionable girlfriend?  To which she explained, oh honey, I am a hot mess.  And yeah, that part is clear because you are wearing slippers at 2 p.m. at work and girls like us don’t wear slippers.  So I sat and she spilled.

It started two weeks ago when she was at the doctor who noticed that she had a raised mole on the top of her foot.  Courtney explained it used to be a harmless freckle that had turned into an ever growing freckle and then morphed into a mole and she swore to God if it sprouted a dark hair she was going to lose her mind.  The doctor offered, OFFERED is the key word here, to remove it right then and there.  Courtney, whose husband must have married her for her good looks or her amazing rack rather than her smarts said sure.

Fast forward about 16 hours to the next morning when she awoke to a burning sensation in her foot and looked down to see that while the freckle on steroids had not grown back, she now had a red line traveling up her shin.  Her husband rushed her to the ER where they confirmed blood poisoning.  

At this point in her story I was thinking you big fat liar, this must be like the time you swore that you stuck to Weight Watchers for five weeks and never lost a pound and then I found about fifteen McDonald’s receipts in your purse.  But this wasn’t like that at all because she had a scar that prevented any shoes from touching her foot and a two day hospital stay with pictures to prove it. 

The story got worse because she had been calling “doctor two for one” for days and never got a call back.  Never an oh sorry I totally effed up and you got blood poisoning and had that stint in the hospital followed by at least a month condemned to slippers.  We were both all fired up and I’m like who is your Dermatologist anyway and Courtney says Dermatologist?  No honey this was my OBGYN. 

Just so I’m clear, I asked, your OBGYN, like the doctor who looks at your hoo hah and delivers babies.  She confirmed and I felt the need to shake her violently, but instead reminded her that Gynecologists have a specialized region that in no way includes the foot, in fact doc should not even be looking that far south.  Did she up sell you?  Would you like a mole removal with your pap smear?  And Courtney laughed, out loud she laughed, and then I started laughing because what else can you do when you walk in to find a hot mess wearing slippers at work and you realize she would spread her legs for the Psychiatrist if he offered the right exam.

We were enjoying the start of a great night and taking time to catch up with old friends until the water turned into a party fowl and began to stress everyone out.

“Why are you drinking water?”

“Because I’m thirsty.”

“Are you pregnant?!?!?”

I immediately ordered wine, to squash the rumors.  In reality I had enjoyed a lot of wine the night before and prior to ordering a glass at the wedding I thought water sounded refreshing and kind of necessary.  That was all, simple as a case of thirst.  So now you know I hang with a bunch of boozers and the questions didn’t end there.  A nice couple that I had met once was showing us pictures of their precious baby girl and as I gushed over her the lucky dad of this child looked at me and asked if we had started playing without a goalie.

Well the wine near flew out my mouth I laughed so hard.  Can you just picture it?  Women ask each other all the time.  Are you trying, when did you ditch the birth control, when are you supposed to start your period, etc.  We obsess and pry and it all seems fine.  I never knew a man’s way of prying, but what else would it be other than a ridiculous sports analogy.  So I played along and assured him we benched the goalie (I know, it sounded that stupid in person too).

Scott had to have his wisdom teeth out.  No biggie, this is routine and we figured he needed a ride to and from the doctor’s office followed by a comfy place to drift in and out of consciousness while on some serious painkillers.  I dropped him off and following the instructions to be back in an hour and a half I was left with just enough time to head to the gym and get in a workout then pick him up, get him comfy and I would head to work by Noon.  That part really doesn’t have anything to do with being a mom, that part is simple. 

I arrived at the office on time, 9:30 a.m. on the dot and was told he would be released at 10 a.m.  I guess 9:30 a.m. was a little fib for wives who are not punctual and now I was being punished, but whatever.  By 11 a.m. I asked to be excused to run an errand since clearly we weren’t going anywhere soon, the nurse grilled me about where I was going and how long I would be gone.  No worries lady, I’m not planning to abandon hubs at your office, I will leave collateral if you want.  She didn’t laugh at my joke, but did give me the go ahead, I had 20 minutes.  Close to Noon I had answered every possible email via my blackberry and was trying to find out if I needed to cancel my 2:30 appointment at work.

