Donut Pants to Go With My Muffin Top

Now that Scout weighs 13 pounds, I discovered carrying Scout in one arm and holding up my maternity pants with the other would soon no longer be feasible.

With 15 pregnancy pounds still lingering, mostly in my hips and thighs, I went shopping for new clothes.

I just came home with jeans and shorts, but I’m considering going back for these doughnut pants.

Not feeling the doughnuts? There were cheeseburger pants as well.

Please tell me you’ve seen someone wearing these or something similar.

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More Snow? Screw TP! We Need Booze!

You’ve probably heard about the crazy cold weather we’ve been experiencing this winter.

Because expected snowfall maps in inches have been done to death, this is the new snow map:

I live in the “15 cases” region. Since I’m pregnant, this map makes me a little sad. I haven’t found a hot chocolate equivalent map.

But we have ice cream and Girl Scout cookies, so we’ll be fine.

Up until this point, the snow we’ve gotten has been manageable. Sure, the kids haven’t had a full week of school since Thanksgiving, but inchwise, we haven’t gotten more than 6-8 inches of snow with each storm.

All of that changes today. I can no longer see the tires on Kiefer’s car. That’s how much we have right now, and it’s still coming down. How tall are Honda Accord tires?

What does that mean exactly?

It means bread, milk, and TP will be worth more than gold for the next few days.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Have you considered dressing like that for the remainder of the pregnancy?”—Omawarisan

Casper the Positive-Energy Ghost

When Kiefer and I bought our house, we knew there was…a history.

The house was built in the 1930s, but the most recent owner had a sad story. Her daughter died in a car accident, and her son was so distraught he committed suicide. And who knows what happened before they lived there.

When a friend came to visit, she walked in and said…

Friend: Oooo…do you feel that?

Thoughtsy: What?

Friend: There’s something here. But don’t worry: it’s good.

Another friend said, “The house has an energy, but it’s a positive energy. The lady who lived here was so nice. And don’t worry: the boy didn’t die in the house.”

Fantastic. Why can’t our house have no energy?

Kiefer has had a lot of fun with “the energy.”

Kiefer: Where are my socks? The ghost moved them! Why is there a wet towel on the bed? Did you hear that knocking? The ghost is trying to communicate.

Thoughtsy: Jerk….

Ghosts don’t shower and throw their towels on the bed. Little boys do.

A few nights, when I’ve woken up to pee, the bookcase lights in the baby’s room have been on. It’s just a touch pad on the shelf that I’m sure Esme Kitty plays with and turns on, but it’s still freaky at 1 in the morning.

Then last night…::shines flashlight on face::…after Kiefer and I went to bed, Esme started hissing. Hissing like I’ve never heard her hiss before.  And not just 1 or 2 hisses, she went on and on.

Ozzy Pups was laying at the bottom of our bed, so he wasn’t tormenting her.

Thoughtsy: Kiefer! Something’s wrong. Esme’s hissing.

Kiefer: Huh?

I got up only to see that Kiefer had fallen back asleep. I flipped on every light switch I passed on my search for Esme. Ozzy Pups woke up and came with me.

We found Esme sitting calmly on the back of the recliner in the living room. I gave her a few pets before heading back to bed.

Positive energy doesn’t make cats hiss.

Hot As Balls—Yeah, I Said It

Last week I had to get up earlier than usual was late to work because I had to scrape frost off my windshield. This week…I’m wondering if I’d get fired for taking off my pants.

Seriously.

I’m hot. And not sexy hot. I’m sweaty hot. And not glistening sweaty. I’m I-think-I-just-wet-my-underoos-no-that’s-just-sweat sweaty.

That’s how hot it is. I don’t even care how embarrassing it is to share with you that my thighs have soaked my undies. To dry them, I’m sitting spread-eagle at my desk…in a dress. Classy.

My legs scream “Open for Business,” but I don’t care.

While we’re I’m sharing, although I have a cold water bottle behind my neck, I really want to shove it down the front of my dress.

Apparently, switching on the AC requires a gazillion different approvals plus a dead body, so yesterday and again today we’re all sitting inside a 90-degree building….crying because no one would sacrifice themselves to the AC gods.

Ok, so maybe I was the only one actually crying. But only half of the time. The other half of the time I was begging for a Channing Tatum-look-a-like cabana boy to fan me.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I used to have an apartment where there was a small access panel (to the bath plumbing) in my bedroom. The first guy I showed it to swore that was where the trolls live. I never opened it, just to be sure.”—BluzDude

Searching For My Lost Shaker of Salt

Today is February 22: National Margarita Day!

Because today isn’t a holiday (It obviously should be.), I have to wait until after work to partake in some sugary-rimmed goodness.

Let’s right. I said it: Sugar rim. I choose sugar over salt. But really…does that surprise you?

After work, I’ll be enjoying a margarita-filled girls’ night out. If you’re nearby, feel free to join me. If you’re not nearby, fly out. Enter “GETDRUNKWITHTHOUGHTSY” in the coupon code box for a discounted ticket.

If you can’t make it, you must hate me I completely understand. Instead check out Vesta’s cocktail hour at The Cowardly Feminist.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Nothing wrong with living with your mom! Sensible young man, saving money for his future.”—Jill Pinnella Corso