Ahem. It seems I am a bit bitter today. Bitter because my sister-in-law can shop at a mall that doesn’t take an hour to get to and has a store that carries Gap Maternity clothes IN THE FLESH, without having to go through the whole online rigmarole, especially since the ladies in maternity catalogs have pregnancies akin to Jennifer Aniston’s on Friends. As in, THEY ARE MANNEQUINS. NOT PEOPLE.

Can you tell one of our items on the pre-baby list is to move to civilization, oh my lands? Or at least move somewhere that gDiapers (yes, I’m going to try them) are available somewhere other than the Interwebs?

Anyway, if you’ll indulge me for a moment to discuss maternity wear, I would be much obliged. I … well. I hate it. I hate shopping for maternity clothes, because it all feels like such a waste (and my GOD, they are SO EXPENSIVE) and yet wearing things that don’t fit and/or are uncomfortable make an already miserable pregnancy pretty close to absolutely unbearable. If there is ever a time when you need to look cute, it is at a time when you feel your shittiest. I have been gifted with a TON of baby crap from my younger brother who’s all set with the breeding, thanks, and I am so incredibly grateful to his family for it. I was never one for hand-me-downs until I got pregnant and realized how LITTLE this stuff is used and how EYE-POKINGLY EXPENSIVE it all is.

Alas, I have not been given any maternity wear. This both frustrates me and pleases me: on the one hand, I hate spending a ton of money on clothes I’ll wear for a year of my life, max, and it would have been nice to at least have a few hand-me-downs to get me started. On the other, I like being able to pick things out that suit me, rather than feeling like I have to figure out a way to make that polka-dotted shirt work because someone gave it to me, dammit, and I CANNOT WASTE THINGS.

However! I have a few bones to pick with the maternity wear industry. And if you are not pregnant, never plan to become pregnant, couldn’t give a shit about maternity wear because you’re wearing your husband’s jeans instead (BAD IDEA), you can stop reading and come back tomorrow. This will be boring as sin for you. Also bear in mind, your mileage may vary, etc. Also? I WELCOME ADVICE, FRIENDS. I’m not buying anything else for a little while, but I had to pick up a few things, at least to get me through now, as my belly is … a bit bigger. Not huge, but bigger. Big enough that the Bella Band is a thing of the past, not that I ever really liked it anyway (Turns out that wearing your pants unbuttoned means that there are buttons poking you in really bad places! Who knew?)

Anyway! My beefs and questions, in no particular order:

– Motherhood Maternity has the cheapest, strangest maternity clothes on the planet, and their sister stores (Mimi and Pea in the Pod) offer incremental improvements at best, and certainly not enough to warrant the price increase. For fun, why don’t you go check out A Pea in the Pod’s prices? I’ll wait. Now imagine that shirt will fall apart after two washings, and calculate the cost per wearing. Oh, I’m sorry, HAVE YOU DIED? Also, call me crazy, but I think $95 for a PLAIN COTTON T SHIRT is a bit excessive under normal circumstances, much less an inherently temporary condition. Side note: please note how the model’s crotch is dropping TO HER KNEES in the main photo. This is a recurring problem and does not bode well for their denim possibilities.

Not only are the shirts sized for anorexic primordial dwarfs, but they will disintegrate after one washing. To wit: I’m a size small/medium usually, but in Motherhood, I’m an XL. This leads me to wonder what in God’s name normal large/extra-large sized women do, which must be to make their own maternity clothes from leftover potato sacks, because Motherhood has decided that not only are they the most flatulent, pukey versions of themselves, but that they are also fat and slovenly and can’t even fit into the BIGGEST SHIRT THEY MAKE. Way to support the sisterhood, Motherhood! Make the perfectly normal pregnant ladies feel horrid!

Their one redeeming quality: bra extenders. God bless the bra extender, for when you’ve gone up a band size, but not a full cup size. And they’re CHEAP.

– I’m not sure the Bella Band was worth it, and I’m glad I took others’ advice and only bought one. I wore the thing for about a week, although the way it was hyped, I was expecting Jesus himself to come hold my pants up for the duration of its use.

– Edited to add thanks to Pork with Bones that YES OF COURSE, I have loved Target! How could I forget that long-ago, longed-for trip to Target to visit Liz Lange and her clothing of joy?

