I used to watch the Classical Arts Showcase (I’m not sure if they have that in your area. It was on channel 80-something and was 24 hours a day of classical arts programming. Operas, ballets, that kind of thing) and look forward to the ballets.  I still enjoy dance movies like Save the Last Dance and Center Stage.  I just like watching people dance, and as long as the storyline’s not too hideous I guess I’m not too picky.

Anyway, that was 100+ words all to lead up to my new thing, which is called The Legion of Extraordinary Dancers.  It’s only on Hulu (which, if you don’t know what Hulu is, it’s only TV on the Internet, which is to say it’s awesome), and it’s essentially a story broken into short episodes.  I’ve watched a few episodes, and from what I can glean, there are bad guys and good guys.

The story’s not the important part, though.  What’s important is the dancing.  The dancing is incredible!  I’ve seen three episodes, and each episode features dancers who can do extraordinary things (hence the name I guess).  They have a guy who can do The Robot in such a way that he barely even looks human, and breakdancers who do things I had no idea a human body could do without benefit of wires and pulleys.

Definitely check it out if you want a short break and find yourself on the computer with some spare time.  If you hate it, you never have to take a recommendation from me again.

Inspired by all that dancing, I rented a few workout DVD’s and tried one of them out yesterday.  It was, and I quote, a “Fat Blasting Dance Workout” and I’m fairly certain the only thing that got blasted was my self esteem.  They just go so freaking fast through the instructions, how is a barely coordinated, long-limbed, rarely mobile person like myself supposed to keep up?

There was one move I mastered, however, which involved throwing both my hands in the air.  You better believe I mastered that one.

It looked a lot like this, only I was bigger.

All this to say, you won’t be seeing me on featured among The Legion of Extraordinary Dancers any time soon.  I’m good at a lot of things, but my rug cutting abilities are only extraordinary in that they are exceptionally clumsy and funny-looking.

Why then, did I almost get arrested for drug possession this weekend?

Because I’m a bad driver, that’s why.  I was driving home from the grocery store on Saturday, my trunk full of food and my head full of fatigue thanks to a few sleepless nights with an inexplicably fussy baby (teething? growth spurt? the vapors?).  I was stopped at an intersection, first in line, when an ambulance came squealing up behind me.

Seeing as how I was in a position to free up the intersection so the ambulance could go through, I scooted into the intersection and pulled over to the side.  The ambulance went by in a flurry of lights, and I checked my blind spot and pulled back into traffic.

Apparently I pulled right ahead of a police officer, cutting him off and forcing him to slam on his brakes.  To my infinite chagrin, I didn’t even know he was there until he flashed his lights and pulled me over.  As I pulled over, I realized I had my cell phone in my hand, having been interrupted in the act of putting it back in my purse by the ambulance.

Uh oh.  I was fairly certain he was going to give me a ticket for texting while driving, even though I wasn’t doing anything of the sort.

He approached my window and I handed over my license.  I explained that I was wasn’t texting, he explained that that didn’t necessarily mean I wasn’t a bad driver, I agreed, and he asked for my insurance and registration.  I was driving Wes’ car, so it took me awhile to find the requested materials.

Just as I found them, someone smoking weed drove by and suddenly the officer’s asking me whether he smells something he shouldn’t.

To be honest, at first I thought he was asking whether I was flatulent.  Then, dawning horror gave way to incredulity as I sputtered something like, “No.  Um, NO!  I’m a mother!  I’m breastfeeding!  I have a baby!  I would never do drugs!”

He smirked, and replied that since it was my husband’s car, maybe he had something in there that maybe he shouldn’t.

At this point I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  On the one hand, I know my husband and I know he doesn’t do drugs, nor does he ferry them around.  On the other hand, if everyone knew their husbands as well as they thought they did, there wouldn’t be so many Lifetime movies with sad, crying wives, would there?

I assured him there were no drugs in the car, and he said he’d go run my license and that the smell had better be gone by the time he got back.  Suffice it to say, the smell was gone and he let me go with a warning to be less harebrained.

And that’s the story of how I almost got arrested for drug possession.

I usually set up camp at a cozy Starbucks near my house, but a few weeks ago the weather was nice so I decided to enjoy a margarita out on the patio of a local Mexican restaurant.  I’ve enjoyed a few alcoholic beverages since Aidan was born, but Wes has, at my request, made them all pretty light.

This margarita was not light.  But I didn’t know that until it was too late.

There I am, murder mystery novel in one hand, empty margarita glass in the other, and I take stock.  I’m feeling nothing.  No buzz, not drunkity, nothing.

Curious, I figure they watered down the margarita or something so I order another one.  I figure, “Hey!  I’m relaxing, who knows when I’ll get to do this again, why not do it up right?”

Well, a quarter of the way through the second margarita the first one hits home.  And I am plastered.