12:30 p.m. we were finally sent home and I was trying to act calm, but seriously stressing about my life, my schedule, my commitments and suddenly I realized why every working mom feels guilt.  My mind was thinking work while I was making a protein shake, setting out pain meds and creating a cozy spot on the couch.  As soon as I was back at work my mind was at home wondering if my patient needed food or meds.  At the end of the day I felt like I hadn’t accomplished anything, I wasn’t able to give 100% of myself at home or work. 

I called my mom this morning to just say thank you.  And then to ask how she worked all those hours and still had time to raise me and be a good wife.   I don’t think she had an answer, but I could feel her smiling through the phone.  Some wisdom can only be gained through experience.

When we started talking about buying a house last year friends, family and strangers who were lucky enough to sit near me and hear about that current obsession, would all tell us to be sure to check out the neighbors.  I had never given any thought to the neighbors and so I wondered what they meant by check them out.  Perhaps find out their names and Google search them like I used to do before a date.  Drive by incessantly (I was already doing this, but for totally different reasons).  Maybe peak over their fences and in their windows.  The answers varied, but all got to the points above, which all kind of sounded like stalking.  Apparently the point of stalking was to make sure they weren’t too loud or registered pedophiles and that they took care of their house and yard.  Neighbors, apparently, can single handedly bring down the value of the neighborhood.

All very funny.

First, because our potential home was (and now is) 1/6^th the size of every other house on the block.  Yes, you read that right and yes, the Container Store rolls out the red carpet when they see me coming. 

Second, because a couple years ago we rented an awesome back house and the landlord who lived in the main house was a definite make my skin crawl type.  In turn, I was glued to Dateline: How to Catch a Predator.  I was convinced that D (I cannot, in all fairness, use his full name because even I have standards and since he never showed on Dateline I have to go with that whole innocent until proven guilty thing) was maybe possibly for sure a registered creeper.  I tried to borrow a couple of my cousins to run my own undercover operation, but my family stopped answering my calls for awhile and I took that as a hell no. 

The third reason this check out the neighbors advice was humorous was because we were not at all in a situation to be picky.   We wanted to buy in a 5 block by 5 block radius where the ginormous new houses cost more than both our lives combined and the chances were like zero that we would ever have a reason to check out those neighbors.  Then one day, as the economy spiraled downward, Scott found us a house.  While riding his beach cruiser, which has nothing to do with anything except how do you take a 33 year old male on a cruiser seriously when he says “yes, I think we might like to buy this house, just let me ride home real quick to collect all my loose change and see what my wife thinks.”   He pedaled home and asked how much spare change we had and if I thought we should make an offer to which I replied “so this means we could actually live 5 little blocks from the beach?!?!”  So now you might understand that I drove by the teeny tiny beach cottage 12 times every day not to check on the neighbors, but to scare away potential buyers, i.e. competition. 

SERIOUSLY

Fast forward one year and who knew having a yard is more work than getting a college diploma later.  I was absolutely embarrassed to tears when very casually, over yet another burnt dinner, Scott mentioned our neighbor came by today.   Neighbor A (I don’t know his name because we’ve never spoken) stopped by in the middle of a Tuesday to ask if we might like to borrow his lawn mower.  Out of the blue, just like that.  And so oh my God, we are the neighbors bringing down the neighborhood.  They hate us more than they hate the weird house that we, okay I, am sure deals drugs because at least that house conducts their business at night and their lawn, don’t even get me started on how impeccable that lawn looks.  The worst part is we spend hours in the yard, practically live in the garden section at Home Depot and at the end of the day we look at each other and go WTF. 

 Today we have officially resigned from yard duty and in our effort to stimulate the economy hired our new best friend, Jose.  I offered to kiss him if he brings the lawn back to life; Scott is fine with that too.

This is my husband, Scott, and me.  He is great fun and makes me laugh, therefore this felt like a good photo to share.  Plus he is damn cute and I wanted to brag. 

