When you are pregnant, your husband is like a one-handled faucet. You’re either turned on by him or turned off; there is no in-between. Hormones play a significant part in the game and, just like…let’s say…baseball, it’s important for both the husband and the crazy pregnant lady to understand the rules. This isn’t a play-by-play on running the bases. No, surely most learned that back in high school, college or at least by their mid 20′s. And I’m not talking a ROFL Laurel & Hardy skit either. Plain and simple, it’s the dance of communication. Sadly I think my phone cord got caught under a a jack-knifed trailer truck on I-75. Should have gone cordless…

All this got me thinking…well, about…toast. I don’t know why. I think it’s a random pregnant psychosomatic disorder that makes all things relate back to food. Don’t believe me?

What’s the first word you think of when you see these words:
- love
- pig
- snow
- picture

Me?
Chocolate, bacon, ice cream… forget the list, I’m already standing in front of the open fridge.

Look, there’s no revelation or light bulb that goes off. When you are pregnant, irrational thoughts such as “I don’t know why World War II couldn’t have been solved with a slice of chocolate cake and a pint of Chubby Hubby” constantly bombard what is left of your sanity. For some with a rotund belly, they dream of donuts or funnel cakes… under a blanket of powdered sugar. And yes, sometimes that blanket of powdered sugar also gets put on those fried delights as well. Given the circumstances I am craving toast; I think it started with this:

There is something funny, yet quite disturbing about this blow up mattress from Archie McPhee. If you flung open the door to our guest room and saw this…would you run, or would you smother yourself in PB&J? Hospitality might be pushed to the ultimate limits and future blackmail photos and extortion could be on the table (so to speak). Of course, if you did injure yourself with the butter knife there’s always the satisfaction of knowing that your wounds are covered…

Understand that I, being of unsound mind and in my 3rd trimester, might go all OJ on you if you breakfast-ed your wounds. And yes, I’m talking singing with a basket of fruit on your head due to sugar overload and not “if the glove don’t fit”. Let me spell it out for you B-U-T-T-E-R  K-N-I-F-E. Oh by the way, they have beef bandages too. Apparently for those who like brunch or have aversions to chicken.

Sure, hubby has tried buttering me up (understand I’m talking niceties and not Land O-Lakes). And if accompanied by cheese, my hormones are swooned for a slight spell. Granted, it’s cheddar and not “cutting the…” (As Homer might say, “That’s just C…Krusty.”)

There have been days when I’ve wanted to crack open a bottle of “whine” and spend the remainder of the day wallowing in an vineyard. After all, the Europeans do it. But since I rarely drink, and I just scored 5 pounds of grapes for 99 cents a pound, I figure I’ll leave that kind of toast for future nights out with the girls. Of course, when that will be, who knows. Probably five years from now when I’m on the brink of planning my 45th shin-dig. With my luck it will be a blue plate special at Denny’s…or worse, at Chuck-E-Sneeze.

*sigh*

Yes, for now, I think I’ll just hang out and wait for week 32…33…34… Count down the minutes…

You know… After all, there’s always a game to pass the time:

Or a prayer…