True incident from our adventures in baby furniture shopping this weekend:

Dan and I went to a large discount department store with a fairly decent baby supplies section this weekend as part of our ongoing quest to find a crib, changing table/dresser and rocking chair for the nursery. Since it's about a million degrees here in Albuquerque right now, the process of driving around, parking, going into stores and then getting back in the hot car that never cools off in between destinations has been kind of exhausting for me. (I know, I know, I am whining. But seriously, I am going to strive never to be seven months pregnant in the month of July again.)

At the end of one of our shopping trips, in the aforementioned department store, Dan and I were pausing to discuss the merits of a particular rocking chair we were considering buying. Since I had already sat in the chair, I was getting Dan to test it out, because a piece of furniture that is comfortable for me is not always going to be comfortable for Dan, who is six feet, six inches tall. But I still wanted to sit down, because my feet were killing me, so I found a seat on a toddler bed that was right next to the rocking chair and sat down on the edge of that.

I should pause at this point in the story to explain that we had been in this store for nearly an hour, and in the course of shopping there, I had asked the sales staff for that department a few questions about things like color selections, toddler bed features, and the kind of trivia that fills your brain when you've been looking at baby furniture for two days straight. The sales staff in question were two older ladies who were not terribly helpful or enthusiastic about answering those questions. I suppose you get what you pay for, and we were in a discount kind of store, but it was still not impressive customer service.

But now we're at the end of our trip, and we're basically sitting there talking about whether or not we're going to purchase something before we leave or think about it for a couple of days and come back. Right at that moment, one of the sales ladies, who has previously not acknowledged our presence unless absolutely required to do so, rounds the corner and sees me sitting on the toddler bed. She stops, looks at me with extreme distaste and says "Ma'am, there's a 50-pound weight limit for those toddler beds."

I blinked at her a couple of times while it sunk in that this woman was, in fact, suggesting to me that I might be large enough to break a piece of furniture that is supposedly designed for toddlers, who are not exactly known for being gentle with their belongings. Then I got up, apologizing. In hindsight, I wish I hadn't apologized, because she was really being very rude, but at that point I was flustered and wanted to get out of the store. But before I could do that, this woman proceeded, with great ceremony, to get down on her hands and knees and examine the undercarriage of the toddler bed, clearly implying that she was checking to see if I had damaged it in some way.

Boy, that made me want to whip out my credit card and spend some money! Needless to say, we left.

So here's a tip, baby product retail people of the world: If your target buying demographic is pregnant women, you might want to work on being really nice to pregnant women, or at least not actively implying that they are so fat as to be about to detstroy your floor models. Because now that you mention it, I am pretty big these days, and I could crush you like a bug. Don't tempt me. Better the toddler bed than you, lady.

Maybe tomorrow I will go back and have Dan wheel me around in one of their strollers.

I will get the embarrassing part out there at the start: We went to see Transformers on Wednesday. I knew we were going to have to do that because very early in the day, Dan started going around the house singing the part of the Transformers cartoon theme song about "more than meets the eye." Once he starts singing, you're pretty much going to have to cave in and do whatever he wants. I'm just telling you this in case Dan ever starts trying to persuade you.

So we went to see Transformers, which was good because the air conditioner was not working so well in our house and the movies are nice and dark and cold. And the movie really wasn't bad. In fact, it was pretty good. The only bad part about it was that everyone else and their mama went to see that movie on the 4th of July. So we got to the movie early, got our popcorn and settled in for some pre-previews people watching. And here is what we learned:

