Oh My God This Is Practically A Novel

J has taken to greeting me at the end of the day with, “How are the girls doing?” Part of me finds this adorable and part of me wants to kick his face in (I also, have to admit that the first time I totally thought he was talking to my boobs). It is inevitable that at this stage I am pretty much just the host of what people really want to know about. It’s probably better that he isn’t lying so that the shock after I give birth and people really stop caring about me doesn’t knock me out. But still, the little parasite is still in there growing fingernails and such . . .can’t I be more at least as important as that?

Not really. I know.

A girlfriend of mine had a (big, nay GIANT!) baby in July. She and I are much the same and have bonded over worries about not being maternal, etc. And we were talking about something that has been bugging me for weeks—women have to change immediately. The second you pee on the stick you start to change. It’s gradual (but it doesn’t feel gradual anymore). You can’t deny what is happening the way the father can, because well first your are vomiting and can’t stay awake, they you are puffy and your clothes don’t fit, and then you are enormous and have developed a terrifying waddle. And that’s just the first week.

The shock of it has hit her husband a little oddly. And she resents it. He continues on with his old life, scheduling nights out and business trips without consulting her—without considering the burden that puts her under. He’s not thinking about how inconsiderate that is, how unfuckingacceptable it is. He’s just doing what he has always done. And it’s pissing her off. I am impressed she’s made it this long. It’s irritated me from the beginning that J can still be J and I can’t be AB. I cannot tell you the relief that I felt, how much I relaxed when he just TOLD ME one night all the things he was thinking about. They were in the not helpful category of “I really want to take the kid camping every summer as a tradition” instead of the “I’ve been researching strollers and this is what I think” category but then again, he did clean out his space in the basement last weekend and I think the baby’s room is next so I’ll leave him alone. He doesn’t worry about child care or whether it’s toxic to use plastic bottles or about getting a reasonable semblance of his body back this winter. He doesn’t worry that he won’t be good enough, motherly enough, that everyone will judge him (because no one gets judged like moms I have seen that first hand). He doesn’t have conversations with his mother (whom he loves with all his heart) and hang up screaming because she is harping about some crazy thing and using made up words and OH MY GOD ANY SECOND THAT WILL BE ME IT IS COMING I CAN TELL.

Just so you know my mother has already mentioned repeatedly that she hopes that this girl loves ruffles and lace since I basically ruined her life by refusing to wear such things. Admittedly, this was the early eighties when little girls didn’t wear the plain things that we came to call “tailored” at my house and that this meant that all of my sister’s perfectly good things went to waste. And it meant that my dad actually had a rule that I had to wear a skirt to school at least once a week through the sixth grade (I still do not understand WTF was up with this rule. NONE of the other girls wore skirts or dresses that often even the girliest. Honestly, I think my dad thought he was preventing me from becoming a lesbian or something which . . .?? Again WTF DAD? You cared about my dresses but let me get a femme-mullet?). It’s been more than 20 years MOM. I do vididly remember the Easter dress shopping trips that had to start right after Christmas so that we could find something that 1) wasn’t pink 2) wasn’t ruffly 3) didn’t itch. BUT CAN WE MOVE ON PLEASE? Wishing my daughter to like the crazy foofy stuff isn’t going to change history especially since we don’t do Easter.

Also, I totally remember my dad paying me to wear these horribly itching wool tights and kilt when I was like five years old. With a MONOGRAMMED SWEATER. A whole dollar! Which was a fortune to me since I got a quarter for my allowance. My sister wore the same outfit for free. SUCKER.

I am pretty sure I had a point here that was lost on my trip down WHY DID MY PARENTS CARE SO MUCH ABOUT MY CLOTHES lane. Anyway, I am terrified of becoming my mother and determined that if my child does like pink and ruffles (SIGH) I will try not to care so much. And if she doesn’t, I will try not to care too much then either. My parents really freaked out about how “weird” I was and now I see that they were worried about me never fitting in. But little kids are weird and if the worst thing that ever happens to your daughter is that she likes overalls and baseball caps then she will have a happy happy life. Unless you warp her because you compare her all the time to her feminine (in their eyes normal) and better in every way sister. WOW THERAPY. Heh, my parents didn’t mean any harm but that doesn’t mean I want to do the same thing. Even in reverse.


OOOOH! MY POINT I FOUND THEE. J doesn’t have to worry about this stuff. His current obsession is her hair color (which is my fault, I read this article on the internets about genetics and found that a couple with a black haired parent and a blond parent, both with freckles, have a 1-4 chance of having a red haired child—this is a gross simplification but heh who cares—and since J is for whatever reason terrified of having a red haired daughter I ran to tell him this) and that is about it. He is becoming a whole cliché right in front of my eyes. But does he worry about damaging her emotionally? NOPE.

I just realized I could have written this post in 84,000 fewer words by saying PREGNANCY = NO FAIR.

Shana Tovah!

Apparently Ryan Dempster just needed me to scream "THROW STRIKES YOU MOTHER FUCKING COCKSUCKER!" in order to throw strikes. I wish I had known earlier.

Yes, I know that it's the New Year and I am blogging and not being spiritual and all. Which I actually feel bad about. But J and I are at an impasse with our temple. We were in the process of converting and about to complete the ceremony when I miscarried. Which just sort of derailed our lives for a few months. It's not that I didn't care about God anymore, I just wasn't up for some of the crap that comes with it. By the time we got our act together, I was pregnant again and our rabbi had left the community. There is a story there and I wish I knew it. But I don't. But this rabbi was really our favorite thing about this community. J's old boss has been a member of this community for quite some time, only leaving over a dispute with this rabbi. We suspect he will be back and since the dude couldn't be civil to us at a PASSOVER SEDER (so appropriate, so mature) we are not really excited about being in a very small community with him. Especially since J did nothing wrong but somehow is being treated like a serial killer by this person. Add in some stupid temple politic crap and yeah, we are skipping services this year. We are working on what to do to celebrate at home and at some other options (which I mean much of Judaism is celebrated in the home so this is not like a wild and crazy idea).

But I am saying here, I apologize to anyone here that I may have offended or hurt this year. I know that this lacks the personal touch that is warranted but since most of us have never met . . .it feels appropriate.

This year we are focusing on who we want to become as a family. We are looking for another community. There is a lot to work on.

But tonight we look forward to a sweet year.

Shana Tovah everyone!

It's a Girl

The headline on CNN this morning was "Americans Forget" which set the tone for my day. I am frustrated even now with how we deal with 9/11 in this country. Americans haven't forgotten (not that we could ever be allowed to forget even if we should want to) but as culture we are ill equipped to deal with tragedy and God knows we avoid dealing with death at all costs. 9/11 changed all of our lives whether we knew anyone in New York or DC that day, whether we are associated with the military, whether we even lived in the country that day. 9/11 has been used to justify all kinds of things, some of them positive but many negative and we are all still having the hangover six years later.

I have nothing new to add to the subject except scorn for the idea that Americans have forgotten. Fake patriotism and flag waving isn't honoring the dead nor is it particularly American. So shut the fuck up CNN.

Of course it feels inappropriate to talk about anything else today but I am going to do it anyway. I was up very late watching Monday Night Football (so stressful) last night. We were on edge watching the 49ers do absolutely nothing until the last minutes of the game (except for the defense which was fantastic) and then Alex Smith finally march