3.29.2009

Ugly People

This weekend, before my belly gets too big, I went out again. This time I had an explicit goal: get laid. In true tragic form, I am one of those women for whom pregnancy resulted in sex drive overload. This makes the dodged-a-bullet dumping all the more bittersweet.

Prior to attending the party where I was likely to meet my victim, I told my friends “I’m going home with the ugliest person in the room.”

Problem is, everyone was SO ugly that it was really hard to hone in on the super ugliest.

Furthermore, when really confronted with sleeping with someone unattractive, it’s just not possible to overcome your body’s visceral reaction.

You have no idea how useful “drunk and blurry” is until its gone.

3.26.2009

o

I have neglected to mention that, a couple of weeks back, I got my first ultrasound. It was just shy of 6 weeks and the little nugget had a heart beat. I must admit: I got choked up. Some of it was probably because I was still pissed off at my ex for not being there, and some of it was probably because someone had a stick up my poontang, but mostly it was because the whole thing is pretty cool.

At first I was kind of bummed out that there were not two, because I had picked out two names and all. Then I figured I could just use both, like a middle name situation. “Guido Ace” or, if it’s a girl, “Ace Guido.”

This is how big the little pulse was on the screen: o

The nice lady with the stick up my twat asked if I would like a photo. When she printed it out, next to the o was the word "HELLO." Just because you have a magic baby wand doesn’t mean you get to name someone else’s kid. I almost gave her a piece of my mind, but I decided to save my energy for cooking the baby.

I wanted to post the little picture, but then I would have to scan it in at work, I’d probably forget it on the scanner, someone would find it, and I would be fired for trying to have a personal life during my free time.

3.22.2009

Makin' Whoopie

I have officially had my first pregnancy craving/obsession.

Apparently, its impossible to get a decent Whoopie Pie in the city of Los Angeles, where I am currently in custody. For days, I paced around, not knowing what to do. Finally, some pregancy hormones kicked in and I realized that I could make them from scratch. I know. Crazy. Its definitely the hormones.

To prove that I made them, I took a picture. I shot it before assembly, so you would know that I didn't buy them at a bakery. There are even some official crumbs on the cookie sheet.

I ate one. It tasted almost like food.

I may have to wait until my second trimester when the mommy hormones really kick in before I try this baking thing again. Until then, or such a time when some authentic Whoopie Pies are flown my way, I will have to eat cake.

3.20.2009

Two (2)

My days of looking good are numbered. Though inside I already feel baby-full, outside, the fact is that I still pass as a little heavy on the whoopie pie side but, otherwise, still pretty hot. So - last ditch attempt for attention – tonight I went out.

I went out… and I had two glasses of wine. That’s right ladies, call the pregnancy police: I had two (2) glasses of wine. Spaced out by two (2) hours. And I ate two (2) meals so that the alcohol would never make it out of my stomach (as may not the pizza and the burger, which are definitely still there).

When you go out on the town, you always run the risk of running into your ex. The advantage of this is that you know they aren’t at home making house with someone else.

The disadvantage is that usually after you break up with someone, you don’t want to see them – at least not until you have gone to the gym obsessively for two (2) months, waxed, dyed, plucked and generally had the opportunity to demonstrate what a glorious mistake they made. Me, I don’t have that luxury. If I don’t run into my ex RIGHT NOW, I will be fat, acned, and hunchbacked.

3.19.2009

Whoopie Pie

Dear New York Times,

I am flattered and delighted that you read my blog (!) ... and decided to write a whole article on Whoopie Pies!

What you fail to mention is that the Whoopie Pie sensation has very much to do with the baby boom of 2009. More women are getting pregnant and craving Whoopie Pies for 210 days/year instead of 24-36 days/year. Its simple math.

If you wanted to prove it, you could measure the girth of all of our fat asses, divide it by the number of Whoppie Pies purchased, and have all the proof you need. There would be direct correlation between the birth rate increase, and the Whoopie Pie sales eruption.

Yours Fatly,
Dr. Milf, WP.D.

3.18.2009

(un)Fair Trade

In case anyone missed it in my earlier posting, let me be clear: all those ladies who tell you that pregnancy is a glorious 9 months, including but not limited to the fact that you don’t get your period, have lied to you.

Right about now, some of you biology majors are probably thinking to yourself, “Hmm, Gia, if you’re still getting your period I think there’s a good chance you might not be pregnant.”

