27 weeks. Quite belatedly so.

I know I say it every week, but, once again, I wasn't thrilled with the snaps from this week. Particularly as I worked a full, busy day on Saturday and thought I looked darn good throughout, only to come home and have the self-esteem somewhat deflated.

Perhaps the least heinous, despite the red eye and rather blank expression:

Though I have a weak spot for this one, as it shows me living on the edge (i.e., perching precariously on a piece of two-feet-high furniture while wearing heeled boots, in front of a large glass window, and pregnant):

(And in defense of the belly button, it isn't popping out [yet]--that's just the sweater bunching up, I swear.)

This is about as fearless as I get lately (or ever). And now I can't even stand on furnishings in front of big windows (and neither can the poor baby kitties), as we put up the Christmas tree this weekend; though it's not quite finished in this one, the digital camera's had a mostly-dead battery since Saturday, and no one has bothered to charge it. So this is all we've got so far:

Literati

Here are the many and varied books on birth and pregnancy that I currently own or have checked out from my local library (the bottom one is a PostSecret compilation that I need to return, so that doesn't count):

Sometimes, it feels a bit like an obsession...I've checked out loads of books; some I've read every word, but most I've only skimmed, if that. Some are fascinating and/or informative; some apparently are written for dodos. And Rob has put a moratorium on any other preg/baby books entering the abode until I've cleaned out the site of the future nursery, in hopes that I'll finish it up, as all of his other threatening and cajoling have failed.

In other news, Panzie continues her noble and exhaustive efforts to assist in cleaning. Alas, she too easily becomes distracted by the old magazines and newspapers that her mother has unearthed, hitherto saved for some obscure, forgotten reason, and now bound for the recycling bin.

Nothing funnier than a cat in a bag...

26 weeks.

It's me! And I didn't cry over these photos, though when I demanded he snap them, Robbie asked if I would (as I felt like doing last week).

And now for more of the belly (and just a smidge of the household mess)...

...and then more of the face (though the belly is quite noticeable still, what with the globs of Tofurky gravy and all)...

And, just to prove I'm not a complete sloth, here I am slaving over a hot stove (uh, reheating prepared food).

Though Rob claims I'm lazy, who had time to snap pics? That's what I thought.

In others' words...

It's official: Pregnancy is now my most fascinating and distinguishing attribute, as confirmed by (only some of the) various pregnancy-related comments from library patrons in the last two days :

"You didn't have your baby yet?" - mother of two, with mild astonishment. When I replied that I was only 6 months pregnant, she responded, with moderate astonishment, "Oh, really?"

"Hi, preggo." - twenty-something guy, who very soon after apologized and said he was just "playing."

"When's your due date? [....] I only gained five pounds!" - pregnant woman who said her due date was the following day, but appeared to be at the same stage of pregnancy as I, and then completely depressed me when I commented about how small she looked.

"Are you having a baby? My mom already had me!" - kindergarten student, while touching the top of his head with a pointer finger. He was on a school trip with his class, and I'd just read the little ones some picture books. And, yes, he was very cute.

"Are you having a girl?" - fifth-grade student, also on a school trip with her class, rather excitedly. She seemed rather disappointed when I told her it was a boy. And, yes, she was also cute.

"When's your baby due?" "How far along are you?" "Do you know what you're having yet?" "Congratulations!" - innumerable patrons, young and old, male and female, every race and nationality, every disposition, from a tart elderly woman to a young guy who spends most of his time trying to look at porn on the public PCs when he doesn't think we'll notice. One of my favorites so far: a man last week excitedly showed me photos of his four-month-old daughter, claimed that postpartum is tougher on husbands than pregnancy (surprise, surprise, and boo-hoo) and correctly guessed that, at six months' gestation, we were still wondering what the heck to do with the baby's room.

Only 99ish (or 98ish, depending on which baby counter you prefer) days to go...

Now THIS is progress...

Speck's mother has been very busy. Not busy in her former office, but busy none the less. Apparently two weeks have passed since Bubble started this project. Speck is an inch longer. Bubble is a pound or so heavier (perhaps more but i digress in fear of being censored in my first official blog posting). Funny, if you compare this picture with the past posts you might see a difference. How the pile on the floor grew, I am not sure. Oh well. Hopefully this will clear itself up soon or Speck will be sleeping amidst the shambles that was once the cubbyhole of Speck's mommy.