There are apparently hundreds and hundreds of people who think it is appropriate to take very small children to a PG-13 movie. I'm talking about kids who needed booster chairs to see over the seats in front of them. Kids in diapers. Really little kids. It was kind of disturbing, especially given the fact that an actual children's movie, Pixar's "Ratatouille," was playing down the hall. But then, I suppose there's no better way to teach the kids about our nation's independence than taking them to watch Decepticons try to annihilate the Earth. Or something. (A note: Originally this sentence read: "... teach the kids about our nation's independence by taking them to watch autobots try to annihilate the earth." Then Joshua, who is set to marry Dan's sister Hannah in two weeks, pointed out to me that the Autobots are the good guys who try to help the earth, and the Decepticons are evil. I have corrected my mistake, and would just like to say to Joshua, thank you for helping me get my Transformer lingo straight and proving once again how perfectly suited you are to join the Wachdorf family. You're going to be the geeky, Transformer-watching little brother Dan always wanted. Maybe at Christmas we can get you matching jammies and you can watch cartoons together. It's meant to be. And you and Hannah are good together, too. I'm getting choked up.)

So was this just an Albuquerque phenomenon or did anyone else see people hauling lap children into this film? Of course, you would have to admit to seeing Transformers to comment on that, but I invite you to just embrace your inner nerd and 'fess up. You know you loved it.

In celebration of the fact that I am 32 weeks pregnant and now officially have all the rights and privileges granted to eight-months-pregnant women, whatever those are, I thought I'd share with you some photos that Daniel, fiancee of my sister Hannah, took of me while I was visiting Mississippi in June. I'm not sure how Daniel files these, probably under something like "Still life with large belly," but I've never had so much fun having my picture taken. Hannah was there, holding various pieces of lighting-related equipment for Daniel and making me laugh the whole entire time, which explains why I've got my mouth wide open in quite a few of these. I'm glad they are happy pictures. I don't really have any need for a bunch of pictures of myself with a giant stomach, but my mom persuaded me that Kate might one day like to see them, and if she does, I'm glad she'll see me laughing. Pregnancy isn't always fun. But I am very happy about what I'm getting out of it. And, let's be honest, I like to laugh more than just about anything, so they are realistic shots.

Here's one to get you started:

Oh, the irony. After seven months of me whining about the trials of finding decent-looking maternity clothes and casting wistful glances at the display windows of Ann Taylor, my favorite pre-pregnancy store, Ann Taylor Loft has chosen the final weeks of my pregnancy to announce that they are launching a maternity line.

As someone who has given the Ann Taylor brand a great deal of money over the years, I wish they had consulted me when they were making this decision. But even though they've snubbed me in this manner, I am happy to know that next time I am pregnant, I will not be banished from Ann Taylor. And I bet Kelly is beside herself.

After about six weeks of sub-standard performance, our wretched swamp cooler chose Friday the 13th to refuse to turn on at all. (For those of my readers unfamiliar with the joys of swamp coolers, first take a moment of silence and be thankful that you've never had to listen to anyone claim that they work as well as the real air conditioning being used in the entire rest of the civilized world. Then click here to learn about these contraptions.)

The cooler, as I mentioned, has not been performing well at all this summer, resulting in more than a few days in the recent very hot weeks when the coolest room in our house was 80 degrees by about 2 p.m., meaning that the rest of the house had all the appeal of an unventilated U-Haul truck. Dan heroically climbed up on the roof a couple of times to try to see if something wasn't working properly and even replaced a couple of parts that we thought might be the problem, but those adjustments yielded only minor improvements.

So it was almost a relief when, on Friday morning, the thing just wouldn't turn on. I called a local company with big vans and they sent over a very nice guy named Jerod who climbed up on our roof and climbed down about 10 minutes later to inform me, in a sincerely apologetic tone, that both our pump and our motor needed replacing. About two hours later, I wrote Jerod a very large check. I wasn't happy about that, since it's not like we aren't throwing money at baby gear purchases left and right these days. But it was 90 degrees in my house, and I really didn't want to spend the night in the frozen food aisle of Wal-Mart, which was looking like my other option. And now our swamp cooler works. I still hate it. But it works.

The one useful thing I think I may have gained from the recent weeks of overheating is a good introduction to the kind of mental discipline it would take to get through childbirth with only the aid of deep breathing and positive mental images. Sitting around trying to convince myself that it actually feels a little cooler in the house today, only, say, 85 degrees as opposed to yesterday's 88, is, as far as I can tell, the same sort of self-distraction I'll be striving for as I try to learn breathing exercises in our childbirth class for the next six weeks.

