Bulk sized fear and tiny glimmers of hope

We went to CostcHo today - why do we subject ourselves to the torture?? I practically hyperventilate when we turn into the parking lot. It's a complete zoo. My blood pressure starts its steady climb as I watch a ten-car backup develop as some lazy ass waits & waits for that perfect parking spot near the front door. Or the way life and limb is risked just trying to enter the frickin' place. All these people are coming out at breakneck speeds, so they can hurry home and break into their jumbo-sized premade Caesar salad and chicken bake.

Yet we go back. Again and again. Never escaping without at least a $200 bill - and there's only two of us! Even with a list in hand and nerves of steel, we still find our xtra large cart full of things we had no idea we needed.

"Honey, are we out of granola bars?"

"No, I checked before we left. We're outta paper towels, though."

"Just think, in eight months we could be buying these huge crates of diapers and wipes. And formula. Are we low on soy milk?"

The 2nd beta looked good. It doubled. Just. They don't want to see me back for two weeks. I'm trying to remain calm. We want to be happy, but no longer naive to the fact there's still a lot of hurdles to cross. We're being cautiously optimistic. There's random baby comments peppering our conversations, but we're not running out to buy strollers or pick colors for the nursery. I'm just too freaked out. Just one day at a time, right? Trying not to dwell on fetal poles or sacs or heartbeats. I honestly think this is way worse than the two week wait. We should be dancing in the streets and the happiest people on the planet - but we're just too scared. Too worried. I don't think we'll ever feel secure until that baby is safe in our arms.

I'm in love with Ch-ch-ch-chi(a)

I got a new thingy in the mail yesterday. It's a CH.I flatiron. It has changed my life. My hairdresser used it on me about a week ago when I got a new cut and color and oh my gawd I was a changed woman. It was not soccer-mom me(without the soccer or the mom part), but some sleek, coiffed, bad-assed babelicious. I tried recreating the moment with my old flat iron, but it did NOT work. At all. Convinced that I needed the exact recipe my stylist used, I when on a spending spree: new iron, new conditioner, new styling creme. Big B nearly had a heart attack - "I thought we were on a budget lockdown!" Whaaaa. Maybe for him. But not for me and my self-indulgent and self-gratifying needs!

It really did make a difference. Even the cutie-patootie (very young) graphic designer in my office commented on how "awesome" my hair looked. So...worth every penny in my book. What I didn't know when buying the thing, was that there were choices.


You could choose the camo-in-pink option:

Or the designer bag option:

I went for the plain ol' version. I am fairly mesmerized by it, though. It makes my hair feel super soft and not all rosanna-anna-danna. I could easily see myself morphing into "one of those girls" who totes the thing to work with her for a little afternoon delight of mid-day flattening.

And, just for the record... got my beta back. 200. It's a positive. The night before I had the worst cramps. I just knew AF would be banging on my door any second. But we POAS anyway. My jaw dropped about two feet when the second line came up almost immediately. Crazy.

combustible gas with a scoop of rocky road

Any Heroes fans? I am so lost. 

Note to self: do not read blogs or play mahjong while trying to watch Heroes.

And...don't feed dogs pretzel sticks before favorite tv show. It's hard to concentrate with lethal farts aimed in your general direction. Running from the room with your hand over your nose does nothing for following a story line. How can 12 pounds produce such a copious amount of stinky gas?

My beta is supposed to be on Thursday. I haven't made an appointment yet. I don't want to. Do I have to? Can't I just wait and see what happens? I don't want to know. I'd rather just sit in this pool of dread like every other month for the past year and a half and just wait for the inevitable to begin. I know I'm not pregnant because:

Pregnancy Symptoms Checklist

Sore boobs = NO

Frequent urination = NO

Super tired = NO

craving ice cream = YES (but I've been craving ice cream since I was three so that probably doesn't count).

How can I possibly crave ice cream when I've got enough deadly gas in this room to probably kill a few brain cells? How? How is that even possibly appetizing? Yet I crave it. Rocky Road.