Wes texts me to ask if I’m having fun and I can barely type back.  I self-correct my hundreds of little typos and assure him that not only am I drunkity, I’ve solved the murder mystery to boot.

Now I have a little bit of a problem.  I’m hammered, sitting in a public place, and, because I never really did any partying in my youth, I’m not really sure what to do about it.

So I start shoveling tortilla chips into my mouth like I’m a bulldozer operator on a Friday afternoon.  In between mouthfuls of tortilla chips, I pound glasses of water.  Over the next hour, I receive no less than three scornful glances from the waiters, who all watch me inhale the chips with something like disdain and disgust.  This doesn’t matter, though, because my intoxication level drops from drunkity to merely slap-happy.

I estimate that I’ll be safe to drive in another hour or so, so I gather my things, pay up, and hit the grocery store.  Where I discover something magical: Shopping is approximately 1000% more fun when you’re slightly buzzed.

The same annoying people were still there, but I just didn’t care.  I floated through the aisles, admiring the pretty displays and really taking the time to examine the different products on the shelves.  I smiled and made polite chit-chat with the clerks and cashiers I crossed paths with.

By the time I sobered up and climbed into my car, my grocery shopping was done and I couldn’t have been more relaxed.  Let this be two lessons to you:

• Lesson the first: If you’ve recently been pregnant, you are a lightweight.  One margarita ought to do it, lady.
• Lesson the second: If you find grocery shopping (or crowds {or the exorbitant price of food}) as stressful as I do, maybe go grocery shopping with a little buzz.  Or, conversely, if you run into a total grumpus at the store, try suggesting to them that they hit the bar before hitting you with their shopping cart again.

Wes and I don’t always agree.

I’ll give you a moment to fan yourself with your lace kerchief before I continue.  Do you need a fainting couch?  Perhaps some smelling salts?  No?  Ok, onwards!

Wes and I were chatting while falling asleep the other day when an Issue emerged.  Something we didn’t agree on, and now we’re seeking couples counseling via the Internet.

The Issue was over whether or not a poke can be considered a finger punch (you know, like a punch but with just the one finger instead of the whole fist).  I’m a strong proponent of the idea that yes, a poke can be considered a finger punch.  No one would ever say finger punch over poke, of course, because finger punch is a lot more work to say, but regardless of its expediency I still argue that poke = finger punch.

Wes thinks this is pure drivel.  He refused to explain how a poke could intrinsically differ from a finger punch, simply stating that I was being silly and should go to sleep.

I’ll not let this rest, though.  I need resolution.  So, even though you guys normally side with Wes when we do polls, I’m going to open this up to you to help us decide.

I walked into the office feeling like a bit of a pariah, really.  After all, I had been a happy patient there for quite some time.  I peed in a cup, read the magazines, and fully intended to have my baby at the hospital.  Then, I changed my mind and did something most OB-GYNs consider very foolish: had my baby outside a hospital.

It wasn’t hard to see that I made the nurse uncomfortable as she interviewed me about my birth.  She asked all the normal questions (Aidan’s birth date, birth weight, etc.) but when she got to the part about where he was born (at an independent birth center) and how the birth went (she looked perplexed when I assured her that I found the birth fun) she got noticeably uneasy.

Then, my doctor walked in.  He welcomed me back, and asked a lot of the same questions.  When I told him I thought the birth was fun, he just shook his head and kept writing his notes.  Being the considerate person I aim to be, I thought I’d lighten the mood a little by assuring him he wouldn’t have wanted to deliver me anyway.

I described how loud I was (I can guarantee that my bellowing wouldn’t have gone over very well in a hospital), how stubborn I was (I had my one position in my one corner of the bathtub and I wasn’t moving no matter how many times I was asked), and how, thanks to said stubbornness, my midwife practically had to climb in there with me to catch Aidan as he came rocketing out.

While I recounted my tale, my doctor stopped taking notes and just stared at me for a minute.  Then, a huge smile washed over his face and he said, “Yeah, I don’t go swimming.”  And just like that, I became the well-loved but mostly harmless weirdo patient.

I am vastly comforted by the feedback I received on the post, however.  Sometimes you just need people to remind you that the situation is larger than your little monkeybrain can compute at the moment.  My hormone addled monkeybrain and I appreciate your comments and help.

I thought I might celebrate my (temporarily?) recovered sanity by sharing a funny little observation Wes and I made at our birthing class last night.

We have snack time in our birthing class, which is exactly as awesome as it sounds, and every week two of the couples bring in snacks for everyone.  The snack this week was string cheese, Babybel cheese, Ritz crackers, apple slices, and Oreo cookies.  Wes and I grabbed a plate with an assortment and sat down next to another couple.

I said, “I love this snack, it’s very fancy this week.”  I meant it.  Here I was with some cheese, some crackers, and some fruit.  In my mind, it was one glass of Pinot Grigio away from being a sophisticated repast.

The girl sitting next to me laughed and said, “Yes, just like kindergarten!”