25 weeks. And two days.

I never thought that I'd be one of those women who are hyper-concerned with their weight and appearance. I admit, I can be a bit vain and persnickety at times, but I didn't think that I'd obsess over a few pounds or a bad photo or two. Or even 30 pounds (yes, really--or just about) or 8 bad photos (which we took yesterday evening, and I refuse to post.). Well, I apparently have become one of "them." I made Rob take a few pics this morning after I was made-up, blown-dried, and dressed for work (though with jeans instead of work-appropriate bottoms). This one came out very marginally better than yesterday's:

After nearly every photo Rob's taken in the last three weeks, I ask him, "Do I really look like that?" He is simultaneously compassionate, reminding me that I'm pregnant, and callous, telling me that, yes, indeed, I do look like that. So much for blaming the beloved digital camera. But I just can't put the evil thing down...attempts last night and this morning with strategic angling to minimize facial chubbiness:

By the way, my OB told me this morning that my weight was "perfect," which made me feel better, though when I asked him if I'd gained too much weight, he was furiously scribbling on my chart and never bothered to look up. It still made me feel better, even if he likely says that to all the ladies who've gained anywhere from twelve to ninety-seven pounds at this point in pregnancy. And it took the sting out of the joke from a (male, of course) coworker who said I could stand in for Santa Claus soon. Nothing but coal for you, my dear!

Must be heading off to bed. I couldn't fall asleep last night for ages, and then I woke up at 3:14 a.m. and couldn't fall asleep again for what seemed like a few hours; I was so tired that I was having very weird hallucinatory worries that I wouldn't fall asleep again before the 8 a.m. alarm, among other strange thoughts, but not tired enough to drop off to sleep again quickly. Gah--pregnancy and its assorted sleep-depriving ills. Off to bed, to avoid the dreaded haggard look that I model so well in this morning's pics...just as soon as I finish my fistful of chocolate cookies...

One step forward, two steps back

We finally moved the desk from my office into Rob's office! But now the futon from Rob's office is in my office/future nursery. Hmmm. The old switcheroo isn't helping much, as evidenced here:



And very little else has changed. So much for loooong holiday breaks...which still seemed oh-so-short, what with the shopping (grocery, not Black Friday) and the cooking and the family-togetherness and the eating of leftovers and the sitting-around-doing-nothingness of it all. But there's always Christmas break!

Those freakin' countdowns

Earlier this week, I added a countdown to Speck's EDA at the bottom of this blog. I even spent some time fooling with the HTML code, simple as it was, to modify it to my specifications. Some (Rob) may call my countdown crude and simplistic; I prefer to think of it as tasteful and elegant, Arial font though it may be.

Alas, Rob, not content with mere criticism this time, swooped in--while at work--and junked up my serene little piece of the Internet with his "countdown cray-zee-ness!" He wanted to delete them after showing me how the cool kids add countdowns, but I wouldn't let him, preferring to retain evidence of his madness. I even permitted him administrator privileges to add the least obnoxious to the sidebar. But look! (he said,) This one shows you the baby's development! So, it stays. (I don't quite understand the one-day discrepancy between his and my countdowns, but I'll leave that to the mathematical/obstetrical geniuses who must read this blog daily. I'm sure Speck won't arrive on the precise day anyhow.)

Belly photos not available, as we were not showered and dressed 'til just about sundown. Such bright, young go-getters...

Countdown Cray-zee!

Get this widget

so little time...

So many countdowns...

So many countdowns...

Myspace Countdown Clock

Countdown Clock by Zoodu.com

Get Your Countdown

24 weeks.

Or it was 24 weeks when these were snapped:

I had to work on Saturday, so we had to settle for some nighttime shots with artificial illumination. Which may have worked to my crow's-footed advantage, particularly in the blurry, closed-eyed second shot. (We'll just call that photo "artistically distorted" or something, as I look even goofier in the other photos. And it appears as though I'm doing the chicken dance in the first. A very sad, lonely, one-woman chicken dance.)

While I slaved away at the library, workin' hard to bring home the soy bacon, Rob was otherwise occupied:*

(Panzie ain't havin' none of it.)

*Not shown: Rob having breakfast out; Rob wandering about a few retail establishments; Rob screwing around on the Internet; Rob spending vast amounts of time playing video games.


