if you come over for dinner, i promise not to serve broccoli normandy

When I was in seventh grade, my class went on a field trip.  On the ride back to school, the boys in the back of the bus got a hold of the first aid kit and blew up the rubber gloves like balloons.

When our teacher discovered the glove balloons, she taped them to the chalkboard and told us we all had to stay at school until the offenders came clean.  My classmates didn't seem concerned about the prospect of staying past dismissal, but I was not happy because I was lieutenant of the safety patrol, and the rest of the school relied on me and my neon orange safety belt and official lieutenant badge to make it through dismissal.

Fun fact, lieutenant of the safety patrol was the one and only position I've ever run for in my whole life.  

That's right.  I ran and was elected to be lieutenant of the St. David School safety patrol.  Make no mistake, I didn't run for captain.  Too much responsibility.  Put me second in command and I'm a happy girl.

Anyway, it didn't take long until the culprits came clean and admitted to their role in blowing up the rubber gloves.

I tell that story because I got home from work today, sat down, and could not believe my eyes when I saw the situation south of my knees.

Yikes.

My feet looked just like those rubber glove balloons.  Round and puffy with my poor vienna sausage toes sticking off the end.  I've never had well defined calves, but everything from my knee to my toes had the same circumference, and the spot where my ankles used to be was replaced with rolls.  My feet even jiggled when I walked. 

There are a lot of perks to having a best friend experience pregnancy at the same time as you, so I texted Michelle to tell her about my feet because I knew she could empathize.  "Send me a pic!" she said.  Michelle is a nurse so I figured she would tell me if the situation appeared medically alarming, so I put my pride aside and sent her a photo.  She texted back that Jessica Simpson had the worst swollen pregnant feet ever.  

I went about my lounging and my phone rang about an hour later.  It was Michelle. "No seriously, how bad are your feet really?" she said. 

"You saw the pic!" I told her.  "

WAIT, THOSE WERE YOUR FEET?" she said.

She thought I had googled a photo of Jessica Simpson's feet and sent that.

Oh no.  Nope.  Sad to say I'm the proud owner of those giant Flintstone feet.

And that's why for the last three hours I've been sitting in the recliner with two bags of frozen broccoli normandy on my feet.

Well, that's not completely true.  I did get up once to go upstairs and when I got there, I launched into a diatribe for poor, unsuspecting Matt about how unfair it is that the electrical outlet on my side of the bed has all of the community items, like the lamp and the sleep number bed and the fan and IT IS SO UNFAIR THAT I HAVE TO UNPLUG SOMETHING IF I WANT TO CHARGE MY PHONE AND WHY AM I IN CHARGE OF ALL THE COMMUNITY ITEMS ON MY SIDE WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING ON YOUR SIDE BUT YOUR PHONE CHARGER?

I'm going to blame the state of my feet and the electrical outlet outburst on the 90 degree weather and the end of a very long week.  I'm so glad that tomorrow is Friday.  We don't have any big plans for the weekend, but I think I may go buy an extension cord.  

And ice packs.

And some new frozen vegetables.

so sunday wasn't our best day

People have asked me if I've had any pregnancy cravings yet, and I don't really think I have, but I have been an exceptionally big fan of fruit.  Grapes, cherries, apples, and strawberries have been my staples, but I got a watermelon at the store on Sunday afternoon and by last night I had eaten THE ENTIRE WATERMELON. 

All by myself. 

In three days.

In addition to the watermelon, I also got green bell peppers and white nectarines at the store.  When I got to the register, the cashier was a teenage boy, probably about 16 or so.  He picked up the nectarines and punched in the number on the sticker.  Then he did a double take at the bag filled with red fruit.  "Are these really white nectarines?" he asked.  "Yep, they are," I said.

"Weird," he shrugged, "they sure don't look white to me."

I explained that the fruit inside is white, hence the name, and  I thought about how proud Matt would be because he comes from a long line of men in the produce business.  I am not joking. His grandfather made a career of owning his very own produce business, and when he retired Matt's dad ran the business for many years. 

While Matt doesn't work in the produce world himself, he carries on the family tradition by intensely analyzing every fruit and vegetable we buy.  When we go food shopping together I immediately hightail it straight to dairy so I am not seen with him as he heartily slaps and smacks the melons and sniffs all of the pineapples until he is on the verge of passing out.

Anyway, back to the cashier.  He said, "Okay, I trust you."  (As if I would try to commit some sort of tricky nectarine switcharoo).   "You know, I don't really know much about produce.  I don't eat many fruits and vegetables, and my mom does our food shopping."

And then he keyed in the green bell peppers, and looked at me and said with all the seriousness in the world, "What do you think would happen if you got a job naming produce, but you were color blind?"

Listen, I did my very best to keep a straight, serious face, but I'm not sure how successful I was.  I managed to tell him I didn't know if that would be a very good job for someone who is colorblind, and he agreed.

It reminded me of the time I was in high school, and I asked my family what would happen if an all  boys school decided to perform Annie as their annual musical.   That was at LEAST 16 years ago and I have yet to live it down. 

Later Sunday evening Matt and I were sitting on the patio.  A big storm passed through, but as the skies cleared, I heard the owls hooting with enthusiasm.

"Wow," I said to Matt, "that storm really brought out the owls."

"What?" he said.

"The owls! Don't you hear them all woo woo-ing?"

"Well I hear that sound," he said, "but those are mourning doves."

Well.  I have been living an ornithological lie for 30 years.  I pulled up a YouTube video hanging onto a sliver of hope that a video of a mourning dove would prove Matt wrong, but it didn't.

After my world was turned upside down, we went inside for some ice cream. 

"Wait until you see what kind of concoction I make tonight," Matt said, and then proudly announced  "I'm making a neopolitan!"

"But we don't have strawberry ice cream," I said.

"So? My neopolitan is going to be chocolate chip cookie dough, peanut butter cup, and vanilla."

And it was then that Matt learned he too had been living a lie for 30 years, except his was in the dairy department. He thought neopolitan just meant three flavors of ice cream in one bowl.  Any three.

I wished we could have invited the grocery store cashier over for a neopolitan and some nectarines.  I guarantee the three of us could have solved some major world problems. 

Or maybe not.

But I do guarantee Matt would have picked the three best nectarines in the produce section.