Mick Jagger Got It Right: A Birth Story

OK, so this is one of those posts that I am mainly writing for myself and a few friends that have asked, so if you are only interested in the highlights of Jacob's birth, here they are: I was planning an unmedicated birth but after a 22-hour labor with some complications I ended up having a c-section, which didn't suck like I thought it would. For those of you wanting to hear the epically long, detailed version of events, read on: 

A couple of months before Jacob was born, Mike and I were riding in the car together and I was in one of my more philosophical moods. We were chatting about upcoming changes in our lives (the baby, a new job for Mike, etc.) when it occurred to me that much of my life could be summed up in the lyrics to a Rolling Stones song: "you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need." Meaning that more often than not, things don't work out the way I want them to, but they do work out.

What I wanted in the childbirth department was to have a natural delivery. Whenever I thought about having kids even before I was actually pregnant, I just assumed that I would birth them without the assistance of medication. When I found out I was pregnant I started doing more research on natural childbirth. I read a bajillion books on the subject, took a hypnobirthing class, and even listened to cheesy affirmation CDs that told me things like "pregnancy is natural, normal, healthy, and safe", all in the hopes of having an uncomplicated natural birth.

 Because my pregnancy went so smoothly, I just assumed  that once my due date came I would go into labor on my own, then wait until contractions were 3-5 minutes apart and intense before heading to the hospital, where I would dilate at 1 cm per hour and deliver our baby quickly and efficiently.

Well, in the weekly appointments leading up to my due date I showed no signs of going into labor anytime soon: no dilation, baby still hadn't dropped, etc. It didn't worry me too much because my gut feeling was that he would be a little late anyway. So I kept doing all the things they tell you to do to facilitate labor. You know, long walks, spicy food, and the like. And when I went to my 40-week appointment and my cervix was still closed, I really started taking things seriously. I took all kinds of herbal supplements, ate the famous pizza at Cafe Trio, hiked up many a mountain, etc., only to find out at my 41-week appointment that I still was not dilated at all.

My doctor knew that I wanted to try for a natural delivery so we hadn't talked induction yet, but at this appointment he told me that although he was still hopeful that I would go into labor in the next few days, at 42 weeks we would probably need to start some kind of induction process since problems frequently arise when babies are delivered past that point.

I went home from that appointment feeling really conflicted. I trusted my doctor and knew that my due date was calculated acurately, yet I really didn't want to be induced. I felt so frustrated with my body and wondered why it wasn't doing what it was supposed to do. When I told people how far past my due date I was, they mostly reacted by saying "oh, you must be so miserable" or "aren't you so tired of being pregnant?" But the truth of the matter is that, although I was a bit tired of growing a human, I would have stayed pregnant for another few weeks if I could have known for sure that the baby would be all right when he was born. I had heard of people going three and four weeks past their due date and figured I might be one of them, but I realized that refusing induction in the hopes of having a natural delivery was not worth the risk of something happening to Jacob. So after giving the matter a lot of thought and prayer Mike and I decided we would go with whatever course of action my doctor recommended.

My 41-week appointment was on a Monday, and I went in on Friday for one last check and non-stress test to see how we would proceed. I had been feeling some contractions earlier in the week so I was hoping for some progress, and sure enough I was dilated to a 1. This made both my doctor and I happy because it meant that instead of going in that night for a treatment of cytotec or cervidil (both of which are no fun from what I hear) I could come in the following morning to see if breaking my water could get things moving.

On Saturday morning we arrived at the hospital at 7 a.m. and my doctor stripped my membranes and broke my water. Mike and I spent the next couple of hours walking the halls of the hospital trying to get contractions going. At one point I was even doing lunges down the hallway next to my room, much to the amusement of the nursing staff.

My contractions were now coming strong and steady at about 3-4 minutes apart, but every time I got checked my cervix still hadn't budged. By noon I was only dilated to a 1.5, so I got started on some pitocin. My nurse said that they would start me on the most minimal dose, which she hoped would be enough to put me into labor on my own and they could pull it if that ended up being the case.

Unfortunately that didn't end up happening, and instead I spent the next five and a half hours dealing with some hellish pitocin-induced contractions as my dosage kept getting increased. That was really rough, not only because the contractions were really intense but because I had to be monitored the whole time so my range of movement was decreased and I couldn't take advantage of the big jetted tub that everyone says is such a lifesaver when going through labor unmedicated.