I do love a man in an apron. And I do love cookies. And work wasn't really that bad: we had a game day for kids and teens, and I spent some of my gainfully employed time playing Crazy Eights and Clue, when I wasn't feverishly assembling just-purchased board games. And we went out for pizza that night, which lately is enough to make my day!

You call this progress?

Well, no, not really. It's only been a week, after all, and I am quite the procrastinator. I don't think I've moved anything since Saturday, unless it's to kick something out of my way, though Mademoiselle Panzie has moved several books, intentionally or otherwise.

What a great help she is.

We're seriously considering maybe thinking about registering for baby gear this weekend. Or next. I just have this weird obsession or compulsion to have the room cleaned out before registering. Which may push us into mid-February or so...but after hearing from a patron today that her friend gave birth yesterday after only 7 1/2 months of pregnancy, I'm starting to feel even more anxious. For once, I don't think it's paranoia. Birthing babies is not an exact science, and if Speck arrives early and sleeps snuggly in a cardboard box on the coffee table because we don't have a crib or even an empty room, what encouragement do we even have for getting a crib or emptying a room? We can't be the only ones who let many and varied things slide because we can make do otherwise.

(Have I ever mentioned how much I adore digital cameras? [Particularly when used for such noble and worthy purposes as visually documenting messes, etc.] Quite possibly, ours is the best purchase Rob's ever made, and he's made many purchases. Many, many purchases.)

23 weeks. And a day.

Rob thought these photos came out well, and I was back in the house, in my cozy velour maternity hoodie and pants (which Rob says are not exactly flattering), before looking at them and seeing how amazingly wide and dreary I appear, in both body and face. (You should see the frontal shots--GAH.) I'll blame it on the pulled-back hair, on the insufficient use of war paint, and on just returning from a big breakfast out. (From which I returned still hungry.) And I did really like this sweater...

And this is as productive as we got today. I very recently peeled myself off of the sofa, having spent more than four hours there with a book, just now finished; to be honest, I did get up a few times, mostly snack-related.

That is all. I'm feeling rather dull in both spirits and wit today. I'll blame it on the gloomy weather and our indolence. But it's almost dinnertime...that usually perks up a preggo!

Farewell, my cubbyhole...

And so I've taken the last few images of (most of) my beloved "office," soon to be nursery-fied. Sadly, this is the neatest and tidiest that it's been in...ever. (But if you let me keep it, I'll take better care of it! I'll clean up after it! Pleeeease!!!)

I know we have four months (my due date is four calendar months from today, in fact), but with the upcoming holidays and extra poundage, I'm feeling a bit paranoid about time and energy and opportunity slipping away. I had planned to start packing up and moving things to Rob's office (dungeon) on Tuesday, as I had the day off for Election Day (no, I didn't vote--did you?), but time slipped away even then. Not so much "slipped away" as seemingly better spent getting an oil change, cruising the Internet, reading, eating, trying on even more ill-fitting maternity clothes, and, very late in the afternoon, finally cleaning a little and doing some laundry and making a fast dinner, so Rob wouldn't ask, in mock disbelief at my slothfulness, "What have you done all day?" He still asked. Oh, I have seen the error of my ways. Ha.

Anyhow, Rob complained a bit about my demand for domestic "equal rights," but he did make about 1/6 of his large bookcase amenable to my book-housing needs. I've moved four books thus far. (They were rather large and heavy, so there.) We still aren't quite sure how the desks and all will fit into his office, but we've talked about ditching my PC and desk and getting a laptop, etc. Like we'll have time to be on computers simultaneously after Speck arrives anyhow. So glass-half-full we can be.

Maybe I'll start tomorrow. Or over the weekend, which is a three-dayer because of Veterans' Day. Woo-hoo! (November is one of the loveliest of months for public servants...Did I mention my coup of Thanksgiving week? Six days off!) If only my mood weren't so funereal for the task at hand...

22 weeks.

Well, actually, yesterday was "officially" 22 weeks, according to the OB, and these pics are from yesterday a.m. Or just after noon, when we finally left the house for breakfast and a full day out and about. Such bright, young go-getters!

They seemed such a nice couple.

There were so happy, so energetic, so optimistic about the day ahead.

Little did they know what horrors (in the form of utter tedium) the apple orchard/cider mill held...

