No Rose Colored Glasses Here

After four years of loving my current glasses, I finally had to give up the ghost and go get a new pair today. I've put this off for as long as possible, but I realized that with imminent arrival of The Bug, I'll probably be wearing my glasses more often, so if there ever was a time for new glasses, this was it. If this were a commercial for MasterCard, it would go something like this:

-Cheapest set of frames in the store that weren't neon green or sparkly pink: $175
-Putting lenses into said frames: $100
-Making sure those lenses are not an inch thick: $75
-Adding a non-reflective coating to those lenses so that I can drive at night without crashing into a tree: $70
-Owning a pair of glasses that (a) are the right prescription and (b) have 2 intact earpieces because they have not yet encountered Yellow Cat's teeth: Priceless.

Except that I have Visa, so it wasn't priceless at all. In fact, it was highly price-full. And if Yellow Cat so much as GLANCES in the direction of these new glasses, he will be thrown swiftly across the room.

Oh, and at first, I told the salesman that I didn't care about the thickness of the glasses, but I quickly realized that if I have to wear them out in public, I WOULD care, and also it annoys me when my eyelashes hit the back of the glass because it's so thick, so I told him I changed my mind and wanted the thin lenses. He responded by asking what made me change my mind, and I replied that I would probably be wearing them more in the next few months, what with the baby and all. His response: "Oh, yeah, I thought you were pregnant, but I wasn't sure." Um...really? Because pretty much the only options at this point are "pregnant" or "crazy woman with a pillow stuffed up her shirt."

Groucho

Yellow Cat has claimed the changing table:
This works fine for now because it means that he has temporarily given up his claim to my body pillow, which in turn means I can sleep on it without worrying that I'll wake up with a patch of yellow fur in my face. He's going to be in for a rude surprise in a few weeks, though...

B.S. No Longer

I'll start with a warning that this will undoubtedly be a long post. It's only fitting that it should be long because it's a post about the past three years of my life, and about a document that took 14 months of writing and ended up being 119 pages long. It's a post about a promise to myself and a journey that began the first time I checked the box on a standardized test that said that my parents held Master's Degrees. It's a post about the sense of numbness and celebration and relief that is coursing through me at this moment because now, pending the submission of a few forms and perhaps a walk down an aisle in a few months, my child will be able to check that box, too.

When I graduated with a double Bachelor's degree three-and-a-half years ago, I never expected that it would take me this long to make it here. I also never expected that by the time I did make it here, I would be completely exhausted by the process and disillusioned about the world of academia, or that I would have learned how to advocate for myself in that world, or that I would be married and hugely pregnant, or perhaps most surprisingly of all, that I would finally be comfortable with public speaking. In other words, I never expected that I would be so different from the person I was just four short years ago.

For the past two weeks, ever since I submitted my thesis to my committee members, I have been calm when I should have been nervous. I have been anticipatory, rather than anxious. And I found that strange because it's in my nature to worry and fret and obsess about events such as this, but it finally occurred to me that I wasn't worried because I was ready. Not just prepared, like usual, but truly ready for the culmination of this process. When I left home this morning, I told the animals that when I returned, I would be able to claim a new set of initials behind my name. They were unimpressed. (Of course).

I drove to school looking forward to 11 o'clock, when the defense was scheduled to begin. I did not arrive an hour early, as is my custom, to fuss with the presentation "one last time." I did not worry at the last minute about whether my data was really okay or whether I had used the right statistical tests or whether it mattered that I wasn't wearing pantyhose under my pants. When I got there, I did not panic when the media center informed me that my reservation for a laptop and projector had been lost. (After a few minutes, they did find me another laptop and projector after all). I will admit to a moment of slight panic when I tried to roll the projector cart out of the elevator and suddenly, a wheel fell off and I couldn't do anything but stand there, half in the elevator and half out, trying to figure out how I was going to hold up the cart while simultaneously retrieving and fixing the wheel. As it turned out, a very nice janitor heard my half-hearted calls for help and came running. (Thank you, nice janitor. In the story of this day, you will remain my hero).

The two-hour defense was very informal and my committee members offered helpful advice and asked insightful questions, which I was able to answer with a relative degree of expertise. The oh-so-thoughtful executive assistant who had scheduled the room for me had made sure to book a room that had lots of space and lots of chairs and that was set up such that I was able to sit down through the presentation, rather than having to be on my feet for two hours. (Thank you, executive assistant. In the story of this day, you will remain my guardian angel).

And then, suddenly, after a brief stint of pacing the halls while the committee held a closed discussion about whether I had adequately defended my project, it was over. There were smiles, and assurances that I had done a good job, and some chatter about everyone's summer plans. It seemed almost anti-climactic that it should end like this, with a few handshakes and some signatures on a yellow piece of paper, a celebratory lunch and a hug from my advisor. And when I returned home and told the animals that I had kept my promise, that I had passed my defense and was now the proud soon-to-be recipient of a Master's Degree, they remained unimpressed. (Of course).