And then we realized: Cheese, crackers, and fruit can either be a fancy snack or a kindergarten snack.  It just depends on what you drink with it.  If you add wine, it’s a fancy party.  If you add grape juice, bust out the nap mats and eat some glue because it’s kindergarten hour.

Silly, huh?

Just so you know: The top right one looks EXACTLY like me when I'm laughing.

Happy National Brownie Day!  I’m not even kidding you.  It’s a national holiday, which means it would be downright unpatriotic to go without a brownie today.

Awesome bonus?  Because it’s a national holiday, the calories don’t count!

Personally, I’m a huge fan of the Ghirardelli brownie mix.  Their double chocolate one is rich, delicious, and tastes like real chocolate.  I suppose bakeries and grocery stores make good brownies too, but if you’re hankering for some baking that there’s a solid mix.

We’d make some for ourselves, but we can’t.  We are going to be too busy going to our very first birthing class (oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh!).  When I initially signed us up for the class, Wes’ reaction was as follows:

Erika: Hey honey, I just signed us up for a natural childbirthing class.

Wes: Why?

Erika: …?  Because we’re newbs and we’ve never done this before.

Wes: But isn’t birth supposed to be natural and stuff?  If it’s so natural, why do we need to take a class to do it?

Erika: Remember that video we watched?  Where the woman thrashed around and screamed and it was really awful?

Wes: *shudder*

Erika: We’re going to take a class in the hopes of preventing that when it’s our turn.

Wes: We’ll take it twice if we have to.

Erika: That’s what I thought.

What do brownies and a birth class have to do with smiling sharks?  Absolutely nothing.  But aren’t you glad you saw those?

I obviously have a lot of very intelligent and erudite things to say, but I just as obviously can’t share them here.  Because that would, uh, damage my public reputation.  Yeah.

Can’t you just imagine the profanity and high-jinks that would surely ensue?!

I was leaving work last night and, in order to get home, had to make a left turn across a very busy road.  The visibility on both sides was blocked on both sides by parked cars, making my left turn very hazardous indeed.

I found a window in traffic and gunned my Kia engine for all it was worth.  I made it to the other side safely, but not without (unintentionally, obviously) cutting off a police officer.

As soon as I got to the other side I knew I was busted.  I slowed down and waited for him to flip around and come chase me with his bright whirly lights.  I pulled over and turned off my engine, waiting with my hands folded like a good law-abiding citizen.

The young officer came up to me and said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I replied, “Yeah, that was a really stupid thing to do.”

He asked me why I did it, I explained the dangerous lack of visibility thanks to the parked cars, and he said he could see my point.  I handed over my license and registration and watched as he took my license back to his car.

I could just feel the ticket coming, like the early days of congestion that precede a really nasty head cold.

He came back to my car and surprised the stuffing out of me.  After handing me back my license he said that he was letting me off with just a warning, owing to my squeaky-clean record (Heh. After my car accident last year and now this, is it really all that squeaky-clean? Should I even be driving at this point? Discuss).

I drove home and, as I put distance between myself and encounter, wondered how I got off so easy.  I was clearly wearing my wedding ring, and I looked frumpilicious with my ponytail and sweatpants.  I’m not so pregnant you can tell when I’m sitting, and I was definitely not hitting on him.

How the heck did I get such a nice police officer?  Clearly I am the recipient of some serious good blessings.  Quick, touch my sleeve and then buy a lotto ticket to see if the blessings are catching!

This means I am officially Way Too Busy.  With a full-time job (with a blog), my own blog, and a new blog, I have blogs coming out my ears and I don’t even know what to do about it.  I’m shoveling my way out from under 100+ emails every day, writing my little face off, and to be honest?  Feeling really overwhelmed.  Plus I’m riding a mood swing at the moment so I’m also feeling a tad misanthropic as well.

But!  I broke up with my OB-GYN today, scheduled my first appointment with my new care provider, and scheduled my next ultrasound appointment.  You know, the BIG ultrasound appointment, wherein it will be revealed whether Squishy is:

• A boy.
• A girl.
• A freaking mystery because the baby won’t cooperate.

My appointment is set for October 5th so you can expect an exclamation point-laden post sometime that day.

See?  I can’t even muster up excitement for that!  Ugh, I need a vacation and a virgin strawberry daiquiri stat.  I mean, I really want to talk about what happened with my doctor and what we ended up deciding to do.  I also want to talk about the new site I’m helping to launch.  What I don’t want to do is talk about these things when I’m feeling so crazed and tired.

Sigh.  What I need to do is pull myself together.  I’m gonna go stand in a corner and breathe into a paper bag until I can get my mind to stop racing like an amphetamine-addled NASCAR driver.  I’ll post again when I’m feeling less inclined to stick out my thumb and hitch a ride to Alaska, where I’ll tell stories for a living and set up a strange encampment in a public library.