– I believe I can make it through the majority of this pregnancy (first and second trimester at least) without wearing a single maternity shirt, thanks to today’s generous styles and the return of the empire waist. I tried on one of those godawful belly strap-ons with a bagful of large tops recently purchased at Old Navy, and lo, there was still plenty of room beyond the … strap-on (oh God). I’m not sure if this would be true of second pregnancies, as you tend to get bigger, faster, but for now, I am running like the wind from the maternity shirt. Why? Because the vast majority of them — even those from places like the Gap — feature strings, ropes, buttons, bells and bizarre ties in the back designed to make you look huge all over, not just the belly. They also conveniently come to one’s knees, giving the illusion of the minidress over leggings trend, but without the streamlined appearance. Also, this length DOES NOT DISSIPATE, even with a large belly, thanks to the … strap-on. (It’s a drinking game!)

Is this a myth? Am I fooling myself?

– Buying jeans are a miserable adventure in Panel Confusion. Full panel? Hidden panel? Adjustable panel? Roll panel? Demi panel? Semi-demi panel? I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. So far, I’m favoring the demi and hidden panels, as the idea of a giant sock over my belly makes me want to throw up even more than I already do. And the hidden panel jeans I bought at The Gap make me feel more human than any other item of clothing I’ve worn so far. They fit like ACTUAL JEANS, like they would on an ACTUAL, NON-PREGNANT PERSON. And the … strap-on … fit above the waistband. This reminds me, too, that Gap’s jeans are the first that fit true to pre-pregnancy size, if not a bit bigger. I was an eight in Gap regular jeans, I’m a six or an eight in Gap maternity. I imagine this is true for Old Navy as well.

But I ask you, does the belly eventually feel like a giant breast that must be supported with something bra-like? I’m 16 weeks and have no need for the belly sock. When does this happen, if ever?

Dear lord, I think I’ve gone on enough. I’m scared.

Happy Wednesday!

*Stone Temple Pilots. Because I never grew out of the early ’90s, I suppose.

All of this reminds me that I’ve been meaning to tell you that there is a bodice-ripper in the checkout line at my local Hannaford’s called “The King and His Mighty Whores”. THE KING AND HIS MIGHTY WHORES. I’ve actually picked it up to see if it’s facetious in some way, but I’m afraid that no, no, it’s quite serious. It’s no secret that I’ve always wanted to be a novelist, but if someone said I could choose between being a world-famous bestselling author of “The King and His Mighty Whores” and the life I currently lead, that of freelance writer toiling in relative obscurity on things like sales proposals, marketing collateral and the ever-exciting Web site copy for all of eternity, I’d take obscure eternity for a thousand, Alex.

Anyway! This weekend was not the weekend in Syracuse attending some sort of Syracuse-caliber gala event (which is to say, uh, not Hollywood-y, like, at all), but rather that is next weekend. I think it speaks volumes to the state of Adam and me that when we found out that the gala portion of the evening would be taking place AFTER the movie at NINE THIRTY IN THE EVENING, we panicked, wondering how we would stay awake, much less remain standing in things like suits and high heels. There will be much yawning.

By the way, I’ll be wearing this dress with these shoes, which is the best I can do, I’m afraid. I’m not really showing, but I’m not really NOT showing, and I discovered that any non-maternity dress makes me look … well, fat, I’m sorry, there’s no other way to say it. I look PUDGY, whereas maternity dresses at least make me look SORT OF pregnant. Maybe. Oh hell, I don’t know. But I’ll be damned if I’m buying MATERNITY FORMAL WEAR, that much I’ll tell you.

Odd segue! While watching the VMAs, several things happened that completely disturbed me:

a) Lil Wayne’s pants? Down past his ass? I actually yelled, “PULL YOUR PANTS UP OH MY GOD!” Hello, I’m your grandmother. My kids are screwed.

b) I only knew who Lil Wayne WAS because they announced him. Ditto Russell Brand and the vast majority of the people present. Also, the Jonas Brothers made me laugh out loud, because really? They’re BREATHLESS over something, really? THEY’RE INFANTS. The only thing they should be breathless over is Ovaltine.

c) I like Lindsay Lohan. I’m … I’m ROOTING FOR HER. And I hope she’s really a lesbian, and that the warm reception to her relationship HEALS HER and that she’s COME TO TERMS WITH WHO SHE IS. *cue triumphal horns*

Finally, I’ll leave you with an image of my wholly earnest ninth-grade self which was, I believe, the last time I knew what the hell was even on MTV. I was way into the marching band at this point, and am totally at a band function here, if not a band TRIP. We were partying quite hard, I believe, with plenty of fruit punch and pretzels and we were downright giddy about it. Behold, the earnestness:

It sort of breaks my heart, because my God, I was so … so … earnest! And happy! About BAND! BAND BAND BAND OMG GOOOOO, BAND! OBOES RULE, SAXOPHONES DROOL!