When I got checked at 5:30 p.m. I was only dilated to a 3, and at that point I knew that I had a really long labor ahead of me so I opted to get an epidural since I already felt exhausted and the relaxation techniques I had learned over the past few months were proving to be no match for the pitocin. As soon as I got the epidural I fell asleep for two hours and by 9:00 I was dilated to a 6. At that point both Mike and I were relieved that the end was in sight and figured that within a few hours I would be dilated to a 10 and ready to push.

Well, as the hours went by I remained stuck at a 6. The nurses tried having me move positions and whatnot, but every time they came in to check me I still hadn't dilated any further. At about midnight they called my doctor, who came in to assess the situation. He talked to Mike and I and explained that what was happening was that my cervix wasn't dilating but the baby was still moving down, and although he was still tolerating labor very well at this point, there was a possibility that this could result in an emergency situation, especially since chances were that I would be in labor for over 24 hours by the time it came time to push so my body would be thoroughly exhausted by that point.

Side note: It seems like most people that plan an unmedicated birth opt for using a midwife as their healthcare provider, since most OBs are only around for like ten minutes at the very end of the process to catch the baby. I actually went to see a midwife for my first prenatal visit and wasn't happy with the experience so I went to a doctor that my sister recommended. I ended up really liking him and his office, but throughout my pregnancy I kept second guessing myself and wondering if I should go to a midwife instead. In the end I'm so glad that I didn't switch. My doctor ended up checking on us repeatedly throughout the labor process; making sure we were doing all right, seeing if we had any questions,etc. And he remained true to what he told me at my first visit when I asked him how he handled situations that needed intervention. Back then he said that he would explain the situation, give us our options, and tell us what he would do if it were his wife but leave the decision up to Mike and I.

So when the doctor came in at 2:00 a.m. and found me still at a 6, he said that our options were to keep doing what we were doing and see if things would progress, or he could perform a c-section. He told us that the baby was now at a positive station, which meant that he was trying to come out but my body just wasn't letting him do it. He said that at this point it was our call, but if it were his wife in the situation he would probably advise her to have the c-section.

After hearing that I broke down and started crying. Mike and I were both so drained and felt like we had been pushed to our limits physically and emotionally. We talked about it and decided that we would give it another few hours and if I still hadn't dilated further we would move ahead with a c-section.

I spent the next few hours desperately hoping that something would change; that I would miraculously dilate and avoid the surgical birth I had been told was so awful and so opposite of everything I had wanted. Those were the thoughts crowding my mind, yet deep down in that place somewhere inside my head--the one that seems to knows things before I am conciously ready to acknowledge them--I knew that wouldn't be the case. And as much as I wrestled and fought with the notion of having a c-section, when I got up the courage to actually consider it--to take it from that place inside my head and examine it for what it was--I immediately felt peaceful and calm. This was how things were going to happen and whether or not I planned it that way didn't matter much anymore. I just wanted my baby to be healthy and safe.

So when the doctor came in around 4:30 a.m. and told me what he assumed would be devastating news--that I was still at a 6, maybe a 6 and a half, I think i surprised both him and Mike by essentially saying "game on. Let's shred our birth plan and slice me up."

I have heard enough horror stories about c-sections to fill a book, so I think I can safely say that I lucked out majorly in the way mine went down. Once it was decided that I was having a c-section, I was given more anesthesia in my epidural and prepped for surgery, then once everything got started the whole procedure took about fifteen minutes. I could feel some pressure but zero pain, and aside from a little bit of nausea I didn't feel any side affects from the drugs. No loopiness or drowsiness. I was just impatient for that moment when I would finally meet this little person that had been living inside of me these past forty some odd weeks.

And when that moment came, when they held our baby up above the surgical sheet and I saw this tiny little human with my dark hair and Mike's almond-shaped eyes, it was surreal in the best possible sense of the word. I couldn't believe that he was finally here and that he was ours to keep. And that feeling only intensified when Mike brought Jacob over to me and laid him on my chest while the doctors finished stitching me up. As trite and cliched as this notion is, I couldn't believe how much love I felt for someone I had just met. In an instant that little man became my whole world. And when we got back to our room a few minutes later and got to have that precious skin-to-skin time with our new family of three, it was the most peaceful and beautiful experience. One I'll never forget.

