The Phlebotomist

We went to the doctor yesterday, and I think it was an appointment just to see if we were still alive. The doctor popped in, said hi, reaffirmed that the Posette is indeed still pregnant, and then sent in a phlebotomist to draw some blood.*

*The blood screen will tell us if the LP potentially has any number of horrible diseases. But no bigeee, she will call us in a week if anything turns up. Otherwise, we are not to worry. Yeah, this seems like an effective plan. Now, all I can think about is whether the doctor is going to call. I've got an underdeveloped sense of worry, but I think this was just a test designed to push the limits of my underdevelopment.

The phlebotomist at our doctor's office is a bit too perky, especially for someone who is going to literally take the essence of life from my wife's body. She kicked off her routine by mocking anyone who is afraid of needles as a big baby, and an unfit parent. Suck it up, girl.

Then, she had this actual exchange with the Posette:

"You're not scared, are you?"

"No, this is hardly the worst thing that will happen to me."

"Yes, the worst thing that can happen to you is having children."

/awkwardsilence

She then resumed her attack on those big whiners who don't want to give blood.

All in all, a good doctor's appointment. We were given a dose of unreasonable worry that should last us a week, told that having children is the worst thing that will ever happen to us, and then I stole a lollipop.

Really happy I went to that appointment. When do we get to do fun stuff like find out the sex of the baby? Because coming in to watch the Posette become a pin cushion is not nearly as fun as you would think.

Operation Ghostbusters

Long time, no blog.

We have three pets: Elvis, who you've met; Opus, the Official Cat of the Posette; and Ernest, the Official Snake of the Posette (or the most chill pet ever). The three have always eyed each other warily, spending as little time together as possible.

Elvis has attempted to befriend Opus in his own inimitable way: by jumping up right next to Opus and barking in his face while furiously wagging his tail. I speak a little Dog, though it's a bit rusty, and I think I translated his barks as:

"HI!! I'M ELVIS!! BE MY FRIEND!!! BE MY FRIEND!! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!?! WE'RE PLAYING CHASE?! I LOVE CHASE!!!"

Opus either storms off or swipes Elvis in the face with his claws. Repeat.

After we brought home the dog, Opus decided he was having none of this, and he retreated into the guest bedroom or as he likes to call it, Opus' Room. Which was fine, it allowed the two animals to leave in peace without killing one another. Elvis literally is trying to kill to Opus with kindness.

It was a good system, but unfortunately, Opus can't keep his room because we only have the one guest room. And we kind of need to turn that into a nursery. Which means booting Opus from his room, cleaning the heck out of it to remove all vestiges of Cat, and then closing the door to keep him out. That was the easy part, though I still need to steam clean the carpet.

No, the difficult part was re-introducing Elvis and Opus. We did our best to make Elvis sleep in his bed, but we lost that battle, and Elvis now sleeps on top of one of us. I'd hate to say he sleeps on the bed, he quite literally sleeps on me. Or, if I'm lucky, the Posette.

Well, now Opus hangs out in our bedroom as well, which means all five of us (the snake is still just chilling out in his terrarium) are in there at night. And Elvis is back to trying to make friends with Opus, who wants to be friends with a dog like you want to be friends with the Ebola virus.

This means even less sleep as usual as Elvis will occasionally wake up at 3 AM and think to himself, "Holy crap! There's a CAT in here! I must now warn my People!" He then starts barking. It's a good system, and I then politely inform Elvis that we are aware of the Cat Situation. He then happily goes back to sleep, secure in the knowledge he has once again earned his keep as the best guard dog on the planet.

Opus then retaliates by peeing on my laundry. Ernest hides in his turtle shell, setting a good example on how to peacefully coexist with others, provided you are separated by a glass wall.

Bill Murray was right, dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria.

Maybe I Should've Gone to Kansas

The Posette’s family has a big card tournament every year in Kansas, which took place this weekend. I thought I was going to have to work, so I stayed home, which sort of sucks. I enjoy her family and I like playing cards. Really, the only drawback is, you know, going to Kansas.

Kansas is not exactly the most happening of states. I wouldn’t say that it sucks, just that Kansas is a little bit slower in pace than I’d like. To each his own, you know? Though I was in Wichita once, and they had a sidewalk display for the Kansas Hall of Fame, and of the six or seven people listed – two were fictional. One, of course, was Dorothy, whose claim to fame is trying to get out of the Technicolor world of Oz and back to Kansas, appropriately shot in black and white.

The other fictional person in the Kansas Hall of Fame was Superman. I hate to break it to Kansas, especially since they devoted so much of their Hall of Fame to people who don’t actually exist, but Superman is not from Kansas. He’s from the planet Krypton, and is the most illegal of illegal aliens. He came over here and took our superhero jobs.

So the Posette, her sister, and her mom drove up to Kansas to lose at cards. I stayed at home to watch college football with Elvis, the Official Dog of Poseur. I hadn’t expected to be at home, so I essentially had 48 hours to do whatever I wanted to do.

This is when I discovered that I simply cannot function without the Posette telling me what to do. Elvis made sure I woke up at a reasonable hour by demanding to go outside, but other than that, I padded around the house without much purpose. On Saturday, I stayed in pajama pants until about 1 PM, when I started to get hungry and realized we had a severe peanut butter and jelly shortage in the house.

I used to be able to function for long stretches without adult supervision, but the Posette has weakened my independent survival skills. I was totally lost without her.

