Knocked Up

Well, I've gone and done it. I've gotten myself knocked up. Okay, so I guess I didn't do it all by myself. I have my husband to thank for at least half of that forbidden dance. But I am definitely knocked up. SO knocked up, in fact, that I am about to drop this oven baby in less than a month. If my calculated due date is anywhere near on track, my baby boy (the real kind, not the "I love you Jody!" kind) will be here in TWENTY-FOUR DAYS. It's just mind blowing, really. Anyway, so that pretty much sums up why I haven't blogged in what seems like a lifetime. Because it has in fact been a lifetime ... or at least the beginning of one. I'm sure you've already forgiven me for my less than prolific history, so I won't waste time by apologizing for something that I'm really not all that sorry for.

I'm not quite sure why I decided that today would be the perfect time to catch you up on all things housewife, but here I am. Here's the short version (I'd give you the long version, but it would require at least one cocktail, which I am obviously not able to enjoy currently. So if I suffer, you suffer.):  I got pregnant. I got a job working for a certain NPO that will go unnamed. I hated said job because of a certain possibly bi-polar boss, who will also go unnamed. I quit that godawful, stress inducing, soul-sucking job one Friday after about three months of my patience and sanity being tested DAILY. Side note, that was possibly the single most irresponsible thing that I have ever done in my adult life ... well, at least that I would share with you (without the above-mentioned prerequisite cocktail(s). Moving on, I have since become a reality television addict (the first step is admitting that I have a problem, right?), a professional pregnant chick who sits on the couch with her feet up, and an overall complainer. I'm multitalented.

I won't overwhelm you with the details of all of my complaints.  Just think along the lines of EVERYTHING. You'd be so amazed how many obscure symptoms and random things there are to complain about whilst being pregnant (much to the hubs' chagrin). There's an endless supply of weird things that could either be attributed to pregnancy, or some sort of life-threatening illness that could claim your life at any time. By the way, if you do happen to find yourself preggers, I don't recommend pulling up the old WebMD every time you suffer a new symptom. That website will have you self-diagnosed with ebola with a nice side of anthrax and sarcoidosis. (Did you know that House reruns are on ALL of the time on USA?? It's true. Trust me ... I know.)

Anyhoo, if I'm tired of writing, you are surely tired of reading, so I'll leave you with a picture of my burgeoning belly. It's big. Large and in charge. But that's another topic for another day!

xo

These are My Confessions...

It's time for a bit of a proper introduction to the "True Confessions of a Real Housewife of Atlanta." But what, exactly, is a "true confession?" Confessions can be different things to different people. A confession could mean letting one of those sneaky little skeletons out of the closet, and divulging a long-guarded secret. Confession could mean sitting opposite a priest in an actual confessional, listing all of your sins, apologizing, getting some penance homework, repeating an Act of Contrition, and [hopefully] receiving absolution from the aforementioned priest. (Well, it would only mostly mean that if you are Catholic, Protestant, Lutheran, Anglican, or Mormon. But, I digress.) Confession could also imply that you were arrested for committing a crime, and that you eventually tired of the dark, musty, interrogation room, with the bright lights being shined into your eyes, and the grumpy brute of a detective shouting, "Where were you on the night of May 5th?!?" in your face, spraying you with drops of spittle, and refusing to let you use the restroom, even though you asked very politely (for a criminal). So you finally gave in, walked said detective through every tedious detail of your no-doubt heinous crime, and then he handed you a legal pad and a pencil to "now write the whole thing down."*

The point is, the word confession has a lot of heavy connotations. But the thing is, it doesn't have to be that deep. A confession doesn't have to be an open window into the darkest corners of your soul. It can just be something that you admit, or acknowledge. Yes, it's that easy. Dictionary.com defines "confession" as follows:

So, this brings us back full circle (love it when that happens!) to this blog. What exactly was going through this crazy mind of mine when I decided to create this blog? Well, I definitely was not thinking about Confessions, in the Usher sense (even though he is a fellow ATLien). Fortunately, I have no future baby mama concerns with my chick on the side who is three months pregnant and says she's keeping it. Additionally, seeing as to how I'm (a) not Catholic (or any of those other religions that practice the formal confession of sins), or (b) guilty of committing any crimes, I think I was thinking more along the lines of a combination of the first and third definitions. This blog is my attempt, not at total transparency ... but at a little insight into the lifestyles of the not-so-rich and not-so-famous and the not-at-all-scripted reality television show that is my life. 

...And so I offer you my confessions, all true and from the heart (however black and dismal it may feel that day) of a legitimate, REAL housewife (although less-than-enthused over the current title ... because I'd much rather be working than doing housework, which is what my life, it appears, has been regulated to ... besides blogging, a healthy amount of Facebok stalking (because yes, there is a level of Facebook stalking that graduates you from morbidly curious to full-on creeper), and just being overall fabulous, of course) of Atlanta (who just happens to love all things Housewives (especially you, Andy Cohen)). Hopefully you'll find things that make you laugh, things that pique your interest, things you want to do, things you want to put in your belly, things you have to have, and sometimes just some things that make you go "hmmm." But be warned, the confessions aren't always going to be "confessions" in the typical sense; sometimes you're just going to get little gems like, "I like rice. A lot." (True confession.) Perhaps "true confessions..." is a bit of a dramatic title for what I'm trying to accomplish, here ... but dramatic's kind of my style. 

What are some of your true confessions? I'd love to hear 'em! Until next time, kiddos ... hugs and fake air kisses from your favorite Atl homemaker!**

*Whew. That one got away from me a little bit. What can I say? I watch a lot of crime shows. But really, have you ever wondered why they make them go through the whole story before they hand them the legal pad? If I ever commit a crime for which I confess, I'm going to tell them that I would like my legal pad immediately. Then I can write it down, and they can read it for themselves, then get back to me with any questions. Because my time as a criminal would obviously be very valuable.

**Do people still use the term "homemaker?" I rather like the sound of "homemaker" better than that of "housewife." To me, homemaker implies that I alone make the home. As if the home just wouldn't be the same without me. That it couldn't live without me; that the thought of me leaving the home sends it spiraling into a bender filled with country music, cheap whiskey, geoffries, and furry walls. I am a homemaker. I complete my house; I had it at hello. That sounds so much more attractive than housewife, doesn't it? Then again, "The Real Homemakers of Atlanta" just doesn't quite have the same ring to it.