So to sum things up, I think that the Rolling Stones principle held true for me once again: I didn't have the rainbow-filled hippie natural birth that I wanted, but in a strange cosmic way I think I had the experience I needed.  Even though on paper it may seem like a nightmarish scene straight out of "The Business of Being Born", Jacob's birth was still a beautiful and empowering experience. It allowed me to learn, for what felt like the millionth time in my life, that I can’t control everything (which I’m finding out is something I need to remember on a daily basis as a mother), and that letting go of my frustration and just allowing myself to experience the moment allows for everything to turn out right. And even though it ended up being very different from the scenario either of us were expecting, Jacob’s birth was an amazing bonding experience for Mike and I. My husband went from dreading our birthing class like it was dental surgery to being the best birth partner and advocate that I could have ever asked for. 

There was also something oddly liberating in being confronted with what I thought would be a worst-case scenario and not having it be the nightmare I expected. In short, even though I’m still on board with the whole natural childbirth philosophy and sometimes question if things could have gone differently in a non-medical setting, I don’t feel like having a c-section was an experience to mourn. After all, after everything was said and done I have a healthy, happy boy who is everything I could have ever needed or wanted.

P.S.- Mike and I had to laugh when we realized how our experience kind of mimicked this video. (warning: it's pretty crude). Also, I think the last few paragraphs of this New York Times article present a nice commentary on the opposing views of childbirth in our society.

Solly Baby Wrap

I love the idea of toting Jacob around in a wrap, but most of the ones I've seen are made out of heavy material that would get way too hot. The solly baby wrap (formerly the Lulu wrap) is made of lighter fabric and the website claims that it can be used on even the hottest days. This wrap is a little on the spendy side, but if you post the new solly baby commercial on your blog you can get 20% off your order. So has anyone out there used this wrap? Did you like it?

The Wrap by Solly Baby from Memorialist Media on Vimeo.

Jacob Michael Cassity

Born Sunday, June 24th at 4:54 a.m.

8lbs, 7oz

21 inches long

Details, birth story, etc. coming right up.

The home stretch

So my due date is this Sunday. For those of you thinking “well, that came quickly” all I can say is join the freaking club. This pregnancy has absolutely flown by. It’s like one minute I was seeing two lines on the pregnancy test and the next I’ve turned into this:

I was reading this post today and it actually made me feel pretty good to realize that since I wrote it Mike and I have gotten our act together and actually feel more or less prepared to bring this little one home. He has somewhere to sleep (even though I’m still not done decorating it):

And, thanks to the generosity of so many people, we now have pretty much anything we could need or want in the way of baby stuff. I know I shouldn’t be shocked by all the ways that people have reached out to us during this time since our friends and family are truly the cream of the crop, but it has still come as a most pleasant surprise every time someone has thrown me a shower, turned up with a gift, or simply checked in to see how I’m feeling and if I need anything. Just yesterday my pilates teacher came to class with a bag full of gifts for our baby and the sight of it nearly brought my hormonal self to tears. People are rad.

(I'm a Young Women's leader in my ward and the girls threw me a surprise shower a few weeks ago. I was so impressed by the diaper cake they made that I took a picture.) 

But as the number of items on our “to do” list has shrunk significantly, the time that I’ve been able to spend mulling over how this change is going to impact our lives has increased. And for someone as prone to sentimentality as myself, the best word I can use to sum up the emotions I’ve been feeling lately is bittersweet.

On one hand, I’m so excited for this new phase of our lives to begin and to have our own little family. I realize that we have been extraordinarily lucky in the timing of this event—it didn’t happen before Mike and I were ready and we didn’t have to wait long once we decided it was time to add a baby to the mix. We’ve had four and a half years of marriage in which we were able to finish school, find jobs, remodel our home, do a bit of traveling, and just enjoy all the different aspects of newly married life.

But now that this time as just the two of us is coming to an end, I feel myself clinging to each little moment like it’s the end of a carefree era. This past week has been filled with ordinary happenings like running errands together, meeting up with Josh and Heather for snow cones, watching crappy TV shows with our sister wife Megan, going to book club, having dinner and testing out a homemade gelato recipe with Masha and Matt, etc., but suddenly all those things seem so precious and final—like I will do them again but never in the same way.     

 (Butch did not want to cooperate. He thinks taking pictures of food is the epitome of hipster nonsense).

