Who’s Johnny?

As I said to my friend Erica today, it’s time for me to procure a maternity coat, oh my lands. Because it’s … well, it’s snowing, my friends. (Picture, if you will, my arms outstretched, not rising past my shoulders. Oh! And I am wearing a tie.) Three times in the last week, in fact. Three times! Snow!

I know!

!!!

Now, look, I realize I live in Vermont, where things like this HAPPEN, you know, being so far north and all, but it’s not like I’m in the wilds outside of St. Albans or in the Northeast Kingdom, where you can ski through May. (Yes, MAY.) And Quebec is probably gearing up for ski season right now, but for the love of God, it’s not even Halloween yet. Must we? Seriously?

Apparently we must. Also, I find it amusing that so many people advise against a maternity coat, when seriously, no. No, you DO need a maternity coat, I’m sorry. Wow, that clearly sounded antagonistic, when really, I am not angry about what people say about maternity wear, but I keep finding myself wondering what in the Sam Hill people DO when it’s SNOWING OUT and they are pregnant and they don’t have a maternity coat. Drape an afghan around their shoulders and call it a day? Decide to prepare their baby for a lifetime in Alaska by going unbuttoned, exposing the belly to the elements? It might be that I have particularly fitted coats, but man, I can hardly button my peacoat anymore, and it’s OCTOBER. And did I mention it’s snowing?

(Hold me, please. It is SNOWING.)

In other news, feeling the baby kick has gone from weird to a little painful, and yesterday was vaguely reminiscent of having someone noodle in my girly bits with a speculum … from the inside. Pregnancy! Nature’s miracle, I tell you. I didn’t know such a thing was possible, but there you have it. Painful uterine scrapings at the hand of an impotent little one-pounder who doesn’t even have enough fat to fill out her wrinkles. Nervy little girl, that one.

I made fried chicken tonight — not in a FryDaddy, fear not — and was reminded of my horrid aversion to fried ANYTHING just a few short weeks ago. My, my, we have come so far. I mean, to normal pregnant women I probably seem like I’m still ensconced in the ninth level of hell, seeing as there is still a fair amount of nausea. And yes, still some barfing at almost 22 weeks, but I’ve been making dinner almost every night again, and my God, I actually eat some of it. Now that I’m a little more rational, too, I can ONLY IMAGINE what I must have looked like storming to my neighbors downstairs and screeching, “STOP FRYING. OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT ONION RINGS ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR EVER-LOVING MIND?”

I believe there was also crying involved.

I am now more than a little retroactively embarrassed for myself that day. The day that I CRIED over the frying of the onion rings, followed by chicken. And jalapeno poppers. And my God, now that I think about it again, the real miracle here is that they aren’t dead by now. Then again, I do have to endure his nightly warblings of his giant weird bass clarinet and their hilarious habit of smoking weed when they think no one’s paying attention. Three nights this week, I’ve come in from walking the dog to a nice whiff of hash den. Perhaps they were high when I lost my shit and consider it a hallucination. There is always that.

The only truly strong aversions that still remain are basil and cilantro. Seriously, folks, basil is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever smelled or tasted, ever. How you people manage to suck down plates of caprese salad is beyond me. Personally, I’d be more open to a plate of three-day-old durian on the subway.

In other news, our house still hasn’t been rented, and I’m expanding my outlets tomorrow. I refused to call one woman back after she yammered on to me about how she wanted to have her handyman husband remove the lighting in our bathroom and put in — get your Googling fingers ready — rope lighting, in exchange for lower rent. Those of you who know what rope lighting is are already throwing up, and for those of you who don’t, perhaps you’d like to prepare for the Google Image onslaught with a nice Scotch, or perhaps a barf bucket. Because really, the only place I’ve ever personally seen rope lighting employed is the inside of a tricked-out limousine circa 1987 with El DeBarge blaring in the background.

And finally, in news of personal failures, today I actually engaged in combative discussion with someone I went to high school with on the topic of politics (SOMEONE I DID NOT EVEN LIKE) — more specifically, poverty. Yes, for those of you who were here uh, YESTERDAY, you may remember that I did not go to the most … progressive of high schools, and that, in fact, I engaged with an idiot. Did that stop me? OF COURSE NOT. I plugged along like the utter fool that I am, as I listened to her insist that most poor people are merely lazy and if they just buck up and WANT to do better, they can! Even if they were born into generations of rural, poverty-stricken families! Completely ignoring the issues of racial bias! Those lazy, poverty-stricken fools! Give them a pep talk! Have them watch The Pursuit of Happyness! THEY WILL BE RICH IN NO TIME. IT IS SO NOT THAT HARD. Dude, they can totally live out of their car, what’s the big deal?

I’m thinking that perhaps she should sign on as a motivational speaker at local homeless shelters for the holidays. She could totally change the world.

God, I am so, so stupid. And apparently I CANNOT LET THINGS GO, FOR I AM STILL ALL HET UP ABOUT IT.

And with that, I’ll leave you wondering if I do or do not own any El DeBarge albums that may or may not include collaborations with Tone Loc. (Awww, who’s singing “Funky Cold Medina”?)

Happy Thursday!

*El DeBarge, you! She smiled in her special way! Who IS Johnny, anyway? WE NEVER KNOW.

33 comments October 29th, 2008