Caution: Church Van

I saw these words on the back of a church van the other day and wondered what exactly they meant. Here are a few ideas:

• Caution, we may try to convert you.


• Caution, we don't want you hethens to corrupt us.


• Caution, we don't want to get into an accident and die.

If the last idea is their meaning, why should they consider themselves any more special than anyone else driving on the road? We're all deserve to drive in safety.
How about this for a sign:

Caution: Human beings on board.

And, besides, I thought that they all wanted to go to heaven? If they died in a car accident, I'd think it would be a blessing for them. Maybe the sign should read Please hit us, we want to see Jesus.

Any other thoughts on this bizarre warning, feel free to add them.

Hell hath no fury ...

... like that of a pregnant woman made to wait more than an hour for a 10-minute face-to-face with a doctor who rushes her through an appointment.

Honestly, this is the most anxious and furious I have been since I've been pregnant. It's probably no coincidence then that the baby kicked me for the first time yesterday when the nurse was trying to find him (or her) with the fetal monitor. I guess he (or she) knew that mommy didn't like the nurse too much.

On Monday, Jim and I began our childbirth classes. We are using the Bradley method, which focuses on nutrition and exercise during pregnancy and learning relaxation tools to use in labor. We want as few doctor interventions as possible. When I asked the doctor if nurses at the birth center are familiar with the method, he said it depends on the nurse.

I've called a birth center in Chapel Hill to arrange to transfer my care. This birth center is run by women and it's very clear upfront about its philosophy (which happens to be my philosophy). They also have BIG whirpool tubs and they let you go home a few hours after the birth. It's really a no brainer. I should have gone to Chapel Hill in the first place.

Jim vs. the washing machine

Last week, our washing machine began leaking. So instead of throwing in the towel (no pun intended) and buying a new washing machine, Jim took on the machine. Turned out it was just a leaking duct. Here's how he fixed it:

1/2 tube of superglue Fix-All
1/2 roll of heavy duty tape
8 hours over two days of sweaty, washing machine wrestling

Caution: Skill in close combat is essential as you may be wrestling with a machine at least twice your weight in a small enclosed space.

Jim basically took the back side of the machine apart, fixed the leaking duct and put it back together. Voila! Now it works again! Thank goodness, because with our little laundrymaker due in November, we really can't afford a broken washing machine.

Money saved: about $500.

Feel free to try this at home.

Damn that Mr. Rogers

This morning I was watching the end of Sesame Street, eating cereal and trying my hardest not to puke. And then Mr. Rogers came on. (No, he didn't make me puke.)

I haven't seen Mr. Rogers in years. And lucky me, today's topic was about pets who have died. And Mr. Rogers held up a picture of his (dead, I assume) cat, Sybil. He said, in that soothing, everything's-going-to-be-okay voice, "I'm sure glad that I got to be her friend for all those years."

So I burst into tears. If our kitty wasn't sick, I may have burst into tears anyhow, just because I'm pregnant and cry when I can't open a jar of salsa. This was really sad, but I was able to laugh at myself at the same time.

My buddy Stu has had quite a life. For those who don't know the saga of Stu, it goes like this:

In the summer of 1997, my sis and I were taking a road trip to New York. It was the last time Jax and I spent together as sisters before she got married that fall. We stopped for gas and cash (in those days, I thought nothing of traveling with no cash and no map) at the North Carolina border on I-95. As I walked into the store, a little orange kitten with enormous ears popped his head out the trash can and cried at me. I looked back at my sister and asked, "Should we keep him?" I don't remember what she said, but a few minutes later we were back on the road with a squawking kitten in the car. He endured the road trip with us and made it back to North Carolina.

Jax was going to keep him, but she was living at home. My mother grew tired of the boisterous kitten and soon he was on a plane to New York, where I had moved that fall. Since then, he has moved with me at least nine times, three of those times being interstate moves. He's been on an airplane, in a car more times than I can count and in numerous hotel rooms. He's lived with three other cats and two dogs. He's killed his share of birds, moles, rabbits, lizards and various insects. He's been with me through many boyfriends although Jimmy is the only one he's ever really liked (and that's one of the reasons I married him, HA!).

Stu has been with me through a period of my life that has seen the most change. At times, being responsible for him was the only thing that kept me from going off the deep end (and those of you who know me know what that means). He's had a good life and he's been a good friend.

I really hate to think he might not be part of the family when the baby comes. But I'm with Mr. Rogers on this one: I'm sure glad I got to be his friend all these years.