Posts filed under 'Pregnancy'
After all the brouhaha after last night’s Bachelor, I kind of wish I’d watched it this season so that I, too, could be jam-packed with righteous indignation. Instead, I will have to live vicariously through Miss Banshee, who made me laugh out loud with repeated references to him as “The Douchelor.” Which, you know, is kind of awesome.
I went back to the doctor yesterday for the weekly check-up and really, one word: meh. See also: ow. No progress, not really dilated, was given pity figure for effacement, and so on. She actually suggested we make a fancy couples dinner date for our due date so that we wouldn’t be too disappointed when it comes and goes. Le sigh. I shall live to waddle another day.
What was fairly awesome, however, was at this stage of the game, Adam is coming with me to all my appointments in the unlikely event that they screech that I am mysteriously in labor without realizing it and AIEE, let us go to the hospital NOW NOW NOW!
And look, I maintain that the gynecologist’s office is rarely not funny, kind of like seeing people fall down. It just is. It’s almost ALWAYS funny, unless you’re there for something really and truly dire. Even if you’re Emily and the doctor heats up the speculum to a temperature that could cauterize noses, it’s still mildly amusing, at least in retrospect. For crying out loud, there are STIRRUPS involved and people are jamming things in places that should never have unwanted visitors. It has to be funny, otherwise it would be very, very pitiful and sad.
My friend Alex’s* wife is pregnant, as I’ve mentioned, and when I talked to him earlier this week, he announced that he had finally seen “the stirrups behind the green curtain” during her last ultrasound. Adam delivered further confirmation of this bizarre sense of mysticism yesterday when, after the nurse wordlessly left me with a paper sheet, I started to disrobe from the waist down.
“What … WHAAT? Oh my God, why are you taking your pants off? WHY ARE YOU TAKING YOUR PANTS OFF? OH MY GOD.”
So not kidding. You’d think I’d pulled out a pack of matches and lit the place on fire. Apparently, in Man World, you never take your pants off without instructions expressly demanding that you do so, and with explicit directions for precisely the point in the appointment that it is acceptable to do so. Or something. But I can’t help but think that he might be a wee bit traumatized and that this may have prepared him for the birth and not in a good way. I mean, he’d been to appointments with me before, but my pants stayed on until more recently, obviously.
Anyway! In exciting news, a piece of art arrived for the baby’s room done by the incredible hands of Lawyerish‘s mom herself and you guys, it’s amazing. It’s so amazing I wish I could take a picture of it and show you all RIGHT NOW, but unfortunately, Boy Scout Adam has the car packed and loaded for labor and the camera is IN THE BAG and God forbid we disturb the sacred birthing bag. Never mind that until yesterday the bag didn’t contain CLOTHES for me to go home in, because he didn’t think I needed them, NEVER MIND.
(Speaking of Lawyerish, did you know she’s back? Because she is and with all kinds of updates, both heartbreaking and hopeful.)
And finally, this evening I flicked on American Idol for no reason at all (I never watch it, and that will become clear in a moment) and found myself Tweeting that the dude who sang Mandolin Rain had “axe murderer eyes” and was all, what the hell’s with the guy’s EYES? He looks scary! Very scary! And mean!
Fortunately or unfortunately as these things go, I was about to launch off on something else when someone informed me that hi, um, he’s actually blind. Yes, BLIND. OH HI HO. Is there another pile of shit I can step in?
Please, someone let me know where I can show up for my sensitivity award, because clearly I deserve one.
*Alex, he of Facebook Mom fame. By the way, he informed me of a post I’d missed, wherein he mentions beer and she FAH-REEKS OUT on his public profile, screeching that he should not be drinking in front of his wife and for the love of God, doesn’t he know about FETAL ALCOHOL SYNDROME? BEER IS DANGEROUS. I guess through proximal osmosis. I don’t know.
**Peter Gabriel. Toying with the idea of whipping through the birth playlist until she’s actually out.
March 3rd, 2009
Now that the statute of limitations on spoilers has passed, may I have a word about Top Chef? Yes, that’s right, I said STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS, meaning that the people who were live-Tweeting the results Wednesday night broke some major etiquette rules, because it’s one thing to ruin it for those of us who were on TiVo delay, but WAY DIFFERENT to totally Hose(a) the people on the West coast who didn’t even have the CHANCE TO SEE IT. And when your Tweet is nothing more than, “Hosea wins!” I then think you are an even LARGER douche, because you’re not even adding value with your Tweet! You are just ruining it for others! YES, YOU!
Ahem. I seem to have worked myself into a pregnant FROTH over this, so pissed off was I. Because it’s never happened before during a regular episode, much less a FINALE.
Anyway, Hosea. Whatever. Man, do I dislike the guy, and I see nothing attractive about him, and will consider it a service to others if the reunion reveals that he has, indeed, hooked up with Leah on a more permanent basis. Because at least then we can assume that by two totally annoying, destructive people being together that they are at least reducing the damage to other, more innocent victims.
So! I have two things I’ve been wondering about, both non-pregnancy-bitching related, although I will FIRST tell you that I had an internal exam today which is very painful, HOO BOY OH YES IT IS. I had no idea, man. I mean, getting a hand up in there isn’t exactly a piece of cake, but I didn’t realize having someone noodle around in my cervix would feel not unlike that awful scene in Seven, if you know what I’m saying and BLECH I HOPE YOU DON’T. But! Word is that I’m 50% effaced and a fingertip dilated, which, plus a bag of salt and vinegar chips, will get me lunch, if that, and I’m told to “hang tight.” Whee.