Multiple Choice:

How do you know you are about to get your period?
A. Cramps
B. Big and bloated
C. Cranky mother fucker
D. Horny
E. Crave Hot Fudge Sundaes, Oreos, Ding Dongs, Whoopie Pies.

I’m here to tell you: pregnancy no glowy ball of joy. It is none other than “F. All of the Above.”

That means for 9 months you are a big fat bloated crampy Ding Dong eating cranky horny mother fucker.

So, in summary, ladies, listen to the Minister of Truth: you will save $45 in tampons, but you will put 45 lbs of Ding Dong on your arse.

3.14.2009

Move over catholics

Lent doesn't hold a candle to pregnancy. In lent**, you pick something that you really can do without, but that sounds super cool to give up when you are around your friends:

"Chocolate Cake?"
"No thanks. I gave up baking soda for lent."
"Oh my god, I could never do that."

Pick. In lent, you get to pick what you give up. In pregnancy, other self-righteous fat ladies tell you what you should do.

I asked the following question on random mommy blog #345:

"I hear its ok for women to have a drink every once in a while when pregnant. Do you think this applies to a triple vodka martini, extra-dry?"

Selects:

"If you want your child to become mentally ill, have SIDS, be deformed, or be stillborn, do it."

"Seriously? No. Maybe should rethink this whole parenting thing!"

"Honestly do you not think you can wait? With all the beverages in the world you would think that you could debate about which juice might you the most heartburn or something instead....?"

Juice? Finally some good advice. Make that a triple apple martini instead.

** Please note that, out of respect, no religious words will be capitalized in these diaries, ever, unless they refer to Him or His Noodly Appendage.

3.10.2009

Guido and Ace

I decided that maybe I don’t want to my child to be called Industrial Ceiling Panel. Its too common these days, along with Addison, Aiden, Emma, Emily, and Ethan.

How do I know this? I asked the Magic Wizard.

I want my children’s names to be daring, different, defiant. Something people won’t forget the millisecond after I introduce them. Something that wasn’t popular in 2007 or 1997. Something with an old world charm.

In case I have twins, I decide to pick two names for a boy and two names for a girl.

If it’s twin girls: Bertha (completely dropped off after 1950) and Ethel (same). I think those names are defiant. I think they say “I dare you to have sex with me.”

If it’s boys, I have selected Guido and Ace, both of which became nearly extinct after 1920 and 1880, respectively. Ace will hustle cards and if he ever looses, Guido will be there to beat the crap out of Ace’s mark until he gives the money back.

3.08.2009

MarkGetSetGo

Today I made a bet with my friend. He is trying to lose weight, and I am trying to carry my first and only pregnancy to term at the age of 41. He weighs 210 lbs. I weigh 140 lbs.

Never in my life did I think I would bet someone that I could GAIN 35 lbs. But here's our bet: first one to 175 wins. Of course, I'm one visit to crispy cream per day away from skooling him either way, but I've agreed to play fair. Only baby weight counts and he's not allowed any amputations.

Of course, thanks to the fact that I've already stopped using my abs so that I don't hurt the baby, I already look 4 months pregnant. 175 here I come.

3.06.2009

Quasimoto

I was born an old Jewish grandmother, steeped in paranoia and explanations for everything. When I was a kid, I used to ask my mother "Why?" so much that she started answering "Because!" That always made me cry.

Like many other women who did not bother to do any research before getting knocked up, B.P. (Before Pregnancy) I thought that not showing for the first three months meant that everything was more or less business as usual, other than a few extra cells dividing in there - like a wart or something. But no. From the outside I look like any other unpregnant girl, but inside all this shit is moving, and shifting. Even before you baby kicks, your gas baby tries to knock down the door.

Sometimes these shifts cause dull achey pain that just makes you overall cranky. But more often than not, they cause arbitrary sharp pains. All roads lead to only one possible explanation: I'm losing the baby.

Usually, the pain is followed by an "Oh my God." Then I double over in pain. I realize that I must swiftly stop whatever I am doing and make my way to a horizontal position. But as soon as I start moving, the pain stabs me again. Inevitably I end up doubled over Quasimoto-style, protecting my spawn. To extra-protect the side of the body where the pain is - where the baby surely must also be, even though that side switches back and forth eleven times a day – I favor that leg by dragging it, limp, down the street.

