no. 673 – Maybe TypePad is Trying to Tell Me Something

I was going to post a redirect to my new home, Punch Drunk, this weekend, except TypePad has decided to suddenly acquire this nice little glitch that allows only 100 posts to be exported from their files.

100 posts from no. 672 would be no. 572, right?

The last post I had exported from TypePad a few months ago was no. 555. That's right. 17 posts and the related comments are hanging in limbo land and I'll be freaking pissed if they don't have this resolved soon because here's the other issue:

I was also sent a reminder that my enrollment expires June 21 here unless I update the expiration date on my credit card info, which I don't want to do.

So I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. I don't want to lose those 17 posts because they also happen to fall during some of the more emotional parts of this pregnancy: November and December.

Shit. My move may have to be put on hold, and I hate having any part of my life on hold, even if it is "just" blogging.

And another thing, it seems my new posts on Punch Drunk aren't showing up on Bloglines? Any one else notice this or am I just super oblivious?

WHY YES, I DO SLEEP WITH MY FEET IN A BUCKET

I’ve never felt as dirty as I do right now being pregnant. Dirty in the moral way, not the literal way.

When a couple is struggling with trying to get pregnant, the advice that comes spewing from anyone who knows they are trying is overwhelming.

Granted, most of the time, the suggestions, such as wearing boxer shorts, and certain positions, and propping up the hips are presented rather innocently even if wholly unwelcomed. Kind of like advice on how not to burn your vegetables when grilling the chicken at the same time. Of course, there’s always the pig in the bunch that’s willing to “help out”. Hey, if that’s the fantasy he needs to get his own job done, fine, but I certainly don’t need to know.

But now, I have tolerated much waggling of eyebrows and winks and fist pumping motions and not just from friends, but strangers passing me by with looks that say loud and clear, “I know what YOU have been up to”; or as a friend of mine from ages ago would say when he spotted a very pregnant woman, “She didn’t sleep with her feet in no bucket.”

My favorite  reaction was one that took place after mass on the church steps. The husband of a couple we were neighbors with at our old house told me how it seems that he just saw me a couple weeks ago and didn’t even know I was pregnant. I replied that yes, I really have popped recently. He said back to me, “That’s not all the popped, now is it?” *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*

As he stood there smirking at me and my husband, I was a breath away from replying back that Mr. DD wasn’t even around when I got myself “popped”. What an asshole. An unfortunate side affect to his comment was that now I had the image of him and his cold-fish of a wife fumbling about in the dark. Gah!

It’s as if I want to tell everyone the cold, clinical details of Murdock’s conception so they can just stop imagining Mr. DD and I getting our freak on and then making nasty innuendos. Why do people think that’s appropriate?! In fact, it’s too bad that they don’t know I’m nearly back to virginal goodness and purity at this point, trust me. Well, as close as I can be considering it’s me. Whatever, back off, Smutty McSmutmouth.