Calgon, take me away..........

Sooooo........it's Memorial Day weekend. What have YOU been up to? My week has been cursed. Honest to God. Flashback to last Friday....remember my little bike riding incident? Well, that and the following day's cleaning frenzy put me into some fun little pre-term labor, just in time for my baby shower! YAY!
So, I was put on bedrest for a bit to get the contractions to stop. Relax, watch some TV, eat in bed.....the usual. I rested all week. Come Thursday, it was time to get my little doggie Dior groomed for his Memorial Day weekend shows. Dior just so happens to be a 100+ pound male Rottweiler who slobbers like Hooch and farts approximately every 30 seconds with a stench that could be bottled and used as biological warfare. Needless to say, I volunteered my husband to take him to the groomer :) I'm evil.
Now, this is probably where I will lose some of you. I mean, what I'm about to moan about seems minute and stupid. But it was important to me, so shut up and read or move on to the next blog :)
I've used this grooming shop before-- they've done a really good job on my boy and don't charge me an arm and a leg. I felt confident he would come out "Extreme Makeover" style, doggie version. I'm so naive. I'll explain briefly. Dior is a Rottweiler. I've been showing/breeding and training these monsters for 15 years. I'm not new at this. But, being 7 1/2 months pregnant and on bedrest, I opted to have someone else do the heavy lifting of bathing and blow-drying a 100 pound Rott'n teenager. SOME people who show Rottweilers trim their whiskers (those little black prickly things on their faces that keep them from running into walls, LOL). MOST don't trim them. I fall into the latter category. SO, knowing I am dealing with a busy grooming shop, I made 2 separate calls to the shop to make sure they knew NOT to trim his whiskers AND, just to be sure, I had my husband tell them to have the person who was going to groom him *CALL ME* before they started on him so I could MAKE SURE they wouldn't trim the whiskers.
Yea, you guessed it, genius. They trimmed the whiskers. And not even very well! My 7 year old could have done a better job with his purple-plastic-safety Fiskars. But I digress. On arriving home and discovering the horror of Dior's naked nose, I promptly called the shop to lodge my complaint. I just couldn't understand HOW they did NOT get my messageS to "NOT TRIM THE WHISKERS" when I did everything except stand over them while they were grooming him!
The woman who groomed Dior happened to be the co-owner of the shop. In her defense, she did apologize and offered a free groom in the future for the mistake. Meanwhile, my husband also called to make a complaint and they end up saying they will just refund our money and we can stop and pick it up the following day. Well, I was going to be at the show, so he asked that they just tear my check up and was told that would be fine. I was satisfied at this outcome, if still a bit peeved that my dog was no longer a "whisker virgin" :(
The following day we are getting ready to leave for aforementioned dog show when I get a lovely telephone call from the OTHER owner of the shop, who happens to also be the sister of the woman who groomed Dior. My guess is this chick is the older sister, in charge of the finances, etc. Well, she informed me in no uncertain terms that not only were they NOT tearing my check up, but that they were depositing it, and that she KNEW they had done a fantastic job on my dog and if I didn't like what they did, too damn bad. I went over the whole story of how I made EVERY EXTRA EFFORT to make sure they had the correct instructions for my dog and how, when they groomed him last year for me they didn't trim the whiskers, just as I had requested. This is a snippet of our convo:
Her: We're not giving you a refund, we worked hard on your dog and he looks great.
Me: Yea, except for missing the whiskers that I told 3 different people were NOT to be trimmed.
Her: Well, *I* am a member of the BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH CLUB and WE always trim whiskers for showing.
Me: Last year when you groomed him, you left his whiskers on just like I asked.
Her: No, we didn't
Me: YES, you did!
Her: NO, we didn't!
Me: YES, you DID and I have the show pictures to prove it!
Her: We ALWAYS trim the whiskers.
Me: Well, the last time I checked, *I* am the customer, *I* paid for this service and *I* requested that it NOT be done-- do you not honor your customer's requests?
Her: Not always.
Me: OK, are you a member of the Better Business Bureau?
Her: Yes, and you go right ahead and file a complaint! AND DON'T EVER BRING YOUR DOG HERE AGAIN!