Joking, really. Though I did make Rob visit an apple orchard/cider mill, a trip that was both delightfully geeky and autumnal, against his better judgement. Even after he hurt his back while getting dressed. (Again, Rob--nice try.) The weather was beautiful, and I couldn't bear to stay home and clean or rake the damn leaves (as seen in photos above--there are, like, millions!). I think we were just about the only adults at the orchard/mill thing without children outside the womb. (It reminded me of the time we went to a movie theater to see Finding Nemo, and the woman with two young daughters ahead of us turned away from the box office and asked, rather suspiciously, "Where are your kids?" Uhhhh....)

Regardless, we had a lovely time, what with apples and cider and donuts and hay and corn mazes and animals, both those alive and stinky and those animatronic and sucky (which were somewhat pathetic. And utterly weird.). Driving back along country roads, we so meandered that pick-up trucks and SUVs constantly passed up our "Sunday driving on a Saturday afternoon," as Rob put it. But it was a beautiful day! Damn city slickers, fascinated by fallow fields and farmhouses and sprinklings of cows and horses.

We also hit a few stores and a Mexican restaurant for dinner. Slowly into the abyss goes our whole "let's-save-money-because-of-the-baby-and-potential-single-income-future." I tried on about fourteen maternity tops before deciding that, as a pregnant woman, I am obviously deformed, as all of it looked ridiculous, except for a sweater that I bought. Which may not look great on me, but, relative to the rest of the things I've tried in the last few months...

Rob thinks we're raking and bagging leaves and mowing the lawn today. Ha. We're still in pajamas, he playing a video game and I screwing around on the Internet. Not totally screwing around, as I'm entering many and varied baby- and pregnancy-product contests, monitoring an eBay sale, and balancing my checking account, but I am doing a fair amount of Internet-related screwing around. (And into which category does this blog-like thing fall?) Ahh, weekends...

Mama's Boy

These are not original thoughts (but how many of them are?)... They just touch a bit on a phenomenon that I've observed and that Rob mentioned recently after reading an article by an offended SAHD (i.e., stay-at-home dad): "parenting" magazine are for mommies.

At the library, I'm responsible for getting all of our periodicals in the catalog, by hook or by crook. I've often glanced at the taglines for two of the mags that we receive and found them a bit strange, so when I came across them today, I thought I'd share.

• Parenting: "What Matters to Moms."
  
• American Baby: "Mom to Mom, Woman to Woman."
  

Yup. Apparently, daddies are irrevelant in the lives of their offspring, particularly in the world of periodically published morsels of advice encased in reams of advertisements.

I mean, neither of these magazines is gender-specific; we'll both be parents of an American baby. (The insinuation that the needs of American babies differ greatly from non-American, communist/terrorist/anarchist/Canadian babies is another issue entirely.) I can understand if Working Mother is skewed to women, but that's kinda implied by the title alone.

Anyhow, we found this a bit irksome, as Rob most likely will be a SAHD, whether working from home part-time or not working outside the home at all. And we assume that, regardless of the working situation for us both, we'll both need to know how to effectively parent our baby, American or otherwise. So ends (for now) my bitching, with the acknowledgement that others have bitched about this (much more effectively and in-depth) before me.

(Don't get me wrong: I still love magazines and all of their advertisements, whether fashion or homemaking or cooking or otherwise. What I really hate, however, is the obnoxiousness of Blogger: I'm having huge issues formatting my posts to my liking. Can you see how some lines are well-spaced and others are not? [I've forgotten what that's called.] And don't get me started on the adding of photos. Why, WHY??? GAAAHHH! Thirteen mere days blogging, and I'm a critic.)

Bodice ripper

I love Halloween. I particularly enjoy dressing in costume, which is why I insisted on trying to wear my beloved (if not quite authentic) Renaissance-y costume that my mom made in 1999, despite the substantial increase in poundage and girth. TRIED to wear. Behold Rob and Jamie as Robin Hood and Maid Marian a mere eight years ago:

Note how the skirt hangs just above my hips (i.e., at a defined waistline and not hiked up to just under chest with zipper halfway down [or, more optimistically, halfway up])? Note how the bodice meets across the chest and the tummy (i.e., not straining to hold them in or back)?

Was I ever so young and non-pregnant?

Last night, I masqueraded more as a past-her-prime bar wench.

