My Mom did all the laundry when I was growing up. As well as work full time and raise all of us kids. She would complain about doing all the laundry and when we begged her to let us help out she would tell us, “I work too damn hard to pay for your clothes. I’m not letting you ruin them by trying to wash them yourselves!”. She had a valid point.

Because she was the only one doing all of the laundry, we weren’t allowed to complain if our clothes weren’t washed fast enough. She had a few basic rules to the laundry:

• If she found money in the wash, she kept it.
• She wouldn’t make it a habit to check pockets. So check ‘em yourself.
• She would fold our clothes, but it was our job to put them away.

I remember a few times when she would find someone’s $10.00 bill in the wash and flaunt it around us. But we knew the rules. And she probably deserved a little kick back for all her hard work anyway.

Once she washed my Dad’s wallet and everything in it was ruined. It caused quite a fight at our house. But dude, he shouldn’t have left it in his pants pocket. Again, he knew the rules.

Every few years my Dad would get all mad and say that she shrunk every pair of Levi’s he owned. He would rant and rave and make a big fuss. Then he’d go out and buy himself ten new pairs of Levi’s. Maybe even a few new shirts.

We all knew that she hadn’t shrunk his pants. He was just getting fatter and wouldn’t take the blame for it.

A few weeks ago I put on one of my favorite black maternity tops. It was a little tight around my bosoms. I was all, “aw man, I shrunk my fave top!” and put it back in the closet.

I brought it out again today. You know, just to make sure it was still too small. Checking out my reflection in the mirror I realized that the shirt hadn’t shrunk.

My belly is just taking over Seattle.

One maternity shirt at a time.

I never told you, but The King got me the best Valentine’s Day present in the history of the world. Oh, your husband got you Tiffany diamonds and chocolates. I laugh at that.

All this coming from a girl that really isn’t into romance. The King and I had even made a pact that we wouldn’t buy each other presents this year. We may have even shook on it.

Oh, do you want to know what he got me? Just two tickets to see Rhett Miller, the lead singer for my very favorite band of all time, The Old 97’s. Haven’t heard of them? I’m not surprised. For some odd reason they haven’t received the recognition they deserve.

So this Rhett Miller is the master of hair flipping, hot guitar moves, lyrics pertaining to sex (but you wouldn’t realize unless you really listen to them) and the owner of the hottest face mole since Cindy Crawford. Yes I know, I’m a 30 year old women with the sexual mind of a 12 year old girl. I’ve accepted it. You should to.

The tickets for next week’s show aren’t the best part of this story. While they are totally awesome, it gets better. All thanks to fact that I lug this huge belly around all day.

This specific concert venue is small. You just have to stand and hope you can see the stage. We’ve all been to places like this. I decided last week to e-mail them. You know the drill, just testing the waters. In this e-mail I explained that I’m about to have a baby-but I would die if I had to miss Rhett’s solo show, and how my feet hurt and maybe could they reserve a table for us? I might have mentioned that we are thinking of naming the baby after Rhett. Which we aren’t really. But it made the e-mail sound so much better.

What did I find in my inbox today? An e-mail informing me that a reserved table will be waiting for The King and I on the night of said show. They told me where the table is located, and The King recognized the area as the VIP area for media, etc. Hello…we are going to be VIP’s at the bestest show. Ever. Thanks to being knocked up. See-there are bonus’ for this whole pregnancy thing (you know, besides actually having a sweet baby to love and snuggle for the rest of our lives).

When I e-mailed The King this morning to tell him the good news, I said, “stick with me baby, because this is how I roll!”

(We’d better not get used to stuff like this. Because I hear that once you have a kid you can kiss going out to concerts goodbye. Good thing we have four shows to see next week alone. Man, I’d better not have this baby this weekend.)

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Updated on my afternoon break to add more pictures of the lovely Rhett Miller. Because he’s just that HOTT. Don’t forget to check out his website to hear his new album streaming.

I have this one weird thing. Okay, I have more than one. But I’m only going to tell you about this specific one today. Maybe I’ll tell you about more later on in this relationship. Maybe.