Hmmmm.......I feel this isn't going well.

So, my blood pressure skyrockets and I sit here crying after she hangs up on me. Pregnancy does weird things like that. I have to sit for an hour to get my BP down, all the while it is getting later and later and we need to leave for the show. We finally load up and are about 1/3 of the way there.....the sky is blue, the sun is shining, I'm singing along to the radio, just trying to wind down and relax. Doug is sitting beside me enjoying the ride. "Did you hear that?"
Hear what? I ask
That noise, he says.
I play along......"OK, what noise?"
"It sounds like you have a flat."
BITE YOUR TONGUE. I shoot him a look that could wilt a cactus. I turned down the radio. Then, I hear it. Poosh, poosh, poosh, poosh. Oh no. nononononononononono! We are so late that I don't have TIME to have a flat or I'll miss the show! Of course, we have a flat. I pull over and we have to unload the dog, his crate, show chairs, and all the "stuff" that goes along with going to a dog show, just to get to the spare tire and the jack. We spend the next 20 minutes fighting and screaming over the best way to change the tire and I finally end up sitting in the partial shade of the car, cursing that sunny sky, beating its relentless, cancer-causing UV rays deep into my skin.
We (meaning Doug) finally get the tire changed, get all of our gear and the dog loaded back up and I just turn around and drive home. No use wasting gas to drive to the showgrounds and admire it.
I spend the rest of the day imagining that I had just missed Dior's ONLY chance for his career-boosting Best In Show. Moping, sulking. Basically acting like a total ass.

Surely, the rest of the weekend must go well? HA!
Saturday, I do actually manage to make it to the show. Dior shows well and gets 2nd place. Out of 2. That's a nice way of saying he finished last. When we get home from Saturday's show, I lay down for a well deserved nap. And wake up to TOOTHACHE HELL. Have you ever visited there? No clue how I got there, but I was there and I was mad. As the night progressed, it only got worse. I stumbled out of bed late Sunday morning for that day's show and, yes, I was 3 minutes late and MISSED THE SHOW. Fuck. I paid $5 to park, walk 40 yards, see that I had missed his class, walk back to my vehicle and leave. Took all of 90 seconds. I head home yet again and have already decided that I am NOT going back to the show the following day (today). I'd had enough. My toothaches gets worse. I start moaning and crying. I also start searching for some pliers and alcohol to jerk the sucker out. Fortunately, 500mg of Tylenol later, my tooth is feeling better and I'm able to function. Somewhat.

Yea, that was my week. How was yours?

I just want some sleep....

So, it's 5am. What on earth am I doing up? Well, haing a panic attack! What fun, you say? Not so. I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of waking in the middle of the night to a pounding heart, sweaty palms and hyperventilation, but let me tell you, it is NOT fun. It's especially not fun when you also spent the last several hours before bed trying to get your contractions to stop since you are only 7 months pregnant- and though you are mentally ready to have this baby, the little thing really does need to cook a little longer, ya know?

OK, so I thought I would hop online and type away for a bit to settle my mind down so that I can get back to sleep for a few hours. Or until I need to pee yet again, whichever comes first. I've got my baby shower in just 9 hours, I really do need my sleep!

The birds are already chirping. Stuff a sock in it!

What a day....

OK, remember I said I had to leave to go pick up Gavin from school? Well, I went out, and noticed a tornado watch on the TV as I was walking out the door. I get in my car and head up the block. Car acts funny-- like the emergency break is on. It's not. I pull over and put it in park and get out. Yep, flat tire. Completely flat. Like, sitting on the rim flat. I get back in said car and drive slowly back to my driveway and park it.