And in about six months, I’m going to be responsible for another human being. I can’t even take care of my own self. I need adult supervision at all times, and pretty soon, I am going to be the adult supervision. That’s just a horrifying thought. I hope the Posette is up to watching two helpless creatures, because that’s my current plan.

World Series Tickets and Proper Etiquette

Sorry, the blog has taken a short holiday as we enjoy the World Series coming to Dallas. The Posette is a huge Rangers fan because her father, being a good dad, properly brainwashed his child to root passionately for his favorite team.

Dads really only have a few clearly delineated duties:

1. Pay the rent/mortgage

2. Make sure your child does not throw a baseball like a European

3. Teach your child the difference between a flathead a Philips head screwdriver

4. Indoctrinate your child into liking your favorite sporting franchises and bands

Aside from keeping them alive, everything else is basically gravy.

The Posette, by the way, can also properly throw a baseball. So well done Father of Posette.

Anyway, the Posette has been pretty much over the moon now that the Rangers are in the Series. It's been pretty much a lifetime of suffering for Rangers fans, so these past two seasons have sort of felt like the culmination of her fandom. She's been punching the clock, and now it's time to receive the reward.

Well, the Posette's mom, the Official Mother-In-Law of Poseur had an extra ticket to Game Three of the World Series. But only one extra ticket.

Now, I'm a pretty big baseball fan and I've never ever been to a playoff game. The Posette and her sister went to the ALCS Game 6 last year, but she had never been to the World Series. So, being the nice guy that I am, I said "sure, honey, you take the ticket."

Rules of relationships state that at this point, she is required to say, "No, honey... you should take it."

Ummm.... yeah. See above and how her father properly indoctrinated his child. That counter-offer never happened. She just said, "Thanks, hon. Oh, and could you pick me up a sweatshirt?"

So, if you're wondering why the Rangers won every game at home except for Game Three -- well, I blame it on a breach of etiquette.

Free Loot!

The Official Mom of Poseur sent me an email today offering to buy us the carseat, stroller, and base combo thingee that is on our baby registry.

The thing is, she didn't want to get it from the place we were registered, probably because my mom can find a deal on just about any item in existence. The woman can shop is what I'm saying. Which is totally cool, why pay more for something if you don't have to?

She's talking about buying us the package and then sending it to us for Christmas, which takes some of the surprise out of Christmas, but that's okay. While the Posette and I are insane Christmas fanatics, the Official Mom of Poseur is a tad more low key about the whole thing.

Still, it's a very cool thing for her to do and we both really appreciate it. I mean, woo hoo! Free stuff! Of course it's okay if she gets it from somewhere else, I don't own stock in the baby supply store. I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Only one thing bothers me about this whole situation...

Until I received that email, I had no idea we even had a baby registry.

Zombies

The Posette and I are sitting on the couch enjoying one of our favorite shows, The Walking Dead. We like the show because it gives us an excuse to talk about our favorite topic: surviving the zombie apocalypse.

We have a lot of the basics down. We know to get out of the city as soon as possible and get to the Ranch where there is well water, good vistas, an already established barbed wire perimeter, MRE's, and of course, guns. I've even learned how to shoot them.

So no matter what happened in our lives, we had that one problem solved. In case of the zombie apocalypse, we knew exactly what to do. You can never be too careful, you know. Our parents think it's silly, but they won't think it's silly when the undead rise and start chewing on their extremities. Have a plan, aim for the head.

However, this show is illuminating perhaps the biggest flaw in our zombie apocalypse preparations: children are remarkably stupid.*

*Actually, we've always had the Elvis Problem. What to do if our dog becomes a zombie dog, or as the Posette calls it, a Zog? I don't even want to think about that.

Now, I'm sure the Little Poseur will be a bright child. OK, I hope so. I have all sorts of plans that involve lots and lots of reading. Hopefully, the LP will be a qualified librarian by age 5. But even if we have the smartest kid ever, there's smart and there is smart for a kid.

Kids are curious. Why shouldn't they be? There's a whole world out there, and they get the chance to discover it. Usually, that's a good thing. But with zombies around? That's bound to get us into trouble.

We also have the problem that instead of just trying to save our own hides, we now will put someone else's interest above our own. I like the Posette a lot, but I believe that she can be counted on to make good decisions which will further her survival, if left to her own devices. The LP, on the other hand, we're gonna have to make those calls for him or her.

The LP is going to be a liability in the zombie apocalypse. It's just going to have to completely change how we plan for this thing. Back to the drawing board, ya know?

Just when you thought you had one thing taken care of, you really don't.

Doctor's Appointment

There's not a much more superfluous thing in the world as a guy at his wife's OB/GYN appointment. We show up to be supportive and have some sort of involvement in the pregnancy, as it's not like we're going to incubate the critter. But really, there's not a whole lot for us to do but sit in the chair in the corner and hold her purse.

Which, let's face it, is a pretty big sacrifice. You know how much we hate holding that thing.

Give a guy a purse to hold. We literally have no idea what to do. It's like giving a monkey a Rubik's Cube. There's a chance we might use the thing correctly, but we're probably going to get bored and throw it somewhere.

There's simply no manly way to hold a purse. You really only have three options. ONE. You can carry it like a football. TWO. You can hold the top of the bag with one hand, holding the bag away from your body as if it contains dog poo. THREE. You can learn telekinesis. You, under no circumstances, should ever touch the straps of a purse or else your arm will become infected with cooties, rot, and fall off. It is not worth the risk.

So, other than holding your purse, we just sit there in the corner and try not to cry like a little girl when they draw blood from you. Seriously, needles freak me out. You're on your own on that front.

Glad to be of support, hon. You are welcome.