Chubby Panzie used as feline shield/highly desired belly block:

And not quite succeeding. Naughty kitty.

Voluminous sleeves hopefully causing optical illusion that belly is smaller:

Hope not quite fulfilled.

(Not pictured: The poor ribbon struggling
to keep bodice gap under 10 inches.)

Ah, well--there's always next year. Perhaps the costume will look better. Perhaps then we'll have more than 20-odd kids (that's 20-or-so kids, not 20 ODD kids, though some were.). Perhaps then Rob won't tell a friend later on that "Jamie ate more candy than we gave out." Yeah, Rob, I heard, and I'm not happy. Even if it's so very, very true. And we'll have a Speck, to dress up in an adorable costume and use to get candy, as Anne suggests!

And just because he's a popular guy and quite in demand, and also because he'll be quite annoyed, here's Rob (sans costume) enjoying his delicious leftover Thai last night, both somber and rakishly askew (in camera angle, anyhow):

My Thai was hoovered too quickly to snap a non-blurry picture.

Happy belated Halloween!

Reimagining the decor

Anne gave me this cute little pottery dish as a gift last year. Since then, it's possessed some nice real estate on our coffee table, though it's been a bit fourth-wheelish beside the beautiful Pewabic Pottery vase that Anne gave us for our wedding (though they match so well) and Rob's grandmother's carnival glass, which (to me, at least) all look so artsy and lovely together.

The pineapple Lifesaver, rather inexplicably, has been the little dish's sole inhabitant for some weeks past. (Well, not so inexplicably: I'm sick of Lifesavers, and I don't much like the pineapple ones. I must have dropped it in while cleaning out my purse or something--Talk about respect for artisanal crafts.)

Beginning this morning, the little dish has a nobler calling: holding the wedding ring that no longer fits well on my puffy and rashy ring finger, amongst the clutter of the ever-expanding jewelry collection usually strewn about my dresser.

The vase and carnival glass shall miss you, little dish, but they know it's for the best. The only thing I vaguely know about feng shui is the whole grouping principle: group in threes, group in odd numbers, avoid even-numbered groups, or something like that. Perhaps the house will keep itself clean now or something.

I already feel guilty for not wearing the ring, mostly because of Rob, though I've told him that I don't think the entire marriage is now null and void. (He may be trying to find a loophole. Nice shot.) Last week, I left if off for a few days, hoping the swelling and the rash would dissipate, which they did not. Unfortunately, two frequent library patrons noticed: "You look like you're gonna have a kid," in surprise. Affirmative. "WHERE'S YOUR WEDDING RING?" in mild horror. Oy.

21 weeks.

We were at a Borders last night, and I read in one of the zillion pregnancy books that the ideal weight gain at this point in the pregnancy is between 10 and 15 pounds. Between week 8, when I began keeping track, and this morning's daily weigh-in, I've gained 19.5 pounds, making it much closer to 20 pounds. Assuming I weighed less before pregnancy, that's more than 20 pounds, though I can't be certain, as I've never been too obsessive about weighing and already it's hard to remember not being pregnant. Such a drama queen I am, but no wonder my mom and my coworkers are teasing that either twins or one ginormous baby have/has taken up residence in the ol' uterus.

And because we forgot to take any last week, here are some pics of the baby belly (with background mess and without; the chubby face and frizzy hair are here to stay!):

(Rob likes the first pic best; he says it's "more indicative of what's going on," i.e., rapidly expanding gut; I prefer the others, as they hide my true mad skillz at housekeeping, and the backside isn't visible in the last.)

Rob, at the suggestion of our sister-in-law, had planned to take weekly photos of the expansion, but that lasted all of one week and the one and only pic was five weeks ago.

We're not planning to do anything constructive today, though the house is a disaster and we have so many little projects to undertake, but Rob has a new video game and a just-begun book and I have two almost-finished books to tackle. I wasn't even planning to leave the house on this gloomy, chilly, rainy day, but I need to visit the health food store for some necessities (lotion, body wash, and dishwashing liquid). It may be my imagination, but I could swear that I've run dry on all three much faster than usual: my well-developed cynicism suggests it's because I've got a lot more body to wash and lotion and many more dishes (because of the rarely-ceasing appetite) to wash than usual; my less-educated guess suggests that I'm just cleaner and taking better care of the incubator (Rob's term--thank you, my love!). HA on the latter.

