Food Dropper

My dog knows that something is up. Lately she wears her anxiety on her paw. I'm not sure if she can smell it, or hear it, or taste it... but for a while now, some sixth sense has told her "Your days at the top of the family food chain are numbered."

Normally indistinguishable from a rug, now there's 3am barking, chewing trash, eating chocolate cliff bars off my desk, begging at outdoor coffee shops, and evacuating whenever presented with an open door. Last week she took a poop bath on the hiking trail.

My dog has always been incredibly tolerant of children, allowing herself to be poked and pulled and slapped by them, without so much as a twitch. Recently, after only 11 years, my dog has made an important discovery: small children drop food. And if they don't actually drop it, its easy enough to steal from them since their little hands sit conveniently at snout-level.

Oh yes, they'll be apples and avocado, goldfish and graham crackers... and more Cheerios than one dog could possibly dream of.

Imagine my dog's delight when, in 2.5 short months, she discovers that what is about to dethrone her is actually a food dropper.



Last week I was sick. Not like really sick, hurt the baby, sick. Just like cuh-cuh, achew! sick.

No problem, I can go to work, right? Its just a little cough. So there I am, sporting my birkenstocks with socks, because I can, because I'm sick. All of a sudden, I feel a sneeze coming on. Awesome, closest thing I've had to having sex in a while, so I nurse it out.

Except that's not the only thing that came out.

I speezed.


I am the lunch lady.

I cannot remember phone numbers, new people’s names, or much that happened before 2006. However, I have a clear picture of my grammar school cafeteria. Long rows of industrial folding tables were flanked by that universal installation: The Lunch Lady. It had a certain women’s prison je ne sais quoi.

I’d guess that the Lunch Lady circa 1976 was a cross-cultural phenomenon: whether you grew up in New York or Boston, Topeka or Kalamazoo, you had a lunch lady or two. She sported a short haircut and some girth; she donned the sleeveless flowered frock. I never made the connection at the time, but the shirt had to be sleeveless in order to accommodate upper arms that rivaled the size of most people’s thighs. She probably cut them off herself.

Last week my friends dropped off some full-on maternity wear for me. No more wearing my oversized 1980’s Herrell’s Ice Cream t-shirt and my board shorts. I’m rocking none other than the sleeveless flowered shirt.


Talking Dogs

My prior parenting experience comes exclusively from the mothering of one small dog.

A lot of you probably have dogs or (cringe) cats who you love very dearly. Maybe you’ve been together for a while now: 3 year, 5 years, 10 years. Surely at this stage, you have begun talking to your pets. Admit it, when you are alone with them (or not) you talk to them, even though they can’t talk back.

But… could you imagine if they could? What if I told you that in a short 18 months time, your dog would begin to speak to you. It would start small, like a mild "gaga" or even "mama." But then soon it would be words and sentences and profanity, until finally, one day, after all these years, you’d say something like “Who wants to go for a walk?” And your dog would reply "I do you stupid motherfucker."

I imagine this will be what it feels like when the frittata begins to speak back to me.


Where to Raise My Child

I keep saying that I don’t want to raise my kid in LA – bad values, bad air. But the question is… where then? I thought I’d consult with a professional, so I took a facebook quiz.

Now, first I must explain that I am the kind of person who is embarrassed to be the kind of person who takes facebook quizzes, so I have a fake facebook account expressly for the purpose of facebook quiz taking.

Some of the questions on the quiz were hard to answer, both because I am a woman of many faces (facesbook) and because I am in the middle of this transition from Drinky McDrankdrunk to Modern Mom. Do I answer the old way, or the new way? Because neither “apply stretch mark cream” nor “sit around farting” were on the quiz's list of Friday night favorite things to do.

In the end, I felt sure that I had inadvertently answered the questions in such a random way as to completely stump the system: it would either return something like Bismarck, North Dakota or just plain implode. It did think and think and think for a long time. So I walked away. When I returned, the devil had taken over my computer and this is what he said:

“You, my friend, should live in Los Angeles”


Not a Bowel Movement

As all we pregnant ladies can attest to, the old long tube isn’t working so well these days. That’s why for the last 4 months, even the tiniest pinch or ache in my intestinal area prompts the hopeful thought “Are those things finally moving?”

Imagine my shock yesterday at the OB when the junk started moving right there, mid-exam, and she says “Did you feel that kick?” I wanted to tell her that the book says that kicks don’t come until next month. But I didn’t want her to feel stupid.

And then it kicked again. And again “That’s definitely a kick.”

Disappointed as I am that my bowels are NOT, in fact, moving, I have to say… it was super fucking cool. I thought I would be afraid of the little alien. But not at all. Instead I've begun talking to it as my sole form of amusement.


Naked Day

Now that I am pregnant, I think that we need a new national holiday for pregnant ladies. I'm not getting pregnant again anytime soon, so we'll need to be quick about lobbying President Obama for this change.

Given that I'm starting to feel a bit claustrophobic because there's something pushing on me from the inside, I don't feel there should have to be anything pushing on me from the outside.

Therefore, I officially declare this new holiday Naked Day. Not everyone is allowed to be naked, just the pregnant ladies. No wastebands. No bras. No underwear. No clothes. Boobs waving like a flag in the wind, bellybuttons collecting pollen.

Who's with me?