Scott was very supportive when I told him I was starting a fictional blog about Pregnant Girl.  Great idea he said and then he proceeded to brag about the blog to all kinds of friends, family and co-workers.  Cute, right?  Then after a couple weeks I told him that I was going to start writing a little about our life, just on the days Pregnant Girl needs a rest.  After all, I am going to try to be a pregnant girl very soon (how soon depends on if you ask him or me).  He didn’t say much.  Sorry honey, for this post (especially for the picture) and the hundreds that will follow.

As we entered the room where said wife was chatting; her husband announced, hey honey, I was just telling them about that wedding file.  At first she blushed and gave him the look.  We have all given that look when our husbands publicly state something that should so obviously be private. What’s up with their censors anyway?  Sitting in a room of many women she quickly got over it and said, yes I had a wedding file and I have a baby file, they simply compliment my many other files.  And in 3 to 5 years when we need a stroller you, ungrateful husband, will thank me. 

Ahhh, women, we can be organized to a fault.  Or is it to a fault?  Would the world be chaos without those of us who create files and lists?  In case you are wondering what kind of woman I am let me just say I am getting excited just thinking about files and lists.  Just yesterday I asked my husband how we would ever fit a glider in the baby’s room.  What baby’s room?  We don’t have a baby.  No honey, we don’t have a baby, but one day we will and I wonder where I will sit.  Later I laughed as I tried to imagine what that conversation felt like for him.  There he was enjoying a beautiful Sunday afternoon, possibly thinking about what he might watch on TV only to realize his wife is wondering where she will sit in a year (or maybe more).

What kind of woman are you?  Did you have baby names and nursery décor picked out before you had conceived?  Do you just go with the flow and think those of us with files and lists are nuts?  Is your husband the list maker, if so do tell, they are a rare gem.

Leave us a comment on this subject, then come by on Monday to see if you won what every organized girl would love, Pulp Factory’s calendar, A New Mom’s Life: A Record of Mom and Baby’s First Year.

In 2005 I was young (24), semi-single (great guy, but was I even his girlfriend yet?), living in the OC (Orange County, CA for those who have not turned on the TV in the last 4 years) and bored with my job. I needed a career change, but the ONLY thing I wanted to do was open my own boutique (stress only and note I have a flair for the dramatic).

Enter Jack and Emma, just 6 months pregnant with J & E, the coolest kids around, my best friend unknowingly inspired me. I flew to Dallas (my old stomping grounds) to visit her and her ever-growing waistline (she knows, so it is okay to say this), and we did what we do best; eat ice cream, shop, talk about everything and nothing all at once, shop some more, get pedicures and shop one more time.  My pregnant friend watched as I slid the season’s hottest denim on and off in the Neiman’s dressing room.  Always honest, she gave the obligatory commentary, ”those make you look super skinny, nope those make your butt look flat, those give you muffin top, nope, not a good look for you, and then finally yes, definitely buy those and let me see how far I can pull them up.” What? What was that last statement?  Thinking to self…she cannot be serious!

Sure, we have always been the same size, as long as one of us isn’t carrying 2 small children in our belly, literally. And yes, she looked amazing, but a special kind of 6 months pregnant with twins type of amazing. I knew it was a bad idea, spurred by desperation and a lack of maternity stores.  She got them past her knee (kind of), broke a little sweat, I helped yank them off and knew we needed to get out of there fast (time for more ice cream). I was a couple hundred dollars poorer (bought the pair that made me look skinny, duh) and she felt how so many pregnant girls before had, like she had absolutely nothing fabulous and flattering to wear.

Fast forward a 2 hour flight home and another month at my well paying, totally secure and utterly boring job and it suddenly hit me, the perfect niche for my dream job. I would open OC’s first stylish maternity boutique. Many months later J & E were 8 months old, I had churned out a business plan, invested my savings (and a little of my mom’s), gotten a small business loan (that was a scary day), signed a lease and Xpecting, Inc. arrived on January 2, 2006.

I am giving you the dirt because after just 3 ½ years in business I have the best clients/friends who always want to know how it all started. Today (2009), as I start this blog, I am not as young (28), married for one year to the “kind of” boyfriend from 2006, I live in Huntington Beach, CA and love my job…and yes, to answer the question I hear the most often, I hope to be pregnant one day very soon and I will keep you posted.