When I eventually hit my bed, I usually breathe a large sigh of relief, pop a prenatal vitamin, and let out a gigantic gas baby, giving new meaning to the term “born again.”

3.04.2009

Today I Had a Bottle of Wine

JK. However...

One of the greatest pleasures in life is coming home after work and taking a little dip in the sauce. I'm not talking full on drunk diving, just maybe hanging off the edge of the raft and getting your feet wet in the pond.

Way back since the days of cavemen, pregnant women have been have been tipping back some fermented beverage, after a long day of doing all the work while the men sat on their asses and sharpened spears. Thanks to some random study in 1983 where they looked at women who drank FIVE drinks a night, I can't have my after-work cocktail anymore. Now even the French have started printing warning labels on their wine.

This is ridiculous, I think. Look at Mad Men!

So I pour myself a glass of wine and take a sip. Ahhhhhh...rrrrrrggg.

Guilt and images of malformed babies fill my head.

So, I plead to Google for help. I am relaxed by the stories of many women who have imbibed while pregnant and had healthy babies (up to the lips goes the wine)... as long as it’s not the first trimester (and down).

Finally, the Pièce de Résistance : a 2008 study finds it actually helps the baby to drink! Thank God for the British. Kids whose parents drank seemed more well socialized! Wait a minute...

If personality is, at least partly (and tragically for me) genetic, doesn’t it stand to reason that the kids of the super chill drinky parents would be better socialized than the kids of the crazy psycho health-nut parents?

What am I going to do with this opened bottle of wine? I guess I'll feed it to the dog.

3.03.2009

Mini-Me

Getting dumped when your pregnant is a bit like getting jilted at the altar: it doesn't really matter how fast or how big the oncoming bullet was when you dodged it, it still feels like they hit you right between the eyes.

I've never been a dater, so it shouldn't disappoint me that I'm off the dating scene for, oh, 2 years to life. But it's like anything: as soon as someone says you can't have it, you want it.

Talking to mis companeras, I am reminded that the pickin's are slim out there anyway. Its so hard to accept people for who they are, and so damn easy to find fault around every corner. The only way to avoid the trappings of other people's failings seems to be to surround yourself with the company of someone above criticism - someone just like you.

Therefore, spawning a little GeeGee is actualy the BEST way to insure that I will be in the company of someone who meets my approval.

I know a lot of people think raising kids is about making the world a better place, but it seems both more interesting and more realistic to think of it as a form of low-rent cloning.

Can’t find anyone you like? Make a new one.

3.02.2009

My Boobs Hurt

I always heard that when you get pregnant, its like this big happy dance because you don't have to deal with your period for 9 months. No one tells you that its JUST like having your period - swollen boobs, cramps, tears.

I did a search on the internet to make sure that cramps were normal (what can I say? pregnant=crazy and no one is immune) and I found this Q&A on one of the 8 bajillion pregnancy sites:

Q: I'm on week 5 of my pregnancy and I'm still experiencing cramping. I know implantation cramping is normal, but how long can I expect this to last?

A: It will last another 8.5 months, then it will get really, really bad for about 12 hours.

(It works better if you listen to this afterwards:)

3.01.2009

Too Sore to Score

Allow me to do the math for you with Obama-like rigor.

Now that my paramour has just dumped me because I am pregnant (NC), that means no sex for the next 8.5 months until MILF Jr. is born: you don’t want to have sex with someone new, pick up a disease, and have your kid come out with a herpes sore instead of a right eye. It’s just not worth it.

Right after MILF Jr. is born, the vag is gonna be too sore to score (unless I can convince them to just cut me open and take the alien out, Sigourney Weaver style). Call that six months, minimum.

Now we’re up to 15 months.

Even if the vag was ready, MILF Jr. will most likely still be screaming her head off for my attention for at least another six months, possibly as long as 18 years.

Then there will be a series of dates that I begin to embark on, around year one, where I deceive my suitor until my charm has a chance to take its hold. But my charm will be no match for the announcement that I have a screaming one year old at home.

So, again, no nookie. That goes on for about 3 dates, or, 3 months, since that’s the rate at which I can schedule dates with MILF Jr. around.

Now we’re at 2 years, and I’m 43. Even if I could get anyone to touch my puked on spit on veiny overstretched body with the boobies flapping in the wind with a ten foot pole, that pole would have to have current STD-free papers on the end of it. Since that’s sure to drive a javelin between me and most of humanity, the dry spell continues.

All M no IFL... foiled again.