So onward to the two things!
1) I really, really thought acrylic French-manicured nails went out in 1987. Am I woefully behind the times on this? I mean, I realize that the Real Housewives of Orange County aren’t exactly the most CLASSY of ladies, given their behavior, but don’t their nails seem so INCONGRUOUS? They’re PLASTIC. And very gross. Ew. Just ew.
2) It is pretty much determined that my daughter will be a Piscean unless she goes beyond March 20 and is born Giant Freaky Overcooked Baby, which: no. This is a little bit scary for me, a Capricorn/Scorpio mix, because while I love Pisces, my mind immediately goes to the most extreme manifestation, which is usually awesome, and generally the kind of person I admire because it’s so different from me.
But because I’ll be her MOTHER, and will turn into the completely crazy controlling Capricorn that I am, unleashing every negative aspect of my personality and sign on her like the WIND, I’m terrified she’s going to be all WIFTY and want to run off to swim with the dolphins or something, which will give me HIVES, because WHAT ABOUT HER FUTURE OH MY GOD, DOLPHINS DO NOT PAY THE BILLS. And it will morph into an epic battle of wills, when really, dolphin-wranglers are probably the happiest of sorts and can do just FINE.
But still, then I’ll be that irritating helicopter mom telling her to go do something practical, and just give up on her freakin’ marine dreams already, because it’s MUCH BETTER TO DO SOMETHING PRACTICAL. AND HAS SHE CONSIDERED BEING A CPA? And while she’s at it, pick up a suit from Brooks Brothers, perhaps the kind with the gold buttons on the cuffs! HURRY. STOP THINKING ABOUT THE DOLPHINS.
I used to be a bit of an astrology buff, and in fact, have a chart to do for a friend (AIEEE, JENNIE WILL DO), but can no longer really claim much beyond the most rudimentary of knowledge. However! I know my own signs rather well, and fit them to a T. And so I ask, do you? Is my fear of Wifty Piscean Dolphin Child completely unfounded?
(Note: this is mostly in jest. Please do not panic that I’m going to send my child back or, I don’t know TO MILITARY SCHOOL, because she decides to paint teapots for a living. Or that I have some sort of THING against Pisces, because OBVIOUSLY NOT.)
Happy weekend! Holla!
*The Sundays. And the only reason I use it is because I believe she uses the term “romantic Piscean” in her whole personal ad parallel, and now it’s in my head.
February 26th, 2009
The can of deluxe mixed nuts I bought today has a label on it screeching, “WARNING: MAY CONTAIN NUTS AND OTHER ALLERGENS.”
Ha ha haaaa? Oh God.
**WARNING: EXTREME GESTATIONAL-RELATED KVETCHING FOLLOWS**
(Mercifully, it is a LIMITED-TIME ENGAGEMENT)
(We hope.)
(Otherwise, some of us will have to be committed.)
(But really, that’s kind of all I’ve got going on, because I AM A LUMP. AN ISLAND. A CONTINENT.)
Hey, have I told you guys that I don’t sleep? Like, at all? I know, I know! I have! People think I’m exaggerating and all, but no no, really, I’m not. I start trying around 10:30, and without fail, I break out into an inexplicable full-body sweat by 11:30, at which point Adam falls asleep and snores ever so gently in tune with the dog, which is too much for my delicate little constitution to bear in this state, and I’m up! I’m up!
Enter hours and hours of television and infomercials mixed with tossing and turning and the occasional driftoff for no more than THIRTY MINUTES at a time, because I’ve been roused by the need to turn over — which believe me, is a process involving lots of heaving and more sweating, plus a body pillow — or I have to pee, or my arm (MY STUPID ARM) is throbbing from carpal tunnel.
Or — and this is the best part — I WAKE MYSELF UP SNORING. And by “snoring” I mean … oh God, you guys, I can’t believe the noises that come out of my face. Imagine a very large, very loud train full of snorting pigs screeching into megaphones. Now imagine that train in your bed. Or you know, ON YOUR FACE.
You see, perhaps, why I have come, however naively, to believe that the one- to three-hour stretches new parents complain about with newborns is beginning to sound downright LUXURIOUS. After all, I get exactly one (1) of those every day, usually between the hours of 7-10 a.m., during which the phone almost always rings, enraging me to the point of … well, blind rage. And even then, I wake up at least twice to pee and/or roll over and/or ALL OF THE DAMN ABOVE.
Here’s something also interesting! Do you know that sometimes stretch marks HURT while they are being created? You can actually feel your skin pulling apart! This of course, makes me think of OTHER nether-like regions pulling apart, only much faster and … oy, folks, OY. I am very excited for her to arrive, but I am not excited about the MODE of her arrival, and am wondering if there is some sort of alien osmosis way of getting her out so that none of us quite realizes it, until suddenly, OH LOOK, A BABY. HOW MAGICAL.