I don’t like to put the trash in the trash chute in our apartment. Don’t like it at all. Why, you ask? It isn’t for the reasons you are probably thinking. Nope it isn’t because it stinks (which it does) and it isn’t because of all the germs (there are lots of germs, and I’m sure to wash my hands when I’m done). It isn’t even the fact that I have to get up off the couch to take the trash out. Nope, it’s because I’m afraid my wedding ring will fall off my finger and into the chute. Never to be found again.

Something like this has never happened to me. I’ve never lost my wedding ring, or misplaced it. Not even for a second. My ring isn’t too big. It’s the perfect size. (Except for when I’m pregnant-because apparently now I have sausages for fingers. Which is not sexy).

It’s just this fear I have.

I also can’t walk over street grates outside for the same reason. I’m afraid my wedding ring will just spontaneously fall off my finger and into the street grate. Again, never to be found.

Is this a normal fear that others share? Or am I alone in this one? And if you don’t have this fear, what fear do you have?

(And what does this fear mean? Is it something deep like I’m afraid I’ll lose The King. Or just that I know we couldn’t really afford to get me another ring if I lost this one? Any ideas?)

The King and I watched “Along Came Polly” for about the millionth time this weekend. This movie cracks up The King. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s funny. I just don’t think it’s the comic masterpiece The King thinks it is.

He especially loves Sandy, the character played by Philip Seymour Hoffman. Although he can’t ever remember his name.

The King: Oh I love that guy! What’s his name again?

Isabel: It’s Philip Seymour Hoffman, remember? He just won an Academy Award last week.

The King: For what movie?

Isabel: “Capote”.

The King: Oh, was he in that movie?

Isabel: Um yeah, that’s how he won the award.

**The King especially loves the scene where Sandy sharts. I admit, it’s hilarious!**

One day a week I drive out to a project site. Today was that day. The drive is about 30 minutes and always lovely. Mostly because I’m going against the traffic. And also because I get to cross the water. And the water always looks so good in the morning.

Today it was gorgeous. It’s getting lighter in the mornings, and it was reflecting perfectly off the water. Plus, it’s Friday.

When I got to work and settled in, I looked out the window and noticed it was snowing. Which doesn’t happen in Seattle. The flakes were huge and I hate to admit it, but they were magical looking.

And now? It’s sunny outside. Which also doesn’t happen in Seattle. Especially not in March. Oh the sun. The glorious sun. Welcome.

I love the sun. It makes me happy. And I need happy right now. Mostly because I am starting to feel the pregnancy hormones coming back. Yes, the pregnancy crazies that were here during the first trimester arrived with their luggage. Apparently they intend to stay this time. And like I told Heather yesterday, I feel like I need to make them a sign that says, “Welcome back crazies. You haven’t been missed!” I know I haven’t missed them. And I’m pretty confident when I say that The King hasn’t missed them. Basically he’s the one that has to deal with them. Poor guy.

The thing that is so hard for me to deal with in terms of my raging hormones, is that I can feel that I’m not thinking logically. But I’m so messed up that I don’t care. It all makes perfect sense in my head. Which also scares me.

I know most of you understand what I’m talking about. Right? We’ve all be a little unstable at some point. Heck, some of us have been lucky enough to be unstable more than others (myself included, thanks to my awesome genes!).

I find myself wanting to cry over work. Or over the people I work with. And I don’t mean “cry” in the sense that I like them so much they move me to tears. Nope, it’s the opposite kind of “cry”. Which makes me feel even more horrible because they are nice people.

See, there’s no logic.

And no control.

Mostly the only good thing I have going for myself right now is the awesome talent I seem to have for standing over a wee corner nursery in our apartment and folding and refolding baby items. Item’s that are beginning to overflow from the corner into the entire apartment.

Last night The King busted me in the baby’s corner-just looking at the little sleepers. He asked me how many times a day I do that. I refused to tell him. It’s only to protect him from knowing that his wife is cr-a-zy.

I have been trying to follow the “is she, or isn’t she?!” saga with Britney Spears these last few weeks. I don’t feel like I’ve read enough research to form my own opinion on it yet.

Yesterday’s post on “A Socialite’s Life” has pictures of Britney in a bikini. Check them out and let’s see if we can figure out this mystery. Is she pregnant, or still working on losing the baby fat from little Sean Preston?

See, it’s just like we’re Nancy Drew. Only better dressed, and little more sassy.