But the sense of calm that has so pervaded my world for the past two weeks is suddenly replaced by an almost giddy relief. I did it. It's done. Whatever went before and whatever comes next, this day has been a success and a celebration, the much anticipated fulfillment of a promise, the long-awaited end to this particular journey, and more importantly still, the starting point for my next set of adventures.

Because Normal Stretchmarks Weren't Bad Enough...

Did you know it's possible to have an allergic reaction to stretchmarks and/or male fetal DNA? GUESS HOW I KNOW.

I'm starting to think that maybe rashes are just my way of responding to life changes. Which is really awesome, given my phobia of skin things. Think I'm kidding? When I found out I was pregnant, I spent three months worrying that my child would be born with a rash and then I would NEVER BE ABLE TO LOVE HIM. And to be perfectly honest, I'm still not entirely sure how I'm going to handle that first (or second or eighty-fifth) rash.

On the plus side, I've discovered that magic that is oatmeal baths. The person who invented those deserves to be knighted, sainted, and probably win a Nobel Prize, too. I mean, really. Who in their right mind thinks, "Hey, here's a somewhat unappealing food item. Let's put it in a tub and sit in it and see what happens!"

The only humorous aspect to this rash is that whenever I scratch my belly, it apparently disturbs The Bug, who then spends several minutes banging around, trying to readjust himself in his quickly shrinking surroundings.

YES, I'm Ornery

Waking up at 4 am on a Saturday is...annoying. You know what's more annoying though?

-Waking up at 4 am on a Saturday and not being able to go back to sleep because you're starving to death.
-Or because the eight-hundred stretchmarks on your belly WONT STOP ITCHING.
-Or because your husband and your dog have decided to snore in rhythm.
-Or because The Bug has picked up on that rhythm and is kicking along with it.
-Or because the DARN CATS will NOT stop crashing around in the living room.

But while all of that is annoying to the extreme, none of it is as bad as waking up at 4 am on a Saturday, not being able to go back to sleep, eating a snack, rubbing lotion on the stretchmarks, giving the cats the death glare, going back to bed and realizing that the snoring has stopped (whoo!), lying back down, and finally, finally, FINALLY going back to sleep, only to have your alarm start ringing 15 minutes later.

Too Many Blue Matrixes

Usually, I park in the same general area of the parking lot at school, which is on the third floor. I do this because (a) by the time I get there, all the lower spots are already taken and (b) if I park in different places each day, I forget where I am and then, I have to wander aimlessly around in the hopes that I'll spot my car somewhere.

When I left work this afternoon, I walked up to the third floor of the parking deck, as usual, and spotted my car in one of its customary spots. As I got closer, I noticed that I had left the doors unlocked, so I grumbled at myself about how forgetful I'm getting, and then got in. Immediately, I noticed that there was something slightly different about the smell in the car, but my car frequently changes the way it smells with no real explanation. So I put the keys in and turned the ignition...nothing. Again, a phenomenon that I'm somewhat familiar with because sometimes, the car just doesn't feel like starting. So I tried it again. Nothing. And again. Still nothing.

And then, just as I was about to take my frustration out on the steering wheel, I noticed that the odd smell in the car wasn't just any old odd smell, but the very distinctly odd smell of cigar smoke. Since no one has ever actually smoked a cigar in my car, I began to get suspicious. And that's when I noticed that there was no stuffed moose hanging down from my rear view mirror. My sweater was not sitting in the passenger seat, where I had left it. And this car was much, much neater than mine will EVER be. After sitting there, feeling like I was in an alternate universe for a full minute, it finally hit me that hey! I had parked on the SECOND floor this morning because I wanted to avoid the extra flight of stairs.

On the plus side, at least this means that I did, in fact, remember to lock my car this morning.

Furniture

We started working on refinishing a dresser back in October, and after several setbacks, issues with peeling, and a Very Long Hiatus while the weather was cold, I finally finished it last weekend. I wish I had taken some before pictures of it because it has come a long way from where it was. The closest thing I have to a before picture is this:
At least that gives you a general idea of the color that it used to be...just ignore the cats and picture what that contraption would look like with four dingy, honey-colored drawers.

And...here's the after picture:
I could so be a professional re-finisher of furniture. As long as my clients don't mind waiting six months for each project. Oh, and I know you can't see it in the picture, but Yellow Cat is sitting under the dresser and looking ornery because his fat belly makes it difficult for him to fit under there.

While we're at it, here's the corner of the bedroom that's dedicated to The Bug for the first few months: