And So …
I was idly flipping through the channels this afternoon when I discovered, via TiVo’s guide, that there is a show called Hurl! — just like that, exclamation point and all. Fittingly, the description says that this week’s episode is about broccoli and cheese, as well as some sort of octopus carnival. I feel, somehow, that this show was made specifically with me in mind, but given that I don’t receive the channel, I may never know for sure.
I promise, one day very soon, we WILL move on from the all-pregnancy-all-the-time channel, it’s just that … well, I’ve been holding it in, and it’s almost as though I can’t move on until it’s out. I’m sorry.
And besides, I’m happy to report that things are mildly looking up, after what I can only hope was one of the lowest points in my first trimester, of which there is less than one week, thank God. Around noon on Friday, my downstairs neighbors — who come home for lunch every day — made a batch of onion rings in their FryDaddy, which caused a rather volcanic reaction, if I may be so indelicate. From the moment the smell of boiling oil reached my bedroom (yes, my bedroom), I kept nothing down. The smell, like an unwanted houseguest, lingered for many, many hours, each whiff stronger and more debilitating than the last.
It finally dissipated around dinnertime, at which point I felt safe to eat something, but not five minutes later, SURPRISE! LET US FRY AGAIN. Chicken, this time. In the fucking FryDaddy. Who the hell has a FryDaddy? WHO?
This, my friends, is how I found myself on the floor of the bathroom, curled up on my rubber-backed bathmat crying like someone DIED. I sobbed and sobbed and wheezed and sobbed like I haven’t sobbed in DECADES while Adam hovered nervously outside the door, because his wife, quite frankly, had come entirely undone. Over ONION RINGS.
Saturday, I tearfully asked them to lay off the deep frying for another few weeks, and they agreed, horrified they’d upset me so, while simultaneously thinking I was insane. Also? Tonight, they made pesto, the smell of which has made me retch three times so far. I don’t suppose it’s too much to demand they eat Bechamel sauce and white rice every night?
This brings me to the fact that I am truly mystified that no one has figured out a way to capitalize on the supersonic smelling abilities of pregnant women. I can’t help but feel like this is USEFUL in some way, and if there were a less dangerous sniffing occupation other than bomb sniffing, pregnant women should be all over it. Well, provided there are barf buckets nearby, and that the position is highly paid to justify all the occupational puking.
While relaxing in the park on Lake Champlain on Saturday, I perked up like a prairie dog, my delicate senses sullied by the whiff of a meat product.
“Oh my God, Adam, there’s a HOT DOG STAND somewhere.” I sniffed the air suspiciously.
“I don’t smell anything.” He inhaled deeply. “Seriously, Jonna. I smell the lake. There’s NOTHING.”
I sniffed again. “It’s not just hot dogs. It’s SAUSAGE. THEY HAVE SAUSAGE TOO. GROSS.”
Meanwhile, there wasn’t a stand in sight. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t get up to go to the bathroom — more than a half-mile away — and find a hot dog stand. With sausage. And peppers. And creemees, which you would think would be soft serve ice cream, if you saw one, but you would be wrong — it’s a Vermont thing, I think.
They are much … creamier, which is why they should be called creamies instead of creemees, which looks like something made of very sharp steel, perhaps designed for filing down bits of cartilage while it makes a loud screaming noise. But really, they have a higher milkfat content, or so I’m told. This could be Vermonter bullshit talking, but I believe it wholeheartedly, and even covered my nose long enough to wait in line to get one — chocolate and vanilla twist, and it was delicious. I’m thinking of investing in a creemee machine for my house.
I’m off to see how I can make that happen. I hope you have a great Monday!
*Andrew Bird
43 comments August 17th, 2008