I know this all sounds a bit dramatic, but I’m hoping that we can be the kind of parents that find a way to merge these two halves of our lives; that even though our days of last-minute camping trips or midnight movies might be over for a little while, that doesn’t mean we can’t still go on hikes, spend summer weekends at Bear Lake, or hang out with all the great friends we have made over the years. We might show up at Cup O Sno with a diaper bag in hand, and a stroller and pack-n-play will now be part of the baggage we check in at the airport, but that also means that there will be a little person around to keep things interesting.  And even though a part of me is panicking about our lives never being the same as they are right now, I'm beginning to think that maybe having a little sidekick to share our adventures with might just make them even better. 
Unless our kid ends up being really annoying. Then we're just screwed. 

An update

The kitchen remodel is finally done! OK, it was actually done like a month ago but I've been too lazy to post about it. I've been far too busy doing important things like eating ice cream and watching my midsection expand at a rapid rate. 

So here's the before (these pictures were taken the night before we started the remodel while I was making burritos and Butch was packing everything up, so just know that this level of clutter was not the norm):

I kind of miss the plate wall already:

And now the after (most of these are a little dark but you get the idea): 

Close-up of the penny tile backsplash (so glad I went with this instead of the subway tile I was originally considering. I like the texture and bit of whimsy that it adds to the place):

I love this island:

I am beyond thrilled with the finished product, even though getting there was a bit more of a rough road than either Mike or I had anticipated. One that involved dealing with inept cabinet builders, fixing grout that kept hazing over on us, and living in a total state of clutter for a month. Not to mention the insane pregnancy hormones that really kept life interesting. I think the low point was me sobbing my eyes out in an Arby's bathroom because I was convinced we would never find countertops I liked. True story. And Mike deserves a gold medal for dealing with it all.


But now that everything is finished both Butch and I are in a constant state of euphoria over things like wiping down our counters in one sweeping motion instead of scrubbing at nasty grout lines, or being able to actually keep all our food and cooking supplies in the kitchen instead of having to stash them in the linen closet. Now we just need to replace our ancient dining room furniture and the transformation will be complete. 

And here's an update on our second major project (aka Baby Butch):

I hit 37 weeks on Sunday (full term!) and posted this photo on Instagram* to commemorate the occasion. So far the little tyke seems to be cooking along quite nicely, and, as my doctor likes to remind me with each visit, he could now arrive at ANY TIME. But I'm not really banking on it. If our boy takes after his parents at all, my guess is that he will show up fashionably late. I'm cool with that, but my swollen ankles aren't. 

*Yes, I upgraded to a smart phone. And have now become one of those obnoxious people that thinks Instagram is the greatest thing since sliced bread. If you want to follow me my user name is dashacassity (original, no?) My profile is private but as long as you aren't a random creep I will totally add you. Promise. And if you're on Instagram you should leave your user name in the comments so I can follow you. I need more fun photos to look at.   

Thoughts at 32 (ish) weeks

So I haven’t done much of the whole “document my pregnancy” crap on this blog. In fact, I haven’t really documented it at all. Anywhere.  I realized the other day that I have only taken like 5 “belly pics” in the last 7 months and they consist of gems like this one, snapped with my phone yesterday at work:

(yes, I still have a thousand-year-old flip phone. Ghetto).

And one from the front, taken today:

Here's one at 27 weeks:

And a dark, blurry one at 30 weeks, complete with scary devil eyes:

So anyhoo, I’m at 32 weeks now. 33 on Sunday to be exact. And the two questions I seem to be asked constantly are “how are you feeling?” and “are you ready?”

To the first question I can honestly say that I’m feeling pretty good. A bit of heartburn here and there, some swollen feet  on hot days, and bending over is getting more and more difficult. But other than that things are normal.

The second question, however, elicits responses ranging from “no, but luckily we’ve still got some time” to “Oh my hell no. Now please hold me while I dissolve into a massive hormone-fueled anxiety attack.” Because at this point we seriously haven’t even bought the kid so much as a pack of diapers, and the room reserved for a nursery has only recently been emptied of its former contents.  Plus I’m slacking on the hypnobirthing prep bigtime (mostly because I can’t listen to any of the CDs without falling asleep after about five minutes. Did you have that problem, Meg?)

