Hunger Strike

Much of my evening was spent cleaning our couches in final moving preparations and one of the saddest moments of this pregnancy was the deceptively difficult act of putting the slipcovers back on the cushions. I was heaving and sweating and grunting as though I were on mile twenty three of a marathon, and when I finished, I drank an entire quart of water, and no, that’s not an exaggeration. I sucked down THE WHOLE QUART in a matter of three minutes.

I’ve mentioned it before, but aside from the nausea (back in full swing thanks to the ocean I just inhaled), becoming easily fatigued is one of the most frustrating aspects of pregnancy. There really is no reason I should be so physically spent after vacuuming the couch and washing a set of slipcovers, but there it is. I’m now lying with my feet up wondering if I’ll regret going to bed at 8 p.m., because the last time I did that, I woke up at 3 a.m. all perky and bushy-tailed and embarked on a cleaning escapade in the downstairs bathroom that resulted in a four-hour nap and a near-missed deadline.

Old episodes of Project Runway (season 3, if you care) droned in the background during Couch Capers, and once again, I was struck by my biggest pet peeve of fashion shows: the utter lack of foundation garments. Now, I realize I’m not the most fashion-forward among us (in fact, right now I’m wearing a maternity shirt that includes the dreaded elements of gathered seams at the shoulders, a tie in the back and oh my God, is that GLITTER THREAD?) (Manufacturer rhymes with Smotherhood Smaternity, obvs), but I maintain that just because you’re spectacularly thin and small-chested does not mean that I want to see your wee raisin boobs flapping around under that fluttery chiffon garment. I don’t like it one bit, but this could merely be bald jealousy stemming from the fact that my own boobs are no longer available for solo flights.

Separately, my friend Nora recently pointed out two food-related issues, one positive, one negative, that I can’t get out of my head today. First, if you were ever interested in our Pennsylvania Dutch culinary heritage (one word: LARD), behold, for Nora has shared a recipe for shoo-fly pie, which is among the more bizarrely delicious foods in this world. It’s basically molasses and flour, but it’s super-weird and super-delicious, and as far as Pennsylvania Dutch food is concerned, it’s rather tame. I mean, consider that these are people who brought you scrapple, pig bellies stuffed with sausage (hog maw!), and fastnacht/fauschnauts.

I told you, Pennsylvania has its good points, and they usually involve pork scraps. I’d also like to add that my mother once brought Adam to the Goschenhoppen Folk Festival, where he nearly died. In addition to various food products (scrapple! Hog maw!), there was also the grand tradition of blowing up a pig’s bladder and batting it around like a balloon (yes, just like in Little House). I don’t think I’m overstating when I say that he nearly fainted when I told him truthfully what that pink thing was floating among the crowd of children. He was born and raised in Boston, where such sights were not commonly seen, I suppose.

Anyway, the other thing she mentioned, and the subject of recurring waves of nausea, reminded me that I CANNOT handle food products mixing with other food products when they aren’t meant to be. She, for example, found a bit of melon in her salad, and I AM CERTAIN that if I found such a thing that I would faint on the spot. I … I can’t handle it. If I’m at a restaurant, say, and I order the penne pasta and there’s an elbow macaroni in there or, God forbid, the dreaded strand of spaghetti, I am DONE. DONE. Spy a wayward beet in the cottage cheese on the salad bar? FORGET IT. A green pea in a chick pea salad? OH HELL NO.

Oh my God, I need smelling salts. All day — ALL DAY — I’ve been thinking about that stray bit of melon, which brought on uncontrollable thoughts of the grossest intermingled foods I’ve ever envisioned. It’s like an unstoppable trainwreck, each combination tumbling over the other and I may eat nothing but prepackaged Little Debbie oatmeal creme pies for the rest of my pregnancy if I can’t figure out a way to stop this madness. (AMBROSIA DIRECTLY FROM THE PREGNANCY GODDESSES)

And hey, I’m finally off to shower, then bed. I am embarrassingly sore after the couch, and I won’t even talk about how easily winded I am. This typing thing right here? It’s causing heavy breathing. Okay, fine, I exaggerate a bit, BUT STILL.

Happy Friday/weekend!

*Temple of the Dog. Because I’m remembering the 1990s — at least the early ones, before we all got Friends haircuts and let our eyebrows grow too long.

13 comments November 13th, 2008