Ok, so now what do I do??? Doug is at work, which is 20 miles away and Gavin is 1 mile away waiting for me. It's raining. There's a tornado watch. So, I grab my bike and head out. What a bright idea! It is a 1 mile ride, uphill both ways. I'm not kidding. On the way there, you go uphill to a plateau, go down hill a little, back uphill, then down a REALLY steep hill to the school. Did I mention this is in the rain? And I'm 7 months pregnant? And dying?

So, I'm crying as I ride along, but no one can tell cuz it's raining anyway. Finally, I can't cry anymore because I can barely breath. Breathing takes precedence over crying. Or, I guess I should say, gasping for air takes precedence. Mind you, I am only wearing a white t-shirt, an abercrombie hoodie and cotton eeyore boxer shorts because I hadn't gotten dressed today.
I can't take the hoodie off, because I didn't put a bra on. I know, I'm a loser.

Alright, so I finally make it to the school. By this time, Gavin's the last child there. He comes out and I explain that I had a flat (I had called the school and told them so they'd keep him in the office until I got there) and that we'd have to ride the bike home. Now, you have to understand that I used to ride bikes A LOT. My father's dream in life is to ride the Tour de France. Or ride to Alaska. From Ohio. I'm not kidding. My first bike ride that wasn't just paling around the block with my friends was a 40 mile "kiddie" ride when I was about 12. My sister is going to college on a BIKE RIDING scholarship. She's on a bike team that travels all over to the country to compete (see her here: Sara Hickey http://www.cyclingnews.com/track.php?id=photos/2003/sep03/nccatrackchamps/day1/MZ10 See? I wasn't kidding!). Bike riding runs through our veins. So, I only have to ride 2 miles today. No big deal, right? WRONG. So, as soon as me & Gavin start walking across the crosswalk from the school, he's holding his belly. I ask him if he's ok. "My belly feels bad." Great. He's going to throw up and I'm a mile from home, on a bike with no anti-anxiety meds. But, I'm too out of breath and energy to have a panic attack so I ask him if he wants to ride on the bike while I push it so he doesn't have to walk (and hopefully won't throw up).

I still have the baby carrier attached to my bike from when Gavin was a baby. Why, you ask? Well, because Fajita, my chihuahua, likes riding in it. Seriously. So, I have Gavin climb up my bike, using me for support because I'm not strong enough to lift him up at this point in the pregnancy. He manages to wedge his butt down into the seat sideways with his legs hanging out over the side. I drop his backpack into his "lap" and off we go. I get on and attempt to ride the bike, but remember there is a VERY steep hill first thing. Not happening. So, I get off and start pushing the bike and Gavin up the mountain. It. takes. forever. You know those movies where it shows someone running down a corridor that just keeps getting longer and longer? Yea, that's what was happening with this hill. In the rain. Getting no oxygen. Begging for a merciful death.
I think Gavin thinks I'm going to drop the bike, and thus drop him, so he keeps saying "Mom, I can get down, I don't mind walking, really I don't. It's fun." Yea, fun like a root canal is fun.

FINALLY we get to the summit of the first mountain. Thankfully the rain has eased off to some light sprinkles. I climb on the bike and ride down the incline until it starts rising again. I peddle like 5 times and decide I'd like to go into labor now. So, I get off the bike and start pushing it (and Gavin) up the next hill. Can't breath. Legs feel like they've swelled to 12 times their normal size. Lungs feel like I've breathed in fire tinged with acid.

Somehow, I make it to the top of the second hill and I tell Gavin he can get off and walk the rest of the way, as we are only about 3 blocks from home now. I get to a safe spot and "tip" the bike over so he can get out. His butt is still wedged into the baby carrier, so it takes him a second. Now that he's out, he's cold. He has no jacket. I'm burning up. I give him mine and just hope that everyone has seen those women in National Geographic, so I don't seem like such a freak with my udders & pregnant belly in this white t-shirt.

We make it home and I collapse on the couch.

I hope I can walk tomorrow.