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.
8.23.2009
7.23.2009
Speeze
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.
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.
7.14.2009
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.
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.
7.06.2009
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.
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.
7.04.2009
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”
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”
7.03.2009
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.
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.
6.28.2009
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?
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?
6.23.2009
resentment
I'm starting to resent the fact that I cannot drink. Sometimes shit happens and one drink just doesn't cut it.
When my plane is canceled, I want the option to sit down at the trashy airport bar and get drunk.
When I'm irrationally afraid of getting fired, and ending up on Welfare for Women With Dependent Children, probably with a bum hip and a limp, I want three dirty martinis, extra olives please.
When I look in the mirror and see that a large woman has overtaken my svelte athletic body, maybe, just maybe, I want to get drunk. Maybe I want to fill my coffers with liquor instead of resentment. It seems like a much healthier option.
When my plane is canceled, I want the option to sit down at the trashy airport bar and get drunk.
When I'm irrationally afraid of getting fired, and ending up on Welfare for Women With Dependent Children, probably with a bum hip and a limp, I want three dirty martinis, extra olives please.
When I look in the mirror and see that a large woman has overtaken my svelte athletic body, maybe, just maybe, I want to get drunk. Maybe I want to fill my coffers with liquor instead of resentment. It seems like a much healthier option.
Been busy gettin' fat
As a purely humanitarian gesture, I'd like to see about giving away my boobs. Really. Now I know why they call them boobs. They are stupid.
I have always had a fairly contentious relationship with my bosoms. On a normal day, they are a healthy cup size A, which is more than enough for me. During times of high water retention when they get a bit enlarged, I've even been known to "flick" them in angst. You know the move: index finger on thumb, release, ricochet... flick. No one ever seems to approve of this move except for me. Yet I stand my ground.
Now I don't even see the point of the flick. Now I'd have to take a baseball bat to them in order to get my point across: you are too freakin' big.
So many women seem to fancy these amorphous blobs of flesh protruding from their chests... enough to pay the price of seven trips to Vegas to see them get bigger. Why can't I offer up some kind of trade with these insane creatures? No need for silicone implants - you can just have my pregnancy boobs, the real deal, out of the goodness of my heart.
The damn baby can suck on a bottle for all I care. Just get these things off of me.
I have always had a fairly contentious relationship with my bosoms. On a normal day, they are a healthy cup size A, which is more than enough for me. During times of high water retention when they get a bit enlarged, I've even been known to "flick" them in angst. You know the move: index finger on thumb, release, ricochet... flick. No one ever seems to approve of this move except for me. Yet I stand my ground.
Now I don't even see the point of the flick. Now I'd have to take a baseball bat to them in order to get my point across: you are too freakin' big.
So many women seem to fancy these amorphous blobs of flesh protruding from their chests... enough to pay the price of seven trips to Vegas to see them get bigger. Why can't I offer up some kind of trade with these insane creatures? No need for silicone implants - you can just have my pregnancy boobs, the real deal, out of the goodness of my heart.
The damn baby can suck on a bottle for all I care. Just get these things off of me.
5.10.2009
incarceration
I am not getting fat because I am pregnant. I am fat because I am poor.
Here on my tropical vacation, I have discovered that if I lived a life of leisure, I would not be fat. Even though I would eat ice cream everyday, get my money’s worth at large buffet breakfasts, and drink heavily sugared cocktails, I would not get fat because I would not be shackled to a desk.
I have re-realized what I learned long ago – being in front of a computer all day is like legalized incarceration. You're in for the crime that you commit against your body every time you glue your ass to a seat in front of cancer-inducing device instead of taking a walk (cue birds), growing your own vegetables (cue new age music), or taking a dance class (cue salsa). It’s a crime of the poor – those who work instead of luxuriate. Working used to be good for your body. Hard manual labor. Now we poor people sit in front of radioactive devices while rich people tend their own gardens and go to the gym.
I am fat now. Fully and totally fat. But its not because I’m pregnant or old or old and pregnant. It’s because I bought into a lifestyle that I thought I needed in order to provide for my child. If we all keep making all these sacrifices for our kids, and then our kids make all these sacrifices for their kids, then isn’t no one ever happy?
Here on my tropical vacation, I have discovered that if I lived a life of leisure, I would not be fat. Even though I would eat ice cream everyday, get my money’s worth at large buffet breakfasts, and drink heavily sugared cocktails, I would not get fat because I would not be shackled to a desk.
I have re-realized what I learned long ago – being in front of a computer all day is like legalized incarceration. You're in for the crime that you commit against your body every time you glue your ass to a seat in front of cancer-inducing device instead of taking a walk (cue birds), growing your own vegetables (cue new age music), or taking a dance class (cue salsa). It’s a crime of the poor – those who work instead of luxuriate. Working used to be good for your body. Hard manual labor. Now we poor people sit in front of radioactive devices while rich people tend their own gardens and go to the gym.
I am fat now. Fully and totally fat. But its not because I’m pregnant or old or old and pregnant. It’s because I bought into a lifestyle that I thought I needed in order to provide for my child. If we all keep making all these sacrifices for our kids, and then our kids make all these sacrifices for their kids, then isn’t no one ever happy?
4.27.2009
Fat vs. Ugly
Not since Alien vs. Predator has the world seen two such monstrous (who knew that word didn’t have an ‘e’ in it?) opponents.
In The Big City, Old & Ugly are notorious deal breakers, even if you do happen to all the tricks: (view full size)
But here’s the thing that I discovered this weekend: although ugly can be hidden by a dark bar and a decent martini, my size is unmistakable. Dim those lights and that pear-shaped silhouette is all the more noticeable. Stay at the bar long enough for some drunken hands to come wandering your way and what’s the first thing they feel? My burgeoning baby belly.
