Category Archives: Marriage

Operation Pickle Juice Is a Go

Throughout the entire pregnancy, Kiefer’s been like:

  • “We have plenty of time.”
  • “There’s over 3 months left.”
  • “There’s still 2 months left.”

Next up will probably be, “You’ve hit 40 weeks. I’m sure she’s staying in another week or two. We have time.”

The only thing Kiefer isn’t procrastinating on is getting a new car. My 2-door Civic isn’t going to work once the baby arrives. It barely works now when I drive with Boo and Radley.

We have 7 weeks left. Seven!

To shake him up a little, I decided to take Darla’s suggestion and implement Operation Pickle Juice.

If I give him a shot of Jameson before and immediately after, I think my prank will be better received by Kiefer.

  1. Find pickles in back of refrigerator. I haven’t craved them since the first trimester.
  2. Pour out some of the juice being careful to leave some pickles and juice for future cravings.
  3. Splash pickle juice all over my crotch, down my leg, and onto the floor.
  4. Scream at the top of my lungs so Kiefer runs into the kitchen and thinks my water has broken.
  5. Pray that he thinks it’s funny after I show him it’s just pickle juice.
  6. Call Ozzy into the kitchen to lick the floor so I don’t have to clean it up.

Only one question remains: Should I use Dill or Bread and Butter pickle juice?

Wish me luck!

Please free to leave SUV suggestions in the comments.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “We don’t have any unicorns in our neighborhood, so I tried recipe #1 with my cats. The results were disappointing.”—Laura


What’s a Wedding Without a Trampoline?

The morning after the wedding, as Radley was pouring his cereal, he said, “Good morning, Stepmom!”

It was cute. Nothing had changed, yet it had.

The Monday after the wedding at a meeting, I introduced myself as “Thoughtsy Appear.” My coworkers responded with “Who is that?” until I corrected my name to “Thoughtsy Sutherland.”

But I think the best (i.e., worst) title slip-up took place just a couple days after the wedding.

Kiefer: I guess I can’t call you my fiancee anymore.

Thoughtsy: What?! Why?

Kiefer: Seriously?

Thoughtsy: Oh…right…because we got married Saturday. Oops…I knew that.

We didn’t have a trampoline at our wedding. That’s my excuse for forgetting.

I swear my natural hair color is not blond.

Sorry, Kelso. You have some competition.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Maybe if you just went all sports bra, all the time, Kiefer would leave your SuperUniBoob alone?”—GoJulesGo


Identity Theft at Its Finest

Last week I went to the local Social Security Administration to get a card with my new last name.

Itwas great people watching. A man told the security guard he was stepping outside to smoke because smoking inside would damage the electronics. Seriously? How about damaging my lungs?

My favorite was a middle-aged Russian woman.

If you’ve never been to the SSA, just imagine your local MVA. You get a number and sit around waiting to be called—hopefully before you die from starvation. Two signs are posted everywhere:

  • The security guard cannot answer any questions.
  • Numbers are often called out of order because SSA workers specialize in certain areas.

So what does the possibly Russian lady do? She asks the security guard about numbers being called out of order of course.

Lady: My number is 110, and they already called 111. Did they skip me?

My number is 111, and I have not been called yet.

Security Guard: Ma’am, sometimes numbers are called out of order. I’m sure you’ll be called soon. The person who will help you is probably just finishing up with someone else.

Lady: But my appointment was 20 minutes ago.

Five minutes later, the lady and the security guard run through the same conversation.

A few minutes later, a worker steps out and calls a name.

SSA Worker: Bueller? ::pause:: Bueller? (Obviously, it wasn’t really Bueller.)

Lady: ::says nothing::

SSA Worker: Bueller?

Lady: ::says nothing::

Security Guard: ::pointing to Russian lady:: That’s her.

Maybe the worker pronounced “Bueller” wrong, or maybe the lady was hard of hearing, but that seemed sketchy. The lady didn’t know her own name. Am I the only person who sees that as a red flag?

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “If only you had kept your legs together, Thoughtsy, we wouldn’t be in this predicament! Ps. YAY secretly I hope it’s a girl too. Boys = gross.”—Daile


With This Ring…

Only one thing stinks from Kiefer and I’s wedding: no pictures…yet.

We tried to keep our wedding on a budget, but we splurged on our photographers. They edit every single photo and then give us ALL of the photos.

But we won’t get to see those photos for a couple months. Lucky for us, our friends took some pictures.

Here are the highlights:

Boo walked me down the aisle.

Kiefer and I said our vows, and then we joined hands with Boo and Radley for some family words. The officiant said something along the lines of “May your life be full of…,” which ended with  Radley adding, “And lots of sweets!”

Of course. there was a kiss.

The boys exited with a jump…

And then I took a more graceful exit.

#5 on the 35 Before 35 List complete!

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I remember my wife, when she was 8 months pregnant, bursting into tears and angrily telling me I could go off with THAT WOMAN if I REALLY WANTED TO. I’d just ordered some drinks from the barmaid in the pub.”—RuralSpaceMan


How to Get Pregnant: Buy a Too-Small Dress

When I bought my wedding dress, I was not pregnant. Therefore, I was able to squeeze my then-tiny-self into a size 6. It was snug, but it worked. It was also the only size available.

Then…I got pregnant.

I’m sure I got pregnant because I bought a small wedding dress. If the store had had a size 8, I’d have bought that, and I can pretty much guarantee I would not have gotten pregnant.

This pregnancy is in no way related to Kiefer and I using the “whatever happens happens” birth control method. Obviously not related.

When my mom and I went to my first alterations appointment, the seamstress alluded that my dress might not be able to be let out enough to accomodate my changing body. Or as my mom put it on the ride home…

Mom: Thoughtsy, your breasts will not fit in that dress if they get any bigger. And they’re gonna get bigger. You may want to look for a backup dress. Otherwise you’re going to be scrambling for a new dress 3 weeks before your wedding.

What my dress may look like on my wedding day.

My response? I called Kiefer.

Thoughtsy: Kiefer, my mom just called me fat.

 What’s interesting about this is that my dad also called me fat. After Kiefer and I told my dad I was pregnant, he told my mom…

Thoughtsy’s Dad: I thought she might be. When we picked her up from the airport, she wasn’t as anorexic looking as she usually is.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I would have played a game called who can eat cake fastest without a fork. This would give me an excuse to face plant cake in public like I do in private….”—BlissfulBritt