"No, these contractions don't really hurt! (Deep breath.) They're just waves carrying me toward my beautiful child's birth!"

Yeah. And I'll probably be using that deep breathing to yell for an epidural within about 10 minutes.

My big accomplishment for the week is that I have gotten all caught up on my Harry Potter reading and am now ready for the release of the final book on Saturday. Since there are a couple of years between books, I always have to go back and read the last one so that I can actually remember what it was I wanted to know so badly when the last book was over. But now I remember. Oh, yes, I remember, Snape.

A few days ago, my dad called me up to ask me if I had gone to see the Harry Potter "Order of the Phoenix" movie yet. The mere fact that my dad knows who Harry Potter is is testament to the fact that my younger sister, Audrey, is a complete fanatic about these books, kind of the strung-out junkie to my relatively casual user. I am proud to say that I am the one who gave her her first Harry Potter book. (So I guess in this analogy, I would be her drug dealer.) I told Dad that yes, I took myself to see the Order of the Phoenix movie one recent evening. I was not that impressed with the movie, but I wasn't as upset as Audrey, who later gave me a passionate rundown of all the ways in which the movie was just terribly, unforgivably wrong. Not that I've never gotten all bent out of shape about the movie rendition of one of my favorite books. Remember this?

But movie or not, it's the new book that's really important now. Since the last time that one of the books came out, Audrey and I have also gotten our sister Hannah to start reading Harry Potter. So what this means for Dan, Cade and Daniel, the significant others of the Rice girls, is that they had better go out and get some plans of their own this weekend. Because we have a hot date with Harry Potter.

Anyone else getting excited?

In my previous post, I failed to mention that Dan's side of the family contains some pretty dedicated Harry Potter fans as well. Specifically, Dan's sister Hannah and her fiancee Josh. Josh and Hannah are getting married on Saturday in San Antonio, and Dan is catching a plane this afternoon so he can go and be part of that celebration. Kate and I are staying at home due to our collective hugeness and unsuitability for air travel, but we are very sorry to miss the festivities.

Since Hannah and Josh chose this Saturday to get married, an obvious problem emerges for them as Harry Potter fanatics: Enjoy your wedding reception and honeymoon, which you've been planning since January, or read the last Harry Potter book, which the world has been anticipating for two years?

Josh informs me that they've got it all worked out so that they can have their wedding cake and eat it too:

"A trustworthy groomsman is picking up our copies on the wedding day so that we don't miss out on any Potterific plot developments. We feel like it would be rude not to invite our favorite fictional wizard to be a part of our marriage experience."

So there you have it. They'll be lying on the beach in Hawaii, reading Harry Pottery. That sounds like a perfect honeymoon to me!

Have a great wedding day, Hannah and Josh. We love you. (This is a picture of the love birds about a year ago when we were in San Antonio for the wedding of Dan's sister Dinah and her husband, Chris. There was a lot of wedding cake left over, and as you can see, some people can't resist an opportunity to attack one another with baked goods. Let's hope they show more restraint when they are in formal wear.)

Well, I can't remember my name anymore, but whoever I am, I know what happens at the end of Harry Potter! No spoilers here. Just wanted to let you know that the rules about "Lost" viewing habits previously discussed on this blog also apply to Harry Potter. In other words, if you spend 12 straight hours reading the final Harry Potter book and then go to bed immediately, you are bound to have some strange dreams. Apparently, my subconscious is concerned that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named might be planning to steal Kate from the hospital when she's born. So maybe you want to have a kind of detox period after your finish the last chapter so that your brain can readjust to, you know, reality.

Also, try to blink while you're doing your binge-reading or your contacts are going to dry out something fierce. This is the kind of advice you can only get from a true nerd. Write it down.

I have lots of thoughts about the book, but I will keep them to myself until I can see straight again. For now, here's what I think: It was good. The end.