As for the marks themselves, I don’t actually care, because they aren’t that bad yet, AND I’m not inclined to get yanked out about such things, especially when there’s nothing I can do about it, short of duct-taping my skin together (a novel idea!). However, I am not all THIS IS THE SHAPE OF A MOTHER. I WEAR THEM AS BADGES OF HONOR. Um, no. They are what they are, and dude, I’m gonna assume those babies will fade. Or at least hope. If not, please don’t look for my midsection anywhere but underneath my shirts from now until forever and ever, amen.
Anyway, this will all be moot within the month, at least, as she’s due a week from Saturday, and I could go as long as 42 weeks. (Ha ha?) (HA HA HA?)
So. Other than an inordinate amount of very boring preparation and nesting (we have very clean toilets and bathtubs right now, because, you know, she’ll be born potty trained and showering solo, so those MUST BE CLEAN), there is little happening here. I am busy as hell doing things that are probably of little consequence (bills! repairmen scheduling in Florida! PANIC!) and watching my skin rip like an overinflated balloon.
And finally, Top Chef this season was really stinky. Thank God for Real Housewives. Or you know, I could watch something other than Bravo, but why start now?
Happy Thursday!
*Simon & Garfunkel
February 26th, 2009
Adam and I have been hellbound and determined to get all the sleeping, slothing and general do-nothingness we can in these last few weekends, to the point of not even LOOKING at what’s happening around us, because all we have planned — nay, all we WANT — to do is watch Weeds and The West Wing or whatever show we missed the first time around and are now catching up on. I think this went to the extreme when we went out for dinner last night and didn’t even notice the GIANT BONFIRE that could be seen from all points in town, which was apparently wrapping up some kind of town-wide winter carnival that had been happening all weekend long. And yet, when we finally did notice the fire, we almost called 9-1-1, because OMG FIRE WTF.
We’re involved in our community, is what I’m saying. ACTIVELY INVOLVED. I imagine this will change, however, when I am able to do anything for more than three minutes at a time, and I’ll have a baby who would probably like to do something other than watch Weeds (well, eventually anyway). By “anything,” by the way, I mean really mean all things that normal people do. I can’t eat more than an ounce at a clip because my stomach’s in my boob, I can’t walk for any distance because oh my God, my aching back, and for chrissake, I can’t even LAY ON ONE SIDE for more than three minutes, because the sheer heft of my own body makes my whole side go numb.
So! In light of the fact that we’re in a holding pattern here and did little else other than lay about like bumps in pickles, mail thank-you notes and other sundry sloth-like activities, how about a painful meme? I KNOW! I hate them, too! But my brain needs to do something, and I already did the cursed 25 things on Facebook (no, really, IT MADE ME).
This, too, is the worst of all, as it is the COUPLES MEME. HA HA HA. Oh, poor Adam.
What are your middle names?
Mine is Kay; Adam’s is Lewis. I really despise mine (sorry, Mom!), as it seems so … country western song, to me. Blech.
How long have you been together?
Ten years. We started dating in 1999; married in 2003.
How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We both went to Syracuse and ultimately, had all of the same friends, but I’d only ever heard of this mysterious Adam that everyone knew but I’d never met. He’d graduated the year prior, but had to finish up a credit or two while he worked a full-time job, so understandably, his schedule wasn’t really that of a college student anymore. However, finally, about a week before graduation, we met at a bar and I chatted his ear off drunkenly, and boy howdy, I liked him a whole lot, but we were both involved with other people at the time.
Eventually, after we’d both moved back to Boston a year later, I ran into him on the street on my way to the T and hugged him, we all started hanging out together and … that was kind of it.
Who asked whom out?
Uh, neither of us, I guess. It was an organic kind of thing that happened kind of shortly after we re-met. Although I did have a (bad, irrelevant and superboring) boyfriend at the time that we realized we were getting together and Adam basically demanded that I break up with him because there was sort of no point stopping the train we were on. (I’m making this sound like the Thornbirds or something, but it wasn’t really like that.) And I did exactly that the very next day, and we’ve been together ever since.
How old are each of you?
He was a year ahead of me in school and everything else, but we’re both 33.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
We each have more than one sibling, but we see my sister and his brother the most, probably equally these days, as they’re the closest to us (Boston and Syracuse, respectively).
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
I’m going to go with impending parenthood, preemptively.
Did you go to the same school?
Yes. But again, we didn’t really know each other, and while I’d heard of him, I highly doubt he’d ever heard of me.
Are you from the same home town?
Nope. I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania, and he grew up in Boston’s MetroWest.
Who is smarter?
I’m no slouch, but he’s much smarter than me in every useful category imaginable.
Who is the most sensitive?
Neither one of us are super-sensitive types, but he’s not at all, while I am currently experiencing a pregnancy-induced bout of X-TREME SENSITIVITY 2009. I’m even embarrassed at some of the things that come out of my mouth, seriously, because I’m this wee little shrinking violet who is weirdly, hormonally needy. I believe I’ve said, “Will you still love me if/when [insert event here]” more times than I EVER imagined saying it before. I am an awful, miserable, needy sap which, you’re just going to have to trust me, is nothing like me normally.
If I had to guess, I’d say he’s not thrilled with it, because who IS this suddenly weird, needy woman who’s all, “WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME TOMORROW?” I mean, where is his WIFE, is probably what he’s thinking.
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
HA. Well, considering we live in a wee town with very little of anything decent to speak of, I’d say the diner up the street for lunch, which has the best reubens in town.
Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
It’s sad to say we’ve both traveled far and wide separately, but we haven’t traveled that far as a couple. Pre-baby, when we took couple-y type vacations, we both worked so much that all we wanted to do was lay on a beach somewhere, so that’s what we did. So, uh, the Caribbean was frequented A LOT.
Who has the craziest exes?
That would be me. All of his exes are lovely, and the kind of women I’d be friends with if they lived closer. And there’s really only one of mine that went crazy, but he seems just fine now. I think.
Who has the worst temper?
Hm. I’m quick to anger, quick to cool. I will yell and rant for five to fifteen minutes, and then it’s over forever. Adam is one of those slow-burn types who takes a while to get angry, but takes just as long to cool down. This works out just as well as you can imagine, although we don’t fight much.
Who does the cooking?
I do, except when Adam makes his Asian stir-fry, which is delicious. He always cooks chicken perfectly.
Who is the neat-freak?
Adam. I thrive in chaos.
Who is more stubborn?
Oh God, it’s like living with two MULES.
Who hogs the bed?
HA HA. I do. Am miserable, bed-hogging cow these days, and now there are pretty much two of me, given the giant body pillow I require to get comfortable. Rolling over is a HILARIOUS ENDEAVOR that often results in thwapping Adam directly in the face with the zipper end of the pillowcase. God.
Who wakes up earlier?
Me, almost always, under normal circumstances. But lately, with my general preggo morning exhaustion, he’s up and at ‘em, while I’m prone and sloth-like, considering stabbing my own eyes out for a second more of actual sleep that lasts more than thirty minutes.
Where was your first date?
We had our first “date” by making the impromptu decision to stay up all night and watch the sunrise over Boston Harbor after a night out with friends. My best friend (and roommate at the time), Eve, was also with us, which she now remembers with painful awkwardness (“You guys were GETTING TOGETHER, what the FUCK was I DOING THERE?”), but truly, it was actually perfect that she was there and not at all awkward at the time, because it’s not like it was PLANNED and there was no kissing or hand-holding or anything date-y about it.
Besides, the two of them were better friends than Adam and I were then. They’d known each other for years at that point.
Our first alone-date was when we both opted to play hooky from work and randomly take a boat ride in the Boston Harbor on a gorgeous sunny day.
It’s worth noting that four years later, Adam proposed at that very spot, just behind the aquarium, right before we went out to dinner and drinks with all of our friends in Faneuil Hall.
Who is more jealous?
Neither of us are jealous. I don’t know any married people who are, or is that just me? It would be weird for us. I mean, we’re happily married, so there’s really nothing to be jealous of. It’s not like some appealing person of the opposite sex is going to come in and make any difference in our relationship whatsoever.
How long did it take to get serious?
About a minute. We were talking about getting married like, a week into it. I even told my mother I was going to marry this guy, to which she probably said something like, “Yes, sure, right, whatever.” But I was right.
Who eats more?
Oh God, probably me. But I’m pregnant and uh, Adam’s a snacker?
Who does the laundry?
I don’t let him, or anybody, near the laundry. It’s my weird little anal thing I have. I love doing laundry and it’s a chore I really don’t mind, although I will concede I should do it more often.
Who’s better with the computer?
Considering he’s always been a programmer, technology lead, VP of technology or CTO, I’m going to go with him. I always forget that most people don’t live with computer geniuses who can fix anything, anytime.
Who drives when you are together?
Adam. He claims I’m a bad driver, but WHATEVER. Am behind-the-wheel prodigy.
*curtain*
I’m off to scrounge up something for dinner and watch the Oscars. Oh and then MAYBE I’ll try to sleep, but trust me, no one is counting on this.
*Regina Spektor. She’s wicked hit or miss for me, but I love that song.
February 22nd, 2009
I first felt the baby move late last night, right when I was falling asleep. Because I haven’t been able to hear an accurate description prior to this that didn’t involve vague mentions of “gas bubbles,” evoking delicate little carbonated beverages swimming around your midsection, I feel compelled to clear things up.
Uh, not so much with the delicate. You know what it’s really like? I’ll tell you. You know when you’ve got a gas bubble — and by “bubble” I mean a large wad of gas, not some tiny champagne-bubble shit — working its way down your intestines, culminating in what you imagine to be a giant, Mason jar-sized fart? (Stop it. You all do. I know you do.) It feels precisely like that, except the mondo fart never comes, and it never really moves down your intestines. It just sort of pokes you, and I spent the first 200 times thinking I was going to fart, and it was only last night that I realized that duh, the fart never came, and DOUBLE DUH, that feels a bit too rhythmic to be a fart, because it’s all hanging around the same spot and OH MY GOD, there’s a baby in there and it’s ALIIIIIIVE. And apparently I am less gassy than previously anticipated!
Creepy, right? I know it’s all delicate to say gas bubble, but why didn’t anyone say GIANT FART-BREWING FEELING WITH A FART THAT NEVER COMES? That would have been so much more descriptive and helpful. Now you know.
Onward! I believe we have found a place to live, and would you believe it’s in our dinky little town? I can’t either! Apparently not even the lure of Starbucks and civilization can compete with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, not to mention pastoral river views. You know, I always thought I was an old house person — I AM an old house person, by most accounts — and I don’t know if it’s pregnancy or the cost of oil these days, but I find myself embarrassingly distracted by New! New! New! Also: AC! AC! AC! I think it’s that I’m all too aware how much harder it is to keep an old house clean and heated without an absurd amount of effort and expense, and my God, I don’t feel like dealing with pregnancy and/or a newborn PLUS all that shit. I want to be able to vacuum and be done with it, not have to closely examine every single baseboard with Pledge on a daily basis, and I haven’t even talked about the INSECTS. And do you know how annoying it is that no matter how much I clean our toilets, they never LOOK clean, because they’re SO DAMN OLD? ARE SHINY TOILETS TOO MUCH TO ASK?
Wow, that’s riveting stuff, yes? Anyway, keep your fingers crossed for us as we give notice on our place and navigate the new lease. I don’t know why I always expect these things to be fraught with danger, but I do. I’m never COMPLETELY satisfied until I’m firmly ensconced in a new home and several months have passed and no one has either sued me or ceased to pay any rent on the house we rented to them, thus enabling us to afford the house we live in. And pregnancy only exacerbates these anxieties, and at this rate, I’ll be in full-tilt panic until next August, rocking back and forth and muttering about lawsuits and mortgage rates.
Speaking of mortgage rates, the whole discussion is really grating my cheese, and I don’t mean to sound like Suze Orman, but in some cases — not all, by any stretch — people got themselves into this mess by showing an astonishing lack of common sense. And while I’m all for punishing the predatory lenders, and I’m just as peeved as the next gal that we’re in this pickle, I am equally irritated that there seems to be a lack of personal responsibility attached to it. I mean, do you have any idea how much more house Adam and I qualified for than the one we bought, and how lenders tried to convince us that no no, buying more (like four or five times more!) is better? But we didn’t. Not by a long shot, and in fact, we got a fixed rate mortgage at a great rate, with payments we could easily afford on one income if need be, because my God, you never know, do you? CLEARLY YOU DO NOT. But it may surprise you that even people like us are screwed too!
I know, I’m sounding preachy! And self-righteous! But man, it pisses me off, because I can’t help but wonder if people used a wee bit of personal logic, instead of letting themselves get talked into something that didn’t really make any fucking SENSE (Why yes, a $500K starter home sounds great, even though I only make $35K annually! What a STELLAR IDEA! Let’s finance the crap out of that sucker!), we wouldn’t be quite so screwed. Still screwed, mind you, but maybe not SO much?
But every time I see this shit parodied or talked about, it’s assumed that the only people suffering from this crisis are those who bit off way more than they could chew, or were buying investment properties by the armload to flip and ergo, they deserve what they got. Not true! Regular people who didn’t even have an ARM and bought their house for a fair, uninflated price are screwed, too! And not everyone who got an ARM is an idiot! Plenty of people saw it work for others because it was such a ridiculous, absurd market!
Now, I’ll grant you, we’re not as fucked as we could be — we have a renter, and even if we didn’t, could swing the two payments if we had to, not that we’d ENJOY it — but we can’t sell the place for what we paid for it, despite buying at the bottom of the market. (My next-door neighbors and much of the neighborhood paid two and a half times what we did, if that’s any indication of how low we bought at, and a sign of just how awful things are. I’m thinking theirs will sell in 2060?) And that totally pisses me off. It’s not like I’m trying to even make a profit on the damn thing, I just want to UNLOAD IT ALREADY. FOR A TOTALLY REASONABLE PRICE. And yet, by the rule book of life’s responsible actions, I did everything “right.”
Eh. I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess I’m saying that while I do put some blame on corporate (and government) greed, I also put some on some — not all, mind you, and certainly not my friends who might be reading this, I promise — people who didn’t have the sense to think the whole thing through. I’m not so down with looking at everyone as a victim here. I suppose to some that makes me a harsh asshole. Good thing I’m not running for office.
Well! Let us move on to something light! Like the fact that I do not understand how in God’s name ANYONE drinks grape juice — or any juice, save for orange or apple — undiluted. It’s like drinking SYRUP. And further, most grapes are light, sweet and delicious — like little bursts of clean sunshine after a rain — but Concord grapes, not so much. They’re like drinking heavy drapes in a mahogany room. Bleah. And yet the vast majority of grape juice is made with Concord grapes, and I totally blame — and subsequently loathe — Welch’s. I mean if wine can be made from a variety of grapes, why not JUICE, I ask you?
Happy Thursday!
*The Shins
October 8th, 2008
Oh y’all. It’s FALL. And do you know what that means? It’s time to embarrass your husband, friends and neighbors by putting the dog in a sweatshirt again!
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Also, what would Sassy Kay say about this ensemble?
Well! Today was an exciting day, and I don’t even want to tell you what happened, except that there’s really no need to start filtering now, is there? So I’m sitting down at my computer today, when there was a … well, I’m sorry, it was a gush, IT WAS, and then there was some MOISTURE down there, and I flipped out, because HELLO, AMNIOTIC FLUID! AM LEAKING AND KILLING MAH BABY.
An entire day of panic about this and all kinds of conversations with the nurse led to the stunning conclusion that I am not leaking amniotic fluid, but am instead (oh God, sort of maybe) MILDLY INCONTINENT THANKS TO LEFTOVER COLD-RELATED COUGHING AND SNEEZING AND A BABY ON MY BLADDER. HOW LOVELY FOR EVERYONE.
Dude, seriously? Pregnancy is a trip, and I sort of mean that in the “very bad acid trip” sense of the word. What the hell, bladder? I DO MY KEGELS. Apparently although I cannot feel this young sweet thing yet, it’s already resting full-tilt on my bladder, having not moved out of the area quickly enough. I mean, come on. I’m not even 33 yet. COME ON.
I’ll tell you one thing, though, which is that I love — nay, ADORE and want to marry — my entire OB/GYN office. I can’t tell you what a remarkable difference it’s made in my miserable pregnancy to have the nicest, most down-to-earth group of doctors, nurses and MAs (all women!) to help me out. I’d read that it is not uncommon to develop inappropriate feelings and/or crushes on your practitioner, and I’m here to tell you that I fit the cliche entirely. I find myself plotting how I can be FRIENDS with my doctors and have coffee and pet their hair, I love them that much.
Also, hey, did I mention I’m giving birth like an hour and a half from here? Oh HA HA, yes I am, thanks to Dr. Gropes-A-Lot, who, I have learned, has a TOWN-WIDE reputation for being a total creeplor with a penchant for simultaneously belittling women and fondling them inappropriately. I mean, I’ve talked to like, TEN PEOPLE, and when I mentioned his name, they all quite literally shuddered, and that includes my EIGHTY YEAR OLD NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR. Which: OMG, how awful. And yet, I’ve been told that he’s wormed his way into the births of every single person I talked to who gave birth here. Every person! Who gave birth! At the local hospital! Which is why, my friends, I am giving birth far, far away from him, even if that far, far away means birthing the baby in the back of my Honda on route 7. The alternative is much more terrifying.
I hope you have a great Tuesday! My day will be filled with such exciting tasks as calling back potential clients, looking at apartments and getting a flu shot! Oh, and periodically panicking about nothing but totally embarrassing things. You know, no big deal.
*The Smiths. I pictured a, uh, hand in a rubber glove, like at the OB’s office? And also because it’s from the same album as This Charming Man, and the post I referenced. It’s all very flimsy, I know.
October 6th, 2008
Contributing, I believe, to the general crabbiness around here — crabbiness that even I will admit has reached HILARIOUS levels, as I swear to God, sometimes I stop being pissy to just laugh at what a Crabby McCrabpants I’m being — is a head cold. A relatively minor head cold by non-pregnant standards, but I never realized what sweet relief it was to be able to pop some Dayquil and carry on with life as though nothing had happened. Sure, you might have medicine head, but it beats the pants off of dealing with unmitigated green snot and, your friend and mine, The Herp Lip.
Ah, Herp Lip. How nice of you not to forget about me during pregnancy. It’s a pleasure to be able to play host to not one, but TWO parasitic entities, one lovable, one … not.
Tomorrow, by the way, I’m taking the day off from all work-related responsibilities to attend an OB appointment, wherein I sincerely hope they can find this kid’s heartbeat, because I’m reading all about how I should be feeling kicks and whatnot down there and I DO NOT FEEL A BLESSED THING EXCEPT THE URGE TO PEE AND MAYBE THROW UP. I will also be looking at houses — five, to be specific — and am both dreading and looking forward to it.
I know this is irrational, but there’s something about renting at this stage of life that makes me feel wholly inadequate, like I’ve FAILED somewhere. This is made all the more ridiculous by the fact that a) I am a home owner, just not where I live, thanks to the wonders of the economy (with strong fundamentals!) and a pillow-soft housing market; b) Even if I WANTED to buy a second home, I wouldn’t buy one in Vermont, because while we like it here, this is not a permanent solution, so I’d be renting regardless; and c) at least the home I own is rented to someone and not in foreclosure like so many others, my God, Jonna, SHUT UP.
Anyway, in many ways, renting should make me feel like a colossal success, because I’ve been amazed at the amount of people drooling over us, simply by the fact that we’re two clean-cut, professional people with good jobs who can not only afford the rent (a novel concept), but don’t plan on throwing parties with elephants and camels on the weekends. Now, I would have assumed in this bleak housing economy where no one is buying anything that there are many people like us, but apparently I was wrong, for when I hung up with a prospective landlord this evening, the desperation of his “I SINCERELY HOPE YOU LIKE THE HOUSE” was nearly palpable, and it’s been much the same with as many others.
So we’ll, uh, see. Sunny is causing a small kink in our plans, as though we are drool-worthy tenants, we do come with an mini-beast who really does drool and occasionally sheds.
And now! Onto my latest pregnancy obsession: soup. I know! How BORING. Pie and apples have hit the road, my friends. They were wonderful while they lasted, but all good things must come to an end. And seeing as I already have the recipes for my other obsession (BROWNIES) thanks to Swistle, I find that soups and stews really are the next frontier in pregnancy foods, along with English muffins. Something about the nooks and crannies.
The problems with commercial soups are several-fold, and include: a) the meat in them is so gross even to a non-pregnant me, but add a total intolerance for anything gristly (HALP) or off-color (HOLD ME) and we have the Return of the Vomit Monster; and b) the only commercial soups that have any complexity at all and/or lack the Icky Meat factor are tomato broth-based, which OH MY GOD, NO NO. THE HEARTBURN. NO.
My favorite lately came from TwoBusy around this time last year — no, wait, oh my God, it was TWO WHOLE YEARS AGO — and I would be remiss in not paying it forward. I finished up the last in the freezer today and plan to make more tomorrow. (By the way, I usually freeze it, so I don’t use the pasta.) (Also, I know it’s got tomatoes, but there is a difference between tomato PUREE and chunks of tomatoes, you know? Or maybe you don’t.)
This is a long way of saying I welcome soup recipes that do not involve sauteed onions and peppers (GAH GAH GAH).
Happy Thursday! Wish me luck in my long, dark Day of Househunting and OB-GYNing.
*The Killers, who I love so very much still. Especially Brandon Flowers, who is rather tasty, despite the eyeliner and odd behavior.
September 24th, 2008
First, I have to tell you all that I received a care package today from Swistle and it involved TWO KINDS OF BROWNIES. I know we’ve all read her recipes on occasion and thought, gee, that sounds good! I should try that sometime! But I have to tell you, you would be horribly mistaken if you didn’t make “sometime” turn into “this weekend.” They might be the best brownies I’ve ever tasted. Ever. In my life, and that’s not an exaggeration. They’re dense and fudgy and chewy without being TOO dense and chewy, and they’re just the right amount of sweet and chocolatey, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get another one right this minute. Also included? Ginger snaps. These ginger snaps, and they’re even better than she says they are and I DO NOT EVEN USUALLY LIKE GINGER SNAPS. My beef with them is that they’re usually too gingery and a little too crispy/snappy, but these are PERFECT. LIKE, NO KIDDING.
Things around here are … a little nuts. In the last 24 hours, I’ve put together three new freelance proposals, two of which at the ball-ass last minute; uncovered a horrendously unethical scheme by the person who is buying our house and the Realtor selling our house designed to manipulate us into staying here until June, but only under certain, hilariously inconvenient and unethical circumstances; looked at three houses, none of which I liked; called on approximately 9,879,600 houses, flagged 1,098 inappropriate posts on Craigslist and yelled at the aforementioned Realtor who tried to have an electrician come to my home at 7 a.m. that I would, in fact, not hesitate to call the police if I saw their truck here before 9 a.m. and if she thought I was kidding that perhaps she should go ahead and try. I also think I used the words “over my limp, dead, pregnant body, no SERIOUSLY.”
Before I go on to state my next point which is, not surprisingly, that pregnancy makes you crazy, I will say that in this particular case I believe pregnancy insanity has worked in my favor. That is, I am more assertive than I would normally be (because really, 7 a.m. for a non-emergency electrician visit that has even NOTHING TO DO WITH ME is totally unreasonable), and paranoia, in this case, has led me to figure out that in at least one instance, people really were plotting to fuck me over in grand fashion.
However, this does not account for the level of crazy that takes over your body and mind in pregnancy that really, I don’t feel that anyone adequately warned me about. I knew enough about morning sickness to know that it can happen the way it’s happening to me (and who hasn’t read Jessica’s ordeal?), and all the body/boob changes haven’t really fazed me.
However, NO ONE prepared me for the insanity that are pregnancy hormones. Hormones that made me cry HYSTERICALLY for several hours (SEVERAL HOURS) because I’m afraid I’ll have to spend the rest of my family vacations at Disney World (uh, I won’t); hormones that made me absolutely lose my shit on poor Adam because he HAD to stop playing XBox THAT VERY MINUTE or the world would completely end and OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU STILL PLAYING? IT IS BECAUSE YOU HATE ME, DON’T YOU? Seriously, I harped on him for a good 20 minutes, with no discernible logic or reasoning — I didn’t want to watch TV, it wasn’t too late at night and I WAS NOT EVEN IN THE ROOM. It simply HAD TO BE DONE OR ELSE.
I can’t even go into the number of times I’ve snapped on him for some invisible transgression and at one point earlier in the day, I threatened to leave the ENTIRE STATE OF VERMONT because I didn’t want to be in the same state as someone I so vehemently dislike (the effing Realtor). I was, sadly, entirely serious, and spent a good 20 minutes plotting (WITH GOOGLE MAPS) how Adam could commute two hours to and from work from our cabin in the Adirondacks, because GOOD GODDAMN, I am NOT living in the same state as that fire-breathing ASS OF A WOMAN, DO YOU HEAR ME? VERMONT IS DEAD TO ME.
I know this all sounds so clearly insane, but at the time, I could not be stopped under any circumstances. And what’s worse, I can’t promise I won’t revisit each and every one of these issues again before this pregnancy is out.
Anyway! Let us end this ranty moment of insanity with an odd moment of zen thanks to Vermont’s quirky apartment and housing listings from various sources, shall we? Perhaps these tidbits will give you a little insight into why I AM SO INSANELY INSANE AND CRAZY.
– 7 room house with 3 bedrooms and 1 1/2 baths available for someone willing to milk in exchange for the rent. Yes, that would be MILKING THE COWS. They need about 30 milkings a month to cover the rent, and while they would prefer an “experienced milker” they’re not afraid to train.
