Knocked Up: Daddy's a Label Whore

Peanut has more clothes than I do currently. One friend has given us the aforementioned plethora of pink and another two friends have more stuff for us as well.

My mom has also been going shopping like mad, to the point where I had to tell her to leave some stuff in my registry for the rest of the family to buy.

And Mon Amour and I went to get the list of stuff that the birth clinic wants us to bring. Imagine my delight at discovering H&M had cute baby stuff that wasn't limited to pink and blue at reasonable prices. It was at this point that I discovered Mon Amour is just a wee bit of a label whore and wanted to get everything from the more pricey Prenatal (PINK EVERYWHERE). His argument was that Prenatal us specifically for babies & kids, therefore more trustworthy.

As he's in the full throes of Daddy Anxiety, I bit my tongue and didn't show him the labels with "Made in China" all over everything. Daddy is also allowed to buy his little princess pink things (for now - ha).

I did find this however:

Perfect, no?

Knocked Up - Waddling Land Whale

And so we've reached T minus 3 months and I already feel enormous. Sitting for too long hurts, walking for too long hurts, and I have to literally roll myself out of bed. I'm on track weight-wise but man, there is a reason why I am limiting weighing myself to the doc's office visits only; I've never seen those numbers on my scale before and it freaks me out just a little.

I'm so pregnant looking that people are giving us the preggo perks - cutting in line, giving up their seats, etc. By and by large it's been other women, and I always want to fist bump them and say "Props, sistah!" But on the other side of the coin, it's always women who will studiously look out the window as they sit in the designated elderly/preggo seats on the bus as I hang on to the pole next to them or who barrel down the sidewalk expecting me to hustle out of our shared trajectory when I have the agility of a turtle flipped upside down on its back.

I have fun staring these people down with a "Yo momma didn't teach you any manners, did she?" look. Bitchy preggo is bitchy.

The leg swelling has abated somewhat, but the heartburn and acid reflux have returned, beginning punctually at 11pm and waking me up throughout the night, if I'm lucky and it just doesn't keep me up straight through.

I guess Peanut is getting in some early training for the sleepless nights ahead :P

In other non-preggo news, I never want to hear the words "butt plug" and "spreader bar" come out of my mother's mouth again. Thanks a lot, 50 Shades of Grey...gah.

Waiting for an update?

So per usual, am rather busy. In addition to the usual stuff, though, I moving into some uncharted territory as well.

Yo, I'm engaged.

There was no big proposal, merely a discussion* initiated by him about desired particulars of one's dream wedding. And if I was being graded, I would have totally failed Girly Girl 101 as the only wedding-type thing I ever contemplated growing up was that I wanted to wear a tutu (complete with pointe shoes) as my wedding dress. Obviously this was from the Bunhead Years, and just seems rather idiotic now.

So discussion was made, and I knew it was really official when the next day he told me The Lads wished us well.

My new Boss is a Total Bitch and Other Snippets from the Front

The two of you that actually read Favoloso Mondo might be wondering about the latest news in this galaxy of slack that is this blog. So as I'm totally slacking today, here's a helping of quickies of news since erm, December. (Slack slack slack. Or not...)

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So we've established that the Henchwoman was visiting in November. Three weeks later the majority of SO's family came to visit; his older brother for a week, and his youngest sister and father for around a month. There were times I was really thankful that I don't understand [insert language that isn't Italian or English here], namely during family arguments, and other times were I would rapidly stop wondering if they were talking about me and instead would be bored off my Keister.

We've also established that his Dad's a wee perv. There were a few times when his family slept at my place as we would have dinners there (being bigger). He perved on all of my flatmates. Subtly, but it was definitely perving.

We had to warn the girls that SO's dad was prone to nightly bathroom excursions that didn't involve A) locking the door (as he's not a generally well man and thus keeps unlocked doors for safety reasons) and B)turning on the lights. So there was a distinct possibility of my flatmates walking in on an elderly pissing perv.

...The Highlights of Which Included...

... an off-hand comment by (an inebriated) Ma which still makes me cringe this morning.

"Marco Bevecomeunaspugna is cute. Too bad he's so young."

Realising your mother is considering hitting on your SO's best friend at your 30th birthday party: cringe inducing.

Realising said friend might be egging her on: Holy incestuous fuck, Batman.

That's just wrong somehow.

