A prescription for steak and BJs

Another three weeks have gone by and today was another OB appointment. This visit was markedly different in that at least I was in and out in under 30 minutes. I think that has to be a new record (hooray free parking!). I'm the same weight as three weeks ago (189) and my blood pressure has gone down to "are you sure you're pregnant?" normal versus just normal (104/67). Everything is very much in order. It seems I can't have a doctor's appointment, though, without at least something getting on my nerves. Each visit I realize more and more how much I dislike dietitians.

On the one hand, they tell me that the hormones affect my blood sugar and certain things are out of my control so I just have to do the best I can. And on the other hand, the dietitian wants desperately to prove her worth by giving me some suggestion to change so that I feel like I'm getting my money's worth.

There are two dietitians I deal with, Georgia and Marilyn. Georgia is the one that "doesn't like my numbers" and complains about my refusal to user their precious log book. At least she's consistent. Marilyn's theme seems to be one of protein. That's all she can talk about is that I need to have protein with every snack. I'm basically forbidden from eating something unless it also has protein in it.

Marilyn: "I see you ate a banana here. What is this about?" (Seriously, she said that, like it was an episode of CSI: Uterus.) Me: "Uh, we were walking out the door and I hadn't eaten in a few hours so I grabbed a banana." Marilyn: "But you didn't eat any protein with it. That will make your blood sugar high." Me: "I was walking out the door! I don't keep a jar of peanut butter in our car's center console." Marilyn: "Well, you know you need protein with every snack and meal."

I'm supposed to have a minimum of 60g of protein a day. Really, as a "high risk" pregnancy, the books would like me to get as much as 100g a day. That number seems impossible to me. If I eat a burger from Five Guys or a Chick-fil-a sandwich, that's 30g. But Marilyn is not satisfied unless she can see each time I ate something, I had at least one serving of protein. What's ridiculous is if I write down that I had almonds, she's satisfied even though there are only 3g of protein in that serving. She wants to see protein on every line that shows food going into my body.

I just cracked open the dreaded diet section of the "What to Expect" book (which I've been largely ignoring because that book is pretty much an encyclopedia of Things That Will Kill Your Baby Dead). It says, "to get your 100 grams, all you have to do is eat a total of four servings of Protein Foods from the Best-Odds Food Selection Groups." They then provide a handy list. Their list includes servings such as 5 (!) eggs or 3 (!) cups of milk or 1/2 cup of Parmesan cheese. Who eats like that every day?!

As I review what I've eaten the last week, I can see where I could have chosen items that had more protein in them, but it doesn't seem to matter if that's what I want to eat. It's enough to make me cry (then again, certain cleaning product commercials are enough to make me cry). I'm all about telling the Internet to go to hell with its advice on what I should and shouldn't be eating. But this lady is in my face and tsk-tsking me every three weeks about it.

My new plan is to start logging blow jobs in my diabetes journal. The Internet says those provide the same amount of protein as an egg. (God bless the Internet.) The next time we're rushing out the door and I don't have time to grab a handful of almonds, we'll just have to have some auto shenanigans to keep my blood sugar in check. It's for the baby, of course.

It certainly beats choking down a Parmesan cheese egg smoothie once a day.

Recap of 5th Living Out Loud project: personal folklore

Another month has passed and it's time to recap another collection of Living Out Loud projects. This past month, we delved into the subject of personal folklore. Without further ado, I give you our list of participants: Deb's Swimsuits, Punchlines and Trenches The punchline and trenches analogies are ones I could see using in my own life all the time. I also think it's a great way to smile over too less than pleasant circumstances. :)

Oriana's Folklore of a smart-@$$ father Reading this pleased me a lot to see all the smiles after having heard about all the sadness from her dad's passing recently. I also was reminded of the Halloween skeleton on the Oldcastle's front door shortly after Gyrth's amputation where one boney appendage had been trimmed to match. :)

Ben's Cangragolasis! Ben gave a veritable encyclopedia of his family's language! It's an etymological treasure trove and one that I look forward to expanding on ourselves as we get our own little talker soon.

Megan's Suck It Up Sometimes we say things and instantly regret it. Other times we say things and everything becomes clear. I can totally imagine the cringing at first followed by the satisfaction.

Rich's PORN!!! This is one of my all time favorite stories about his family ever. Who knew how much pornography could bring a family together?

and my own My mother, the sailor

This project was a bit more relaxing and fun for me than previous months and I hope you enjoy what we have all produced. If these entries have inspired you, feel free to create some of your own at your leisure or comment on those that spark memories.

I've decided that Deb wins this month because of all of the entries, I could see adding punchlines and trenches into my vocabulary basically immediately after reading about them. Deb will receive a $25 gift certificate to Threadless.com because I think their t-shirts are clever just like her entry. And as Deb is a new participant, she's added to the ranks of celebrities in our LOL members!

As always, stay tuned for the next theme in our Living Out Loud project repertoire!

My mother, the sailor

Since my father plays such a prominent role on this site, I decided to give Mom a little time for this latest Living Out Loud project. When my mother was a teenager (in the mid-50s as it were), she spent a bit of time on the phone. Being the mid-50s, they only had one phone that sat on a phone table (remember those?) in the hall with a chair next to it. My uncle is five years older than her and was still living at home at the time (or was at least around an awful lot even if he had his own place). As my mother chatted away, Jack walked by and being the older brother casually put his finger on the receiver to hang up the phone as he passed.

Those of you who have met my mother know her to be the most patient person on the planet and not someone prone to outbursts or rage. But something in her snapped that day and she picked up the ashtray from the phone table (one of those dark green lead crystal numbers from days of yore) and winged it at his head. As it narrowly missed his skull and took a chunk out of the door molding, she called him a "fucking asshole."

At that moment my grandfather (who spent many years in the Navy) bellowed her name from the living room. He called her in and in his most serious tone said, "Jesus! I don't know where in the hell you get your goddamn language from!"

My mother just looked at him blankly and then walked off to enjoy the irony herself.

As I have married a man who apparently took a class in the Army on how to fit the most curse words into casual conversation, we ourselves have used the "I don't know where in the hell you get your goddamn language from" line on many occasions.