This is one of the surprisingly frequent times in my life when I wish I lived in Nebraska. For several reasons, I actually know more Nebraskans than I have any right to, given where I grew up, and they are all pretty cool. This weekend, I wish they lived closer because I know then that I would not have to go by myself to see Over the Rhine in concert.

This is a great little husband and wife duo whose music Dan and I greatly enjoy. However, they are playing this coming Saturday night at a bar downtown and Dan is going to be in Nevada on a business trip. I have gamely purchased a ticket for myself and plan to attend, but I thought I would ask if anyone in my life in Albuquerque has ever heard of this band and might want to go with me. It’s a non-smoking, 21-and-up only show and starts at 8 p.m., which means it should be over at a reasonable time.

I’m excited about the set up for this show because last week, I had to do the adult thing and pass up the opportunity to see Jimmy Eat World in concert. This was because the show was

a) On the night of our childbirth class and I couldn’t justify ditching the section on early labor to see a band

b) In a decidedly smoke-filled, standing-room only, non-pregnant-lady-friendly kind of venue and

c) Undoubtedly going to be full of squealing 15-year-old girls who started listening to Jimmy Eat World last week when they heard them on the O.C. I realize I’m being an elitist snob here, but that’s who I am. And as an elitist snob, I am tired of going to shows to hear bands I have loved for years only to have beer spilled on me by some underaged girl in a halter top who talks through the whole show because she’s only there to hear the one song she knows. I’m getting old and cranky and one day I’m going to turn around, grab one of their eternally-ringing cell phones, and throw it out into the crowd to make my point.

Anyway. I responsibly decided I’d have to pass on that show, and now to reward me, the concert deities have sent Over the Rhine to play a nice, non-toxic, adult kind of concert, and I’m really looking forward to going. So if anyone wants to go with me, let me know. I promise not to throw your cell phone anywhere.

Dan came back from San Antonio last night, and I am glad. In addition to a suitcase full of dirty laundry, he came bearing gifts for Kate. Several LARGE shopping bags were stuffed full of baby clothes bought by the female members of the Wachdorf/Dubovik clan during an excursion to the fantastic outlet malls. This is going to be a fashionable baby, thanks entirely to the impeccable taste of her many female relatives. Thanks, ladies!

But Dan also bought the baby a gift from him during his time in Texas. It's a book. But not just any book. A book called "Texas A&M Aggies 1 2 3: My First Counting Book." He is enormously proud of this purchase. It is shaped like a football helmet, and teaches the baby to count things like mascots, athletes, trophies and pennants. It will also ensure that Kate knows the vital fact that there are 100 yards in a football field.

I think this is Dan's attempt to make sure that his daughter is more sports-literate than her mom while simultaneously brainwashing her into wanting to attend A & M. I guess we'll find out if it works in 18 years or so.

In the meantime, here's Dan, posing with his propaganda:

Tonight I was invited to dinner at the home of Chris and Jennifer, some friends from church. This meant that I also got to spend some time with their daughter, Eliana, who is three years old and has recently turned whatever speech development corner it is that takes kids from speaking in choppy sentences to expressing complex ideas and participating in conversation really easily. In other words, while Eliana has never been boring, it has recently gotten really fun to talk to her, because she says hilarious things.

Eliana's family is kind enough to pray for Baby Kate and us every day and has been doing so for the last few months. So Eliana has become quite interested in Kate, as a topic, and was telling me a lot of things about her tonight while she sat in an armchair with me and patted my stomach, where she knows the baby is located. Some of Eliana's predictions are as follows:

"Baby Kate is pretty."
"Baby Kate will be such a happy baby!"
"She will have brown eyes and brown hair."
"It will be cold when she gets here because the sun won't be out because it will be cloudy."

But my personal favorite was her answer when her mom asked her to predict how many hours it would take Baby Kate to get here once it was time for her to come. Eliana thought about it really hard and pronounced that I will be in labor for a grand total of six hours.

If she turns out to be right about that, I am going to get her her own 1-800 number and give Miss Cleo a run for her money.