“Brian Johnson, Junior!”

So my Auntie and Uncle are at My Favorite Mother's house and call us last night. I'd spoken with Uncle but not Auntie since learning that baby's a boy. Auntie raised four boys, and so she's kind of an expert. But once she congratulated us, she asked if we'd thought about names. I said yes, but wouldn't say what they were.

“Brian Johnson, Junior!” she replied.

And so throughout the whole call, no matter if I was talking to her, my Mom, or telling Uncle that our Cold Stone is kosher (he's Jewish), I hear in the background, a Tibetan chant, “Brian Johnson, Junior! Brian Johnson, Junior!” No amount of explaining that “Brian Johnson” is one of the world's most common names, that My Darling Husband receiveds credit cards and “why'd you default on your student loan” phone calls for OTHER Brian Johnsons, would dissuade her.

Kris from the store next door, who's about 10 weeks behind me, pregnancy-wise, told me not to tell anyone what names we're choosing. I have learned this from Anne, whose family was underwhelmed by the name they chose for her son. The Cold Stone store mananger wants to know the name now (I believe she's hand-crafting the baby gift).

“We have four months!” I told her.

“I don't!” she said.

So, we're keeping the name quiet. Rest assured, it will be neither “Apple” nor “Moxie CrimeFighter.”

It's a …


Brian has a very bright future ahead of him as an ultrasound technician; he was pointing out parts to me that, to me, just looked like mixed-media, black-and-white art. Brian saw the little penis about five minutes in, but they all kept me in suspense just to keep me on the table. Yeah, YOU try staying still lying down with a quart of water in your bladder while they rub a goopy wand over all parts of your expansive belly. Not so fun.

But the baby is well and the doctor didn't see anything that “concerned” her, and he already appears to have Brian's nose, though there were no enormous testicles as there were in my dream of last week. The ultrasound tech really cracked up on that one.

We went home after a delectable hospital cafeteria meal and started calling the world. Mom is very excited. Brian's mom, upon hearing, “It's a boy,” had a panic attack that we'd just birthed the baby.

And my father is already jockeying for naming rights.

today's the day

The day of the ultrasound, that is. I've had a dream that baby is a girl, and a dream that baby is a boy (with big balls). Brian has dreamt that baby is a girl. But my parents both dreamt that I was a boy. So, we'll see.

Really, I'm more concerned with seeing that baby has all its limbs than what lurks between its little legs. Think good thoughts.

just plain Lynn

In the past 10 years, I have moved five times, have changed jobs five times (not counting temp and substitute teaching positions), have had four cats, and 14 different haircolors. The only thing that has remained constant throughout the turmoil has been my e-mail address.

But no more!

I have dropped my maiden initial from my original address. But don't worry: I've created an alias so my LynnB reconciles to just Lynn at my domain dot com. So if you send me e-mail, for now I'll still get it. I'm thinking in a couple of months I'll drop the alias — after 10 years of staying the same, every spam artist across the globe knows how to get ahold of me. So, if you have me in your address book, please update me.

Because I've been married for more than a year, and it's time.

I'm in week 17 according to the midwife, week 18 according to my Target Date software. Baby weighs half a pound now! After working 11 hours today (though I did duck out for 30 minutes to attend church; I walked in right at the point in the sermon where the pastor started talking about “vulnerability”), I'm afraid it's maybe lost a quarter of an ounce from mommy's exertion. Oh, and boss-man still hasn't acknowledged the medical report or mileage report I sent to him 36 hours ago, which isn't affecting my stress level at all, no sir, not this girl.


And, on another note, I think that it's pretty funny that while my husband is on a ghosthunting/karaoke road trip, Peter Griffin and his Family Guy buddies not only turned the Drunken Clam into a karaoke bar, but brought the house down with “Don't Stop Believing” by Journey, whose CD I have in my car right now and for which I have received no end of shit from my passengers.

It's hard to be so cool.

still pissed off and upset, but dealing

Subject line pretty much says it all. Darling Husband called from Nawoleans this afternoon. “We'll be fine,” he said. “Of course we will; we have no choice,” I replied. He'd forgotten about the raise I got BEFORE being offered the promotion, so we're not in straits as dire as believed.

Boss called me at work, all “concerned” (my quotes, not his) about what he heard was my hospital stay yesterday. Wanted to discuss it over the phone. I nixed that idea — there was a new employee in the store with me, and I was just finishing up my medical incident report to send to him. I'll admit I cribbed it from my last blog entry.

I worked my crew to the nub today, cleaning the store and tending the customers. So that felt good, even if I didn't. I went home with cramps (normal, nothing serious, sez the midwife) at 3:00, ate delivery Japanese food and watched TLC all afternoon.

Oh! And I almost forgot the “best” (read: “worst”) part. Boss-man didn't tell the store manager about what's going on, so she was utterly surprised when I mentioned it to her at the beginning of her shift on the phone this evening. Grrreat.

It's 2 a.m. on Sunday and sleep still feels a looooong way off.

fucking bummer, dude…

So today, my boss demoted me…
over the phone…
while I was driving…
to one of the stores to fix the fuck-up made by the manager he's replacing me with…
and then in Costco, while running an errand for the other store…
I nearly blacked out…
and two free-sample ladies had to help me…
and then I had a not-so-mini meltdown…
and drove to my midwife…
who said that, due to my low blood pressure, I'm more susceptible to stress and vulnerability…
and it was pretty much downhill from there.

I have consumed only water, jellybeans, and two forms of chocolate (Turtle-form and Hostess cupcake form) since 3:00.

I have not answered my phone.

I have turned off my cell phone.

And felt like a jackass for doing four hours of work at home this week after already working my nine-plus hour days.

And life, pretty much, fucking sucks.

Happy Birthday, Avram!

It's everyone's good friend Avram's birthday today. Last year's birthday was kind of a disaster, as Brian and I were 1) totally clueless and 2) fans of the worst sushi place in Chico — well, the worst place to go if you ever actually want to eat food, which we did. Dear Avram, I hope you are in So. Cal right now with some ocean salt and sand between your toesies. Your gift is arriving via W.A.S.T.E. post, aka Drivler. I treasure your friendship and wish you the BEST YEAR EVER.

Speaking of good people who deserve good things, I have a new addiction: TLC network. Especially all of those “renovate your house” shows. Avram believes it's “pre-nesting.” He's probably right. All I know is I'm getting two bureaus (not news bureaus) from my downstairs neighbor, and I've filled three photo albums with pictures that span the past decade, and I cringe every time I look at my desk. It's a start.

Brian and Drivler and I watched a 1 1/2 year old, Cole, this week. The best part was watching Brian with the baby. Too adorable. The night before I'd had a dream that we had the ultrasound and the baby was a boy (with HUGE testicles). In my dream, I was disappointed. Cole helped to assuage the disappointment. Anne and Julie have both had boys in the past six months; I think I just want to be different. In any case, we find out for real on June 8th.

My Darling Husband and the aforementioned Drivler are road-trippin' this week. They're ghost hunting by day, and singing karaoke by night. Their destination is beautiful downtown Archer City, Texas, home of Larry McMurtry's four-building bookstore, Booked Up. I hope they can find me a hardcover copy of Power's “Three Farmers on their way to a Dance.” We'll see.