Thankswaiting

Thanksgiving weekend this year was relatively low key. As we were awaiting the fulfillment of the prophecy and the concomitant arrival of our first born, we told our families to stay the hell away and politely informed everyone that we would not be leaving the city limits until our fetus becomes a human.

Thus, while many of you were celebrating Blackout Wednesday, Jester and I were chilling at home, playing cops and robbers with Harley.

Thursday morning, I made some pumpkin pie while Jessie took pictures.

That afternoon, we went to the home of Alex and his anonymous wife, as they had graciously invited us to share in their feast. And what a feast it was.

Alex's anonymous wife drank three different kinds of wine at one time.

Per tradition, I wore my turkey shirt (and made my classic "Thanksgiving creepy eyes"). Deal with it, America.
We had two pies for four people. I ate until the point of physical discomfort. There was enough food to go around that Alex's anonymous wife found it to be appropriate to make their runty dog a plate of people food.

When I woke up Friday morning, I kid you not, my pee smelled like turkey. And shame.

Friday was D Day. And no, I don't mean to imply that Friday was either June 6, 1944 or Daniel Simpson Day. Rather, Friday was the date that some charlatan predicted would bring the birth of our child.

Friday afternoon, we saw a movie about men who stare at goats. From what I gathered, the entire point of the movie was simply to alert you to the existence of some men who stare at goats.

Friday came and went without the fulfillment of the prophecy. Friday night I got over ten hours of sleep, possibly for the last time in my life.

Other than a trip to the Smoke Shack (a local BBQ place) with my dad (who stopped by on his way out of town), much of Saturday was spent doing nothing, although we did go shopping for rugs (not toupees or murkins, but actual rugs), to no avail. We also went to Whole Foods, where they apparently sell a lot of excellent, extremely potent winter beers that I am incapable of not buying. Saturday night, I drank some of said beer, along with Ryan, as we watched Road House on Spike. After about a half hour into the movie, I realized that I own Road House on DVD, so I popped that in, caught up to where we were, then watched the rest of the movie uncut. When we finished, there were still 15 minutes left on the Spike version, so we got to see Brad Wesley die twice. But then again, if the sheriff asks, we didn't see Brad Wesley die.

Sunday was also spent doing very little. We watched some football, grilled some old burgers, and watched Gregerson's dog pee on our kitchen floor and then on our deck.

At the present time, we are still waiting for this kid to be born, if for no other reason than so we will be able to yell at her once she comes out for being so unpunctual. I hope this insolence isn't a trend.

On a side note, that wives' tale that walking induces labor is horse shit. And if one more person tells Jessie to walk or drive on bumpy roads or eat spicy food or eat a big meal (or any of the other wives' tales for inducing labor that don't really work), I fear that my child will grow up with a mother behind bars for murder. Seriously, people, those things only work to move the process along if you are already in the beginning stages of labor. Telling an already miserable, overdue pregnant woman to do something she knows is futile only serves to remind her that she is still pregnant and can't do anything about it.

A few months ago, I posted the Top Ten Things Not to Say to Pregnant Women. Here are a few things you should not say to pregnant women who are past their due date:
-"Be patient." The first nine months were about being patient. Even if you are a woman who has gone past her due date, you shouldn't be saying this.
-"Enjoy it now because you won't get any sleep when the baby comes." It turns out really pregnant women don't sleep very well as it is, especially when they have acid reflux.
-"Have you had that baby yet?" No.

Use some common sense, people.

And why is it that pregnancy seems to make people think they can talk to me about my wife's privates? I'm pretty sure if she wanted you to know how many centimeters she is dilated, then she would volunteer that information herself. Don't ask me that shit (and don't ask her, either). I love you all.