Sesso e La Città Eterna: Mid-Coital Muttering Deja Vu

I fondly remember my full on freak out over the SO's mid-coital Declaration of Luuuuv. I had naturally asked Curly for the male point of view regarding Mid-Coital Mutterings.

"So just how serious are Mid-Coital Mutterings in general? Are we talking 99.9% Grade-A Prime Bullshit resulting from a severe lack of blood loss to the brain? Is it the little head talking for the big head, spouting off what it hopes is verbal lube? Or am I in for some major trouble with Shithead wanting to get serious?"

"Well, the lack of blood to the brain does tend to make one rather uninhibited..."

"Which means?"

"You are so fucked."

Ah. Memories. So pleasant & humorous in retrospect.

If I thought I was fucked before, Saturday's Mid-Coital Mutterings indicate I am about to be fucked DVDA* stylee:

Volgio sposarti

Go on. Stick that little phrase into Babblefish. I'll wait for you to come back.

Back?

I'm fucked, right?

Once again I turned to Curly for advice, this time via SMS.

"remember the freak out I had over SO declaring his love for me mid-shag? This time he said he wants to marry me. I'm fucked aren't I?"

"Shall I book your ticket to ________** now? When are you gonna learn to shove a sock in his mouth before doing the horizontal mambo? Did you say 'I doh' ?"***

"Oh shit. I was too busy having an orgasm to say 'I doh'. The sock idea is good - might use that out of bed too. Oh shit oh shit oh shit."

Like that wasn't enough, it seems like everyone has marriage on the brain. We were at Marco Bevecomeunaspugna's place enjoying the new barbeque grill yesterday with his partner & their adorable little girl when the subject of marriage came up - more specifically "When are you going to get married, SO?" Thank Dog dusk managed to cover my flushing red cheeks.

To top it all off, I called my dad for Father's day yesterday.

"Hey Dad. Happy Father's Day"
"Long Lost Daughter! How are you?"
"Eh, good."
"Anything new in Rome?"
"Not really. Same shit, different day."
"Gotcha. Just the normal Colosseum, Pope, ancient ruins.."
"Heh. Basically. Though the Pope is new."
"True. So are you engaged?"
"WHAT?!"
"Well, just thought I'd throw stuff out there & see what stuck."

Jesus F. Christ, y'all. It's a goddamned conspiracy.

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* If you don't know what that stands for, be forewarned that a Google search is going to give you some seriously explicit porn
** For another entry, but the SO has been making noises about moving to a different country
*** 'I doh' is an inside joke between Curly & I from waaaay back when. SO had seen a message from Curly, who predictably had made some smartarsed comment about SO, me, & saying 'I do'. SO didn't understand the reference, and, as I hemmed & hawed trying to avoid explaining the English version of wedding vows, asked Curly what 'I doh' meant.

TAG!

TAG! - Verbal pingo-pong of the sisterly kind.

Welcome to our little web-experiment. She's gonna disown me in a week, I bet.

Mwah sis

No Place for Sibling Rivalry...

...she says it better than I can.

And yes, i've always been jealous of her Aunt Betty nose, even though if memory serves correct I would ruthlessly tease her about the Betty shnoz.

I have got to stop crying at work dammit.

Thus Spake the Henchwoman

The Resident Dictator's Henchwoman aka DerMiddleSis* has fallen prey to the gaping blackhole that is blogging.

One of Us! One of Us!

Go on. Check out Tree Swinger - you know you want to.

*No officer, I haven't been in Germany nor Austria recently. Why do you ask?

Back in the USSRUSA

Home for the holidays does not apply here. Home is Rome, ergo I ain't at home right now. But a visit to see the fam was in order, if only to ensure my continued presence in my parents' wills (yo, I'm joking sis)

Let me just say that it's no fucking wonder why Delta is on the verge of bankruptcy. 1.5 meals with no free wine on a 10 hour flight is not my idea of service. The plane hadn't even been retrofitted with those nifty headrest TVs. And when the cost of alcohol is not adjusted for various currencies, it tends to piss me off. Four dollars DOES NOT equal four Euros, you greedy, grasping little fucks.

Add to that the eternal joy to be found in a 15 minute late arrival, watching one cart of the flight's luggage arrive, waiting twenty minutes for your bag to be unloaded so that you may proceed through customs to recheck your bag domestically, and then sprinting to the other fucking end of the airport so that you can make your connecting flight with literally 3 minutes to spare and you have a customerformer customer who will be frolicking on your corporate grave when you finally go tits up.