After months of fierce competition, Ugly surrendered to Fat and they decided to join forces in the form of the perfect weapon: the stretch mark. At 41, that shit ain’t never snapping back into place again. I lose.
In The Big City, Old & Ugly are notorious deal breakers, even if you do happen to all the tricks: (view full size)
But here’s the thing that I discovered this weekend: although ugly can be hidden by a dark bar and a decent martini, my size is unmistakable. Dim those lights and that pear-shaped silhouette is all the more noticeable. Stay at the bar long enough for some drunken hands to come wandering your way and what’s the first thing they feel? My burgeoning baby belly.
After months of fierce competition, Ugly surrendered to Fat and they decided to join forces in the form of the perfect weapon: the stretch mark. At 41, that shit ain’t never snapping back into place again. I lose.
4.18.2009
Not Everything On the Internet Is True.
The contentious matter of when to tell my date about my pregnancy is a non-issue. There will be no second date.
I'm not sure if y'all knew this, but it turns out that everything on the internet is not necessarily as represented. For example, my date was none of the following things that were professed/implied:
I'm not sure if y'all knew this, but it turns out that everything on the internet is not necessarily as represented. For example, my date was none of the following things that were professed/implied:
- smart
- funny
- confident
- affluent
4.12.2009
Hypocritical Liar
I have a date on Tuesday night. To tell or not to tell? That is the question.
Turns out that when you take a poll, people have very strong feelings about whether it is necessary to confess that you are, essentially, bringing a third human along for the ride. Some think you should tell before the first date. Others at the end. Still others believe it is not necessary to tell until "the sex date." What do you think?
Really, I haven't even told some of my best friends that I am pregnant. Why should I tell this veritable stranger?
The bigger ethical question is: How should I update my online dating profile to reflect the nuances of this situation? If I characterize myself as "honest," and I don't tell about the baby, then I am a liar. If I write that I am liar, and then I do tell about the baby, I am a hypocrite.
Turns out that when you take a poll, people have very strong feelings about whether it is necessary to confess that you are, essentially, bringing a third human along for the ride. Some think you should tell before the first date. Others at the end. Still others believe it is not necessary to tell until "the sex date." What do you think?
Really, I haven't even told some of my best friends that I am pregnant. Why should I tell this veritable stranger?
The bigger ethical question is: How should I update my online dating profile to reflect the nuances of this situation? If I characterize myself as "honest," and I don't tell about the baby, then I am a liar. If I write that I am liar, and then I do tell about the baby, I am a hypocrite.
4.05.2009
This whole thing.
This whole pregnancy thing isn’t shaping up to be quite the bag of tricks it was cracked up to be. In addition to 9 months of uninterrupted PMS, I am now unable to enjoy even the slightest reward from this misery.
Going in for your kid’s ultrasounds is supposed to be the hallelujah moment of all of this. Instead, my kid’s picture looks like one of those images you see on Dateline of the pro-lifer’s parading around with pictures of unborn fetuses on their sticks. I can’t even look at it without wanting to chant “Hey, hey -- Mister, mister, Get your hands -- off my Sister!”
And that whole hearing the heart beat thing was downright spooky. Though I’m sure if my kid’s father is actually Darth Vader, he’ll be very proud.
Going in for your kid’s ultrasounds is supposed to be the hallelujah moment of all of this. Instead, my kid’s picture looks like one of those images you see on Dateline of the pro-lifer’s parading around with pictures of unborn fetuses on their sticks. I can’t even look at it without wanting to chant “Hey, hey -- Mister, mister, Get your hands -- off my Sister!”
And that whole hearing the heart beat thing was downright spooky. Though I’m sure if my kid’s father is actually Darth Vader, he’ll be very proud.
4.03.2009
Metallergy
Zippers have always been my favorite clothing feature. In addition to the obvious allowance for easy access, zippers have a certain confidence to them. Buttons say “I’m not sure,” but zippers… they know.
I would say that 1 out of every 5 items in my closet contains a zipper. Pants excluded, its still 1 in 7.
The problem is, thanks to my new nose like a bloodhound, I can’t stand the smell of them anymore. No longer can I zip up my cozy knit without thinking, “who just waved a stack of pennies under my nose?”
I already can’t wear 1/7th of my clothes anymore and it has nothing to do with how fat I am (yet).
I would say that 1 out of every 5 items in my closet contains a zipper. Pants excluded, its still 1 in 7.
The problem is, thanks to my new nose like a bloodhound, I can’t stand the smell of them anymore. No longer can I zip up my cozy knit without thinking, “who just waved a stack of pennies under my nose?”
I already can’t wear 1/7th of my clothes anymore and it has nothing to do with how fat I am (yet).
4.01.2009
Engorged
I went to my ob/gyn for the first time this week. After looking at my ultrasound (“Everything looks great!”), and debriefing me on just how very likely it is that my kid will be mentally or physically deformed thanks to my advanced maternal age (that line was not supposed to be funny), she proceeded to do a manual exam and press on my uterus.
“Oh, you’re VERY pregnant.”
Again with the very pregnant! What the hell does that mean?
“Your uterus is just nice and engorged.”
Is it just me, or should the word “engorged” never be used in that context? It does not belong next to my uterus. I could think of a neighboring body part that I would like to be engorged… or even some foreign body parts that I would like to have in my neighborhood IF engorged.
Uterus. Not on that list.
“Oh, you’re VERY pregnant.”
Again with the very pregnant! What the hell does that mean?
“Your uterus is just nice and engorged.”
Is it just me, or should the word “engorged” never be used in that context? It does not belong next to my uterus. I could think of a neighboring body part that I would like to be engorged… or even some foreign body parts that I would like to have in my neighborhood IF engorged.
Uterus. Not on that list.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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