Chub Rub

Yes, you heard me. And you know what I’m talking about. It’s when your shorts are just that wrong size or material so they get stuck between your legs where they climb up into your privacy and bunch there; front wedgie, if you will. It’s also when you have a skirt on and there’s nothing to bunch so it’s just your thighs rubbing together uncomfortably—this involves summertime and aerobic exercise (shorts can take over any time of year but bare skin needs a little assistance). When I Googled “chub rub” I found:

1. Chub-rub

what fat girls experience when their inner-upper thighs rub together so much they get chaffed and rashes break out. It usually is accompanied by sweat and foul odors

I have to say I am a bit offended that UrbanDictionary.com is basically calling me a “fat girl.” And I’m pretty sure it’s “chafed” not “chaffed,” assholes. In my previous experience chub-rub stems from ill-fitting shorts and does not emit foul odors either, but maybe that’s just me. I’d rather skip considering the foul odors if at all possible. Either way if chub-rub occurrence equates to chubbiness then I am getting chubbier. I would like to blame it on the Colorado summer heat but deep down I know I just have to blame it on the baby. And that chocolate crepe I just had. And that I’m still just wearing regular clothes when maybe it’s time to hit the maternity store…my one pair of stretchy-waisted shorts are made of material that really just encourages sweating, which, as we have learned, brings about the chub rub. Alas.

One hot mama

Yep, that’s me. Aren’t I modest? Well, really I’m talking temperature here. I mean, it is about 90 degrees everyday in the summer in Colorado and the sun does add quite a bit so if you are unfortunate enough to have to leave the shade then you really cook, but still, even compared to that, I’m hot. And I’m complaining, because it’s the kind of hot that really slows me down. If you know me, then you know I don’t like impediments. Sometimes I have to stop and just take a deep breath to try to get oxygen all the way down in my lungs; Hubby, bless him, says “You alright?” every time he catches me doing it. What I want to say sometimes is “not really, can’t you just take over this job for a few days?” but what I end up saying is “yeah, just uncomfortable.” Hey, they’re both honest answers so I just go with the kinder one. And I still get some sympathy.

It’s hard to really say if my core temperature is higher than everyone else’s (as the books tell me it is) but I am definitely starting to feel that way. Actually, it wouldn’t be hard to pull out our thermometer and find out, but I don’t care that much. I’m not a big deodorant person, but it’s looking like I might have to become one. It’s also getting on my nerves that certain activities are becoming more difficult i.e. all physical activities. I do have a good excuse to slow down though, which I never had before. Now I can come in last and blame it on the baby.

Gimme, Gimme!

It’s registry time! The grandparents-to-be are swarming us with gift ideas, asking what to tell their friends about gift ideas, and generally getting on us to become “prepared.” What, you don’t just bring home a baby from the hospital and wing it? Dang.

Registries are very fun and very, very awkward. Why should we presume people will buy us gifts? And on top of that, why do we get to tell them what to buy us? Who do we think we are, anyway? Well, as awkward, and I would say even rude, as they feel (maybe it’s just me?), we are putting one together. If someone wants to help us out then we should let them know how, if they’re interested. (If they are buying us a gift I assume they are interested…but anyway.) Something about it just feels really wrong though. Like you get to actually tell Santa what you want for Christmas and he might listen.

The fun part, though, is really fun. I would say it’s half the thrill-factor (we can ask for anything we want?) and half the procrastination-factor that make it so enjoyable. Don’t want to do work? Check on the registry instead. Changed your mind about that pea-green jumpsuit? Go change its color! The wonderful, wonderful World Wide Web can honestly make anything happen. Probably I’ll register for a Wii (I guarantee some baby store has them), new skis, and a cable subscription just because it is possible someone would buy those for us. And if they don’t, I’m not any worse off am I?

Ps. www.myregistry.com lets you complete a “lifestyle” registry. This means you need absolutely no reason for asking for gifts other than you have a “lifestyle.” I told you it was amazing!

Independence Days

I am starting to feel that every day until this baby comes should be considered an independence day; can we get some sparklers and BBW up in here? I can still do whatever the heck I want and nobody can stop me (that’s right Hubby). For example, today, we went for a hike. We took a while to get motivated, choose a route, get in the car, and figure out which trail to take—but it didn’t matter because nobody could complain. Nobody had to go to the bathroom two minutes after we passed the outhouse (well, except for me, but I’m in charge so that doesn’t count). Nobody got hungry just because it was lunch time (well, probably the dog but what’s new). Nobody cried for no reason (again, except for me, but that was yesterday). Looking back, it was a glorious care free day of celebrating our nation’s birth. Fireworks were cancelled due to amazing rainstorms, but we watched a movie, ate something delicious, and putzed around the house. And we got the movie at RedBox, where again nobody was more important than our [my] decision between Leonardo diCaprio and Johnny Depp, and there wasn’t even a store clerk to pester us. In case you care, Leo won this time, but not without several minutes of re-reading the blurbs, double-checking the ever-important looks of the cover, and finally just deciding on Leo because part of that one was filmed in Boston where we used to live. Hey, I’ve had enough serious deciding from what stinkin’ diapers to buy for the next three years. Independence days, I salute you every second until…you know.