By the way, I was MOCKED for not curling my bangs into the ever-popular softball shape. MOCKED, I tell you. In fact, at the lunchtable once, Mean Girl Lori blurted out, “Oh my God, Jonna, will you PLEASE CURL YOUR BANGS. PLEASE.” Who’s laughing now, Lori? It might not be the best hair, but at least there wasn’t any AquaNet involved, unlike, say, YOURS.

Happy Monday!

*Wilco

I’ve been away again, this time in Pennsylvania for an engagement party of a childhood friend and a long visit with my parents. It was sort of my father’s greatest dream AND worst nightmare rolled into one — hooray! His daughter is pregnant! But wait! He’s a gourmet cook and all she wants is cereal! — because he couldn’t even cook for himself. I’m sure he has fond memories of me screeching “OH MY GOD NO. NO BASIL. NO. IS THAT TOMATO SAUCE? OH MY GOD,” while I lurched into the bathroom. My poor, poor dad.

Anyway, despite the lurching, I am feeling a bit better, which is leading to fears that I am no longer pregnant. This is somewhat ridiculous, considering that I am now wearing maternity pants, because I woke up on Sunday morning looking a bit puffy around the middle and now look like I’ve taken up an unfortunate habit of eating dozens of donuts in my spare time. Although given the fact that my mom made three kinds of pie, this isn’t unreasonable.

The first dose of surreal came while sitting around the table with my best childhood friends Matt and Charlie — people I’ve known since I was TEN — while I held my friend Matt’s newborn and laughed as he told me about birth from the male perspective (“The smell, dude. Jonna, THE SMELL,” he said, as his wife emphatically nodded along. “Matt is not over the smell and may never be.” I am now afraid of smells).

I mean, I sat there in Matt’s mother’s backyard pregnant, holding Matt’s BABY while talking to Charlie about his new marriage and plans for kids. So much about it could have been happening in 1985 — we could have still been ten-year-olds, laughing about bad movies and making fun of each other, while his mom served us lemonade — but it wasn’t, and we’re different and it was all absurdly “Sunrise, Sunset” and oh my God, what the hell, I’m an ADULT and PREGNANT and my friends have KIDS, what the HELL.

Whenever I hear that children need siblings, if only to have a witness to their childhood and help support each other as their parents age, I can’t help but think of these guys. I mean, these people still know me better than I sometimes know myself and vice versa and … well. I think we make our own families, even when our own aren’t necessarily deficient. It also gives me hope that if I have a girl — one of my biggest fears, by the way — maybe two little boys will befriend her in fifth grade and stay friends with her for her entire life, shielding her from all the drama and other crap everyone else complains they experienced in high school. (I had none. And it’s because of them.)

The insanity continued while maternity shopping with my mom, when I kept holding clothes up or trying them on saying things like, “But this is HUGE,” and her retorting, “Yes, but what do you think is going to HAPPEN TO YOU?” and I’ve gone up a whole band AND cup size and oh my God, I’m PREGNANT and it’s all very freaky and thrilling, but at the same time, a little upsetting. I mean, yes, there is the usual anxiety about the whole thing, but I also have to confess that I’m a little uncomfortable being pregnant around my parents because I don’t like them having concrete evidence that I’ve had …. *whisper* sex. Hello, I’m TWELVE.

It gives me the creeps, I don’t know why (see: TWELVE), despite the fact that I know that THEY had sex to have me — well, at least my bio dad and bio mom did. They’re no longer together. The set of parents I refer to here are the paternal side. I have a mom and dad on my maternal side too. And aren’t I so very modern and comfy with divorce and stepparents! Whee!

On the bad side of surreal, I’ve spent a lot of time over the last several days reeling from what’s happened to Lawyerish’s beautiful little girl. I wish there was a stronger word than … sucks, but I don’t think there’s a word that exists for such horror. I still believe that the world is mostly magical and wonderful, but sometimes it’s just shittastic and wholly unfair, like getting kicked in the gut over and over and over again.

I hope you have a great day. For my part, I have an ultrasound on Thursday, where I hope they’ll be an actual baby in there and not, say, a puppy or a cricket.

*Jesca Hoop

Anyway, who cares, because God, the last thing the world needs is another blog post about the woes of selling one’s house in a down market, because everyone else has done it better than I ever could, but suffice it to say: it blows. Bigtime.

Oddly, real estate is one of the areas that brings forth the most amount of unsolicited advice of anything I’ve ever dealt with. It’s boggling, really, the amount of advice I’m given on a daily basis, and if I followed all of it, I would not be living anywhere, but in fact, would have snapped in about twelve bofrillion pieces from the strain of being pulled in too many different directions. And not – NOT – that I’m asking for any advice, oh my God, but the truth is that I don’t actually mind unsolicited advice. I mean, yes, it can be frustrating when the advice-givers are overly insistent, like you will follow their way OR ELSE YOU WILL DIE, OH MY GOD THAT IS SO NOT THE WAY YOU DO IT, but mostly, it’s benign. And no, I don’t follow most of it, but I’m usually not offended by it.

The way I see it is that people care enough to tell you what they think, based on their own experience, and they want you to save you the trouble of their mistakes. That really is it, most of the time, never mind that there are many solutions to one problem, and what works for one doesn’t work for all, and um, YES, sometimes we need to make our own mistakes, but they mean well, really they do. And really, as the second-youngest of seven kids with two sets of parents, parents’ friends, friends’ parents, etc. etc., you could say that my life has been defined by unsolicited advice, Jesus.

All this being said, if my hairdresser gives me one more piece of advice, it’s possible that I may drown him in a vat of Goldwell haircolor, because he has a response for EVERY SINGLE THING THAT I SAY. He noticed I lost weight, yay! Except, he follows it up with a comment that gee, while I may be exercising more and therefore probably eating more, I shouldn’t stop exercising AND keep eating more (Oh my God really? So what you’re saying is…I need to eat less, move more? How revolutionary!). And was that a pack of Combos in my hand? Because I’d be better off with some protein to build muscle. Oh oh oh, and while all of my pants might be too big, wasn’t I thinking of getting pregnant soon? [Ed note: um, not that it's any of your business, but thanks for the family planning advice, Squiggo!] Because why waste the money if I’m just to “let myself go?” Give IN to the maternity clothes, ASAP! (He’s also my mother-in-law’s hairdresser. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s being influenced. Just a guess.)

All of that was in the first five minutes of my foils, Jesus, and by the end, I’d been handed enough advice to write an entire self-help book of The World According to Squiggy, and poking my eyes out with alligator clips was something I was very seriously considering. And it turns out, even I have limits on unsolicited advice.

Also, lately, I’ve had the burning desire to attend a potluck. It’s not that I want to hover over scorching-hot plastic picnic tables full of someone else’s food that probably has the saliva of a thousand people who may or may not be related, it’s that I need to make food for more than two people. Cooking for two sucks the big one, really it does, because a three-pound pot roast, though delicious on night one, really loses all of its appeal by the fourth consecutive meal, and by the eighth, we’re both ready to hang ourselves over the dead, moldy pot roast that threatens to take over our entire lives.

But the thing is … have y’all seen The Pioneer Woman Cooks? Have you SEEN her peach crisp? HAVE YOU SEEN IT? Chocolate & Zucchini? The Smitten Kitchen? I don’t even know what clafoutis is, but I know I must have some. Hell, even Top Chef is sending me into another dimension of food lust, although personal note to Padma: I still don’t like you. Please pack your knives and go, for the frillionth time.

It’s all so unreasonable for us, it breaks my heart. Oh yes, please, let’s make a Fourth of July cake fit to serve forty people. We’d be bloody hospitalized, because no no, actually, we can’t let these things go to waste. The last time I made a batch of cupcakes, I gained ten pounds (Oh, how I wish that were hyperbole. No exaggeration? I think it was my downfall. I think I single-handedly ate fourteen cupcakes over the course of three days. FOURTEEN. CUPCAKES. THREE. DAYS.)

I’m considering joining a church, just so someone will invite me to a damn potluck, and I can finally make something that serves more than two damn people — four, if we’re really burning for leftovers.

And with that, I’m off to read more Harry Potter. Say what you will, but I really had a great time reading all of them, and of many things I’ve ever read/done, they really make me wish I had a kid to share them with. Ah, someday (NOT TOMORROW SQUIGGY). And look, I understand that they are completely simplistic to some, and many people think they’re cool because they eschew all things Potter (I find that irritating, because really? Disliking something does not make you cool). Whatever, I say! Whatever! It was an absolutely bizarre phenomenon, and while I’m not pretending they’re great literature, nor is it the only thing I read (I know what good, real-live books are, I swear, as do most adults who read Harry Potter, I imagine), but they are an intense guilty pleasure, and I’m sad to see it all end. Just please, I’m only on page 120, so don’t tell me anything yet. We can discuss … well, I don’t know when, as I’d hate to spoil it for anyone.

Happy Monday! Four days and counting until she arrives! AIEEEE!

*Beastie Boys