On attaining pre-pregnancy mass

Last week my wifelet made some homemade biscuits for my work X-mas party. As she was pulling them out of the oven (at around 9:00pm) we had the following conversation:

Wifelet: “Do you want one?”

Me: “They smell good, but I’m really not hungry.”

Wifelet: “I know what you mean; my mouth says ‘yes,’ my stomach says ‘no,’ and my hips say ‘what are you thinking you crazy woman.’

Secret Santa

This year my new lab-group has decided to do a Secret Santa gift exchange. Here's the letter that will accompany mine.

Dear Paige:

You know, it’s not easy being Santa. Oh sure, everyone has this romantic image of what my life must be like, but let me tell you, it’s not all rosy-cheeked children and deep belly laughs. No, it’s only like that on the bad days, the really bad days. Those are the days spent being mobbed by packs of miserable, present-grubbing, budding materialists that clamor and mew, “I want this, I want that!” I have to just sit there and smile until my thigh is a mass of bruises caused by obese six-year-olds bouncing up and down, demanding more video games to ensure that next year they’ll be even heavier. And all the while it’s “Ho, ho, ho,” until my abs start cramping up. Of course, the snotty-nosed vermin are always disease-ridden and I bring an average of three different viruses home with me each time that spend the next two weeks having a competition over which of them gets which part of my respiratory tract. Oh yeah, let me tell you, romantic doesn’t begin to describe it.

I’m letting you know all this so you’ll know that I understand what you go through all the time. People think that being a marine biologist is all about diving on coral reefs and playing with the dolphins. Ha. I’d like to see them try spending a 16hr day in glaring sun, wallowing in knee-deep mud, surrounded by the sweet smell of hydrogen sulfide while being assaulted by insectile monsters with large claws and a nasty attitude.

That brings us to your present. See, whenever I’ve had a particularly bad day, I come home, sit down in front of the fire with my special hot-chocolate (1 package Swiss-Miss; 1 cup warmed vodka, splash of peppermint schnapps), and read this book. It always cheers me up because I figure that however bad my life is, it’s obviously nowhere near as bad as that of the bunnies. Indeed, after the second mug, I like to make up stories that would explain what drove the bunnies to such extremities. It makes me feel all warm inside.

So, bottoms up!

Santa

The gift?