But despite the anxiety created by my procrastination habit, being less than 8 weeks away from Baby Butch’s due date is also quite the thrill. One of the highlights so far was my first baby shower on Saturday, thrown by my fabulous girlfriends. It was so fun to spend time with some of my favorite people, including friends that I don’t see often enough, and I felt so overwhelmed by everyone’s generosity and good wishes. Of course I forgot to bring a camera, but luckily Megan’s iphone came to the rescue.  We didn’t manage to get a pic of everyone that came but here is one of some of the girls that attended:

So that’s what’s up these days. Mike and I are both a little anxious about this change in our lives, yet so excited to meet this little person and see what he’s all about. I still can’t believe we’re actually going to be parents. It blows my mind on a regular basis. 

Hurray for camping season

This year, we spent Easter weekend camping in the San Rafael Swell with the Hanson family and some other friends.  It felt so great to get away from the city and all the remodeling craziness going on at our house and just breathe in some fresh air, spend quality time with Butchface, and soak up some dessert sunshine.  I love a good campout.

And the whole being 7 months pregnant thing (31 weeks is about 7 months, right? Pregnancy math is a mystery to me) actually ended up working in my favor on this trip, since sleeping in our little tent was still as comfortable as ever and I felt great, but everyone on the trip treated me like a queen incapable of helping with camping-related chores. Plus Mike even let me sit in the “nice” camp chair— you know, the one that I have been banned from for years after I said I was fine with the ghetto five-dollar chair I had and why in the world would you spend 30 bucks on a nicer one? I now see the light, Butch. 

Working on the cars before heading out four-wheeling. Butch's face is classic:

The Hansons are known for their fine camping cuisine. This is a typical breakfast of Troy's famous mountain man breakfast scramble and fruit. The morning before this we had scones, eggs, and bacon. Let's just say I was happy to be eating for two.

Esmerelda (Mike's jeep) finally got to be out in her element:

Hansol's land cruiser:

Taylor's jeep:

First campfire of the season. Not pictured: first s'mores and roasted starburst of the season. My favorite. 

The girls:

Our trusty go-cart:

Esmerelda resting up after her four-wheeling adventure:

Thanks for letting us tag along on your trip, Hansons. It was good times as always.

Tutus and Chimps (or just a really random and pointless string of thoughts that needed to be shared for some reason)

So you know this annoying McDonald’s shamrock shake commercial?

The first couple of times I saw it I was so bugged because I knew I recognized the girl in it from somewhere, but couldn’t quite figure out who she was. And it bothered me to no end. Then one day it clicked and I was all “holy crap it’s Jody Sawyer!” If that name doesn’t mean anything to you watch the trailer below:

Man, I love me some Center Stage. Actually, even though I have zero dance ability I find myself loving all things ballet. Except I still haven't seen Black Swan cause even the trailer gives me the heebie jeebies. I’m a sensitive soul when it comes to movies.

But anyhoo, my next thought after arriving at this mind-blowing realization was “what in the world is Jody Sawyer doing in a McDonald’s commercial? And why isn’t she wearing her leotard or pointe shoes?”  

An IMDb search revealed that Jody’s name is actually Amanda and she was a legit ballerina but now she is trying to be an actress. Which, good for her and everything but it’s still strange to see someone that I know from one ballet movie that I first saw in Junior High pop up on TV ten years later professing her love for mint milkshakes. It weirds me out for reasons that I can’t really explain. And watching the commercial didn’t make me want a milkshake, but it did send me straight to my computer searching for Center Stage on Netflix. I wonder if the McDonald’s advertising department anticipated that effect. 

And while we’re on the subject of movies, I saw this trailer over the weekend and it just about made me cry:

Does this movie look adorable or what? 

Because cruises are for sissies

At my last doctor’s appointment my OB informed Mike and I that our job right now is to have tons of fun as a couple before Baby Butch joins our clan. He then started talking about how long I can safely fly, travel on cruise ships, etc. And since neither Mike nor I are particularly great at following orders, we were like “Meh, that sounds great and all, but I think we’d rather demolish our whole kitchen instead.”

Apparently our idea of fun consists of pricing out cabinets and tile, debating over paint colors, and stressing out over the state of our savings account. Throw the constant hum of power tools and a very cluttered living room into the mix and the party really gets started.

In all seriousness though, it might not be the smartest idea to take on this project at a time when we should probably just be soaking up the luxuries of kid-free life, but we both figured that if living without a kitchen for a month and doing all this work feels kind of overwhelming right now, it definitely won’t be any easier when we add an infant to the equation. Plus this is something that we have been wanting to do since we first moved into our place, and we are really excited to enjoy the finished product.

So instead of spending a week lounging on the beach in Aruba, we’re going to commemorate the final months of our pre-parenthood era by transforming our outdated, inefficient kitchen into something that looks more like this (although obviously a much smaller, budget-friendly version):

We’re going for a clean, airy, modern look with a bit of fun color. Cabinets, flooring, and countertops are taken care of—now I just need to decide on the backsplash. At first I was quite taken with that glass tile in the first photo, but now I’m gravitating toward something a little more subtle, like this:

But so far I've had a hard time tracking down something similar. Anyone know of any good tile resources?

P.S.- It really needs to be said that, although I throw the term "we" around a lot in this post, Butch is the one taking on the brunt of this task. In fact, he is spending his spring break working tirelessly on it while I scamper around trying to do the stuff that doesn't require inhaling dangerous chemicals, doing any heavy lifting, or using construction skills of any kind. Which means I am pretty much in charge of running the Shop-Vac while he takes care of the important stuff. My husband's legit.  

Thoughts on love, friendship, and vampire demon babies

Most of you know of my love of bad movies. There are few guilty pleasures I enjoy indulging in more than watching a Lifetime original movie or something equally awful (a low-budget rom com, anything starring the Olsen twins, etc.) and making fun of it the whole time.*

Luckily I know many people that can appreciate an ABC Family special as much as I do, and one Valentine’s Day some years ago my little sister and I hosted a girls night in which our single friends came over and we watched some of these choice flicks and had ourselves a good laugh (a wide selection of Little Debbie snack cakes were also involved. It’s a long story).

I remember thinking at the time how this was a great way to spend Valentine’s Day—no elaborate plans or high expectations, no need to get dressed up or stressed out. Just an excuse to spend time with loved ones while doing something silly and random.

Fast forward to this Valentine’s Day, when Mike and I decided we would celebrate by cooking a nice dinner together and watching a movie at home. On a whim I selected what I’d heard was one of the crown jewels of the “so bad it’s actually awesome” movie genre:

And oh my friends, it did not disappoint. Like the other Twilight movies that preceded it, Breaking Dawn is deliciously awful: Terrible acting, the cheesiest dialogue this side of daytime TV, and—heaven help us all—a handful of talking wolves thrown in for good measure. What more could you possibly want? Perhaps a total bloodbath of a childbirth scene involving a c-section performed by vampire fangs? Done and done.

The best part was that Mike totally appreciated the crappiness of this movie right along with me. Although he kind of scratched his head when I suggested watching it, he was a good sport and we both ended up laughing through Bella and Edward’s awkwardly long wedding makeout session, shuddering at the sight of R. Patz’s gnarly teeth, and continually marveling at the extent to which Stephenie Meyer drew on her Mormon roots to create that twisted little fantasy world of hers. I mean really, Bella getting married at a ridiculously young age, acting nervous beyond all reason about her wedding night (granted, homegirl was about to engage in some potentially deadly vampire sex, but still), getting knocked up on the honeymoon, and giving her child some fugly name pieced together from her family tree? Is this a fictional character we’re talking about or half of Provo’s female population?

I guess by most standards our way of celebrating Valentine’s Day was decidedly unromantic, but to me it was perfect. I’ve never really put too much stock in the whole traditional “red roses and candlelight” take on Valentine’s Day in the first place (although Mike bringing me flowers and an extremely thoughtful gift was definitely appreciated), which is why I enjoyed it even as a single gal watching crappy movies with her girlfriends.

Nowadays I just consider myself extremely lucky that the person I spend the holiday relaxing and laughing with is my husband. As odd as it sounds, I guess the whole “marry your best friend” cliché has never rung more true for me than when I realized my husband and I were both cool with spending a holiday devoted to romance collectively cringing at the sight of a pregnant-yet-even-more-freakishly-pale-and-scrawny-than-usual Kristen Stewart sucking down cupfuls of human blood (really puts my relentless snack pack cravings into perspective, no?)

Oh, and in case you were wondering, both Butch and I are Team Jacob. Although neither one of us really understands what that imprinting crap was all about.

*Why this has not translated into me jumping on The Bachelor bandwagon yet remains a mystery, but maybe one day I will join the rest of you guys and start watching that train wreck.