Speaking of the health food store, the proprietor of that fine establishment was the first man to ask "When?" (while tapping his belly, of course--and then he told me that "you still look good" before verbally stumbling to cover the gaffe.). I've noticed that about the male side lately: very few will acknowledge even fairly obvious pregnancies. Working in a library, I interact with scores of people every day, some that I see weekly or more often, some I've never seen before, most in-between, and even while still in my regular pants and shirts, women that I knew and women that I didn't would gasp excitedly, "Are you EXPECTING?" and "When's the BABY due?"

(I'm embarrassed to admit that a few months before I was in the motherly way, a very sweet grandmotherly type checking out books with her grandtot asked when my due date was, and then turned a lovely shade of fuschia and backpedaled (she blamed it on my shirt hanging in front of my belt or something) when I very crisply responded that "I.am.not.pregnant." Poor little old lady is not a regular, but if she happens to see me while I'm in fricking active labor, she'll probably inquire after my indigestion or something.)

ANYHOW, I'm totally off track now. Yes, I had a track: men that I see daily will glance at the tummy and not say anything, though admittedly they also will glance at the chest, normally fairly small but lately keeping pace with the belly. Maybe they forget about bigger bellies when they see bigger boobs. So, in addition to the dozens of women, I've had four males comment on the baby bump:

1. the aforementioned health food store owner;
   
2. an entrepreneur-type guy who was promoting his product at the library circulation desk--when I responded that I didn't have kids who might benefit from his wacky child safety product, he asked, "Are you cookin'?";


3. a nice middle-aged library frequent flier--he asked, a bit more compassionately than usual, how I was, and then when the baby was due, and informed me, as have countless women, that March is a good time to have a baby, as it's not so hot and uncomfortable to be pregnant;


4. a rather obnoxious preteen/young teen kid, whom I'd just somewhat curtly reprimanded twice for running and once for using his cell phone in the library--he stopped me as I headed into the storytime room for Toddler Time (more on that later): "Are you going to have a baby?" "How many months pregnant are you?" "In four months, you're going to have a baby!"
   

This post is so much longer than I intended. And I'm closing now, as I need something to eat, and Rob is moaning about his own empty belly...

(Oh, and I didn't really clean the mess in the first photo--I just pushed it out of the way. Out of sight of the camera, out of mind, right?)

Upside? Downside? No, the wayside...

...where it has fallen. And it only took two whole days! Rob created an account for this blog (though apparently he plans to travel incognito as "Eibbor"), but he refuses to post. Forget the pregnant one: he is the laziest creature in this household.


Okay, make that third-laziest. Though shouldn't someone have made that bed, despite her delicate condition? FINE: fourth-laziest. Indeed, we are poor role models for children, even those of the fuzzy variety. I bet Speck will just lie around doing absolutely nothing constructive for months after his arrival. Maybe years.

In other news, I'm quite proud of myself for several technological advances that I've made this week:

1. creating the whole blog thing (arduous, I know, what with the whole guide-you-through-the-necessary-steps nature of Blogger);
2. using the memory thing from the digital camera thing to upload pics to computer thing (much more truly arduous, what with Rob mocking my ineptitude);
3. posting an item for sale on eBay (ditto the comments in the blog parentheses).

On a side note, can anyone under the age of late-twenty-something (or older?) truly understand a "ditto"? Each time I hear it, I think of those warm, damp purply-blue-inked copies fresh from the mimeograph machine in fourth grade. Oh, and the odeur! Sometimes I miss elementary school. Ah, the wisdom of my advancing years.

Otherwise, beyond the work for which I actually get compensated, minor pregnancy stuff continues. Nighttime wakenings. Bizarre dreams. Leg cramps. Uncontrollable hunger, mostly for sweets and fruits and grains but not for veggies. Lots of potty breaks. Steady weight gain. Puffy ankles. Wedding band causing rash and weird mark. Joy. I fear the day, twentyish weeks or so hence, when I read this and roll my eyes at my own whining.

The Husband: The Sequel

To all of our legions of readers, breathlessly awaiting each new profound post, fear no more: Rob will now be posting. Double the pleasure, double the fun!

The Husband

In case you were wondering about the other one-third of the baby love triangle, here he is (with me, of course; where else would he be?):