I'm not even going to describe my infinite loathing for the Department of Homeland Security posters at border control.

Reason #669 Why I Have a First Class Ticket to Hell Waiting for me

Vidiot's comment in this AskMe thread gave me a brief flashback to my twin half brothers' baptism 6 years ago.

Middle Sis & I hadn't set foot in a church for quite some time. The church was of a rather large modern design and, with only a small group of people to view a baker's dozen worth of babes being baptised, very echo-y.

We both turned to each other in horrified amusement, the same whispered comment erupting out of our mouths at the same time:

"Did he just say he was going to annoint their foreheads with the Sacramental Jism?!"

Greed is Good

My middle sis is coming to visit me in the early part of November, which is
So.
Fucking.
Cool.

as it's been, um, almost three years since I've seen her. She's visited once before, but it was with my mom and our other younger sister, who is not of age to legal participate in our nocturnal activities (well, she would be of age here, but Mom and Dad would Kick My Ass, Disown Me, and then Kill Me Just For Good Measure. All capitalisation intentional).

(oy scurvy wench! Flight times would be nice. Hint Hint. :-P)

So this time around it's her and me for 10 days with the spoils of Rome spread out at our feet. Dio aiuta i romani.

Sisterly hijinx may or may not get blogged here; it sort of depends on the strength of the hangovers. And the presence of photographic evidence.

GUEST ENTRY by RD'S HENCHWOMAN

(because the resident dictator is busy)

Being short makes me laugh.

Case in point:

Like almost everyone in my family, I am of small stature. Read: almost midget-like. A whole whopping 5 feet and 1 inch. Ordinarily, I am super fine with this. I can always maneuver my way through a crowd like a hot knife through butter, and it's very easy to tell when a guy is looking at my tits and not my face (I'm not THAT short). Besides, if I feel like being tall I'll just strap some heels on. But the one situation I can never outsmart is a very heel-unfriendly large concert.

As a result of some serious ass-busting at work, I was given box seats to a concert last night. Pearl Jam, to be specific. (Who, by the way, freaking ROCKED. Never have I been so turned on by a voice. I finally get the phone sex thing now. Oh yeah, and the music was phenomenal as
well.) Anyhoo, the "box seats" at the venue are just that, seats with a box around them. No elevation, which proved to be a problem. There are other amenities, like nice cushiony chairs and a waitress to fetch your beers and food. But she was nonexistent and who the heck sits at a concert anyway?

So, of course, the 6 foot 5 football players are standing right in front of out seats. Normally not a problem, you just look through the gap between their heads and that's that. These guys were really feelin' it, though, for the whole show. I mean REALLY. They danced the entire time, and not in the head-bobbin', rawk-on way most concert-goers dance. They were Johnny Rockstars, weavin' and shakin' and in general providing some great entertainment to the one they stood in front of...me. Just imagine these two fellas, now picture some lil shorty behind them swaying along so she could get a glimpse of Mr. Sexypants himself, Eddie Vedder. It was a good workout. My thighs and calves are loving life today.

I'm not upset or anything - still got to see PJ for the first time ever and for free to boot. And it's one of those things you'll never forget.

I guess there are always elevator shoes for future concerts. Either that or I'll show my tits and get backstage.

Color Me REALLY FUCKING Disturbed

My first name and my father's first name begin with the same letter. A female acquaintance of his has apparently mistaken my Hotmail address for my father's.

Nothing explicit, merely implied, but still, there are some mental images a girl should not have where her father is concerned. Which brings me to another disturbing thought:

My Hotmail account is 99.99999% spam. I don't use it for correspondence any more, though I occasionally peruse the spam folder just to make sure some long lost correspondent doesn't slip through the cracks. Of said spam, a lot of it is for a demographic that I am not a part of: the fat, horny, under-endowed, paranoid, balding and married-about-to-be-divorced demographic.

Let's see here:

It's A Girl Thing

There is no term for a phobia of hairdressers.

At least a cursory search of Google doesn't come up with one. There should be a term, however, as at the supposedly rational age of 26, I am scared shitless of hairdressers. I will go for a full year without dragging myself into a salon. And this phobia I can, with no qualms of guilt whatsoever, blame on my childhood. Mom was a hairdresser.