– If milking isn’t your thing, perhaps you’d like to take a peek at this little “fixer upper” that has had a “run of bad luck” (photo of dilapidated house with crazily crooked, not-intentionally detached porch and sloping roof included for detail) for $350/month. There isn’t any heat, per se, but a “stack of wood out back, if burned correctly, can heat a family of two for quite some time. Let us know soon!”
Seriously. I did not make up a single word of either of those listings. Lake George and a two-hour commute don’t seem that bad now, do they?
Edited to add in this delightful little postscript: Remember when I had a dream that my cream cheese was made with breast milk? No? Anyone? Well, if PETA has it their way, Ben & Jerry’s will be made with breast milk. To which I say heartily: Uh, NO? How about a HELL NO? How about a “No way, no how, no McCain, no Palin, no BREAST MILK in my ice cream?” Again, I’m all “Yay, breastfeeding!” but my God, I don’t want to CONSUME IT MYSELF.
Happy Wednesday!
*Fine Young Cannibals. I … I love them still. Because I’m stuck in 1989.
September 23rd, 2008
Well, it’s not a puppy or a cricket — it IS, in fact, an actual baby with actual baby-like appendages and fingers and toes and I’m reluctant to say this, as it sounds so sappy and mom sell-out-type talk, but it was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Call me stupid, but I didn’t know that babies moved so much at that stage. S/he was sleeping at first and then … oh, and then! There was moving and stretching and arm-waving and so! much! wiggling! that I burst into tears and heaved silently for a moment until the technician told me to breathe, oh my God, BREATHE. This is a major improvement over the last ultrasound, when the doctor said, “That’s your baby!” and I said, “Eh?” because it may as well have been my kidneys we were looking at. No, I’m sorry, I take it back: my kidneys would have been more exciting and probably more baby-like. I believe I then tried to cover my disappointment with, “Well, get the hell out of here! Nifty!” So convincing. Also, nifty?
Anyway, this ultrasound also included a 4D component, which was so cool and so unexpected, even if the baby looked more like Skeletor on it than on the 2D. (Adam: “You kind of uh, see too much there.” Me: “Ew, is that the placenta?”) The ultrasound chick said she could make a pretty good guess as to the sex of the kid, but the little rugrat REFUSED to uncross its legs, no matter how many times we jiggled and poked and laughed. He mocked us. I do, however, have a head-on shot of the uh, cheeseburger and/or twig & berries — three dots, which could be either a clitoris and two, uh, labial lips (I AM SO SORRY, DARLING BABY, THAT I AM TALKING ABOUT YOUR MAYBE CLITORIS AND LABIA) or a penis and two testicles. You know, one or the other. When Adam scans them in, I’ll post for your perusal, because to me, it screams BOYPARTS, but you know, she’s a professional, so whatever, we’ll go with her and her vague “Uh, no idea?” unless you have a better one.
Anyway, despite the fact that I’m still puking every night, I can honestly say I’ve never been more excited for anything in my whole life, and seeing that little thing in there changed me in a way that I can’t even describe. I am … I am a little embarrassed about this, because HELLO, I AM A CLICHE, but man. Nothing beats seeing my baby waving and kicking and getting pissed off at us for poking at it with an ultrasound wand. Nothing.
(CHEESY CLICHED PREGNANT LADY. HOW EMBARRASSING.)
In other, entirely unrelated news, there are few things in life that would improve my daily comfort than the ability to burp. I never burp — literally, I probably burp once or twice a QUARTER, if that — and I am so envious of easy burpers. You know, the people who just let loose with a good old BELCH that sounds like it FEELS SO GOOD and yes, I know it’s gross. Whatever. I’m jealous. My ability to fart on command is totally pale in comparison. Any attempt I’ve ever made to burp myself results in a lot of awkward hacking and the occasional gag. WTF?
We have no plans this holiday weekend, instead traveling the weekend AFTER to Syracuse for the premiere of the Ernie Davis biopic, The Express. (For those not familiar, Adam and I both went there, and my brother-in-law teaches there and works with the athletic department). Anyway, this event is, uh, formal and all Hollywood-like. Which is totally what every kegger-like early second trimester pregnant woman wants, the occasion to get all dolled up and rub elbows with B-listers while looking like she swallowed the contents of a Krispy Kreme franchise. I mean, I’m looking forward to it (and the Penn State game the next day), but still. I’m not looking forward to being the drunk-looking girl heaving in the bathroom in an ill-fitting cocktail dress, as I’m so not Jessica Alba.
It’s perhaps worth noting that the last formal-ish event I attended was my nephew’s wedding, where I was outed TO THE WHOLE WEDDING that I was seven weeks’ pregnant because I got caught throwing up behind the oh-so-stinky tires of my car in front of the entire smoking contingent at the reception, after being too afraid to puke in the bathroom and ruin the guests’ experience. I may not be Jessica Alba, but don’t say you can’t take me anywhere.
Have a great long weekend, y’all.
*David Gray
August 28th, 2008
I feel like I’ve just returned from some insane acid trip, complete with unbelievable highs, bizarre, sucker-punch lows and general surreality (totally a word) all around. If the houses melted into a pool of white chocolate, then miraculously appeared as though nothing had happened, I would have merely chalked it up to a laced prenatal vitamin.
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
August 27th, 2008
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