Good Tuesday morning. I've been a bad blogger. However, no deed goes without some serious finger pointing. I would like to blame the following people for my absence:

Jobthingy: She made me have breakfast with her yesterday when I could have been here, writing out something shallow and mundane.

The Madre: Who calls every two seconds and asks where her blog is. Apparently anything I do is owned by my mother for all eternity.

The Sister: She invited me out to her place to watch a movie with her and The Madre last night. They tempted me with good cheese, pate and crackers. I'm way too much of a snob to pass that up. It's like playing a game of 'fetch' with Britney Spears and a Prada bag. BTW, what's up with her calling her son 'Sutton'? Can she even properly pronounce that name? Or is it going to sound like Suh-'in? Ew.

InUtero Boy: For having not emerged from his pod of evil yet. The pod is growing quite old and is about as stretched as it can possibly get. Pictures to come. It's not a pretty sight, though. You've been forwarned.

Thac0/Impossible Mom (I shall call her the latter from now on) and other phone friends: For calling me and asking me how I'm doing. How dare you? You take up precious blog time. But please don't think that not calling me will fix this little problem. I will grow resentful if you don't call, too, because that means you don't love me. You just can't win this one, ok?

Life and everyone in it: For generally making me tired, running me ragged and helping me have something to blame other than the fact that, once upon a time (about nine months ago) I had unprotected sex. Screw you all (with protection - I am NOT doing this again.)

So, in short, you have no one to blame but yourselves. I hope you learned a valuable lesson today, kids: pregnant women can blame anyone for anything.

There are two reasons for this:

1. Pregnant women are very good at playing victim. We may lose most of our thought process to "placenta brain", but we instinctively can still find fault with others.
2. People are less likely to smack a pregnant women for being the enraged harpy she often is. By the time we've had the baby, we're too pathetic and tired for anyone to feel right exacting the much-anticipated beating.

I should really start charging for my advice. You know, yesterday I watched the stupid Dr. Phil House or whatever he likes to call it, and I have to say that I could give much better advice than he could and would charge less for it (just enough to cover my expensive cheese/pate/cracker fetish). If you haven't been following the series, this couple is the most 'volatile' Dr. Phil claims to have ever seen. He practically stalks her, she gets restraining orders, they call each other names in front of the kids, she hurts the kids when she's angry and has had a series of affairs over their marriage. Heck, their entire relationship started as an affair.

Dr. Phil has been giving them a bit of advice, but mostly just letting them fight on camera to boost raitings. I have to admit, it's addictive to watch these two scrap it out. However, I wouldn't have been able to contain myself when dealing with these two. My simple solution would be this:

Go home and give custody of your children to relatives. They deserve better care than you give them. But, you should stay together. If you're stupid enough to do all that stuff, you deserve it each other. Wife, if you could stop having affairs that would be great. By remaining in this unhealthy relationship, you effectively take yourselves out of the gene pool. I'd like to thank you on behalf of the world at large.

I bet they'd feel better about themselves after that little bit of therapy. They could keep doing what they obviously love and I could collect my big, fat paycheque and have more idiotic people on my show who must surely know that I'm about to tell them how moronic they are in front of a large, international audience.

Dr. Phil has a sweet job.

Today is prenatal day. I get to tell my doctor how miserable I am and how this itching needs to stop, like, NOW, so I can only have sleep deprivation, contractions and a terrible outlook on life in general. Tomorrow will mark the time in pregnancy when I went into labour with Gutsy. Why do I have a feeling that this guy is going to take longer to cook? How dare he throw me off like that? Does he not realize that this pregnancy is all about me and that I'm rather sick of it right now and therefore it's time for him to come out?

Speaking of which, The Madre is on thin ice these days. She's not letting me complain. In fact, she calls to see how I'm doing and if I say much of anything besides 'Oh mother! Isn't the circle of life amazing? I just love my beautiful, full belly with the precious little life growing inside of it. And, while excited to meet him, I know he'll come in his own time and I'm perfectly content to let him sit in there and gestate longer while I knit him booties and hats' she reminds me that it's not about me, it's about the baby. She'll also bring up that she's sick and has been for years and I don't hear her complain much, do I?

Well, first of all, Madre, did you not see what I said two paragraphs up? It is about me. All about me. ME. ME ME ME ME ME ME! La la la la I can't hear yooooouuuuu!!!

...Ahem.

Also, about this 'being sick' thing. It's just your stomach.

And heart.

And, um, lungs.

So it's not like you're really sick, right? Your liver still works. Oh! And your kidneys. Yes. And you have TWO of those that are functional, even. I bet your colon's looking pretty good these days, too. Ten toes, ten fingers... I don't know if I'd say you're "sick", necessarily.

...

(I'm not just going to hell. I'm going to the sub-floor beneath hell, where they put the people who could corrupt the rest of the souls in hell with their big mouths and nasty dispositions.)

Anyway, the Madre calls me yesterday morning while I'm on my way to get a latte with Jobthingy. She starts going on about being positive and all that other smack that mothers talk (my children will attest to this). So I do what any mature, thirty-year-old woman does. I hand the cell phone to JobThingy and say 'Here, you talk to her.' Thinking that will end the nightmare.

Instead, they start laughing about me. My mother - my own mother! - informs JobThingy that I will have this baby, then breastfeed him 'until he's ten' and complain about that, too. Meahwhile, JobThingy's in stitches and saying how she should get The Madre's phone number and stop by to visit her.

Good thing JobThingy bought my latte to reduce my resentment level of her. The Madre, on the other hand, still owes me at least a coffee and some chocolate.

Alright, must run (limp) upstairs and see who called five minutes ago. I can't make mad dashes to the phone and I keep forgetting to bring it down with me. I must find someone to blame for that, too.

Oh, and fireman pics! One and two . I'm rather disappointed with how they came out. The guy is cute, but he talks too much apparently. I couldn't very well ask him to pose, because that would be too obvious. Pervent Pregnant Lady would be my new title at the firestation.

Also, one of Gutsy and a VERY bad one of the boy and I. Horrible. I look like I'm about four feet tall and my hair is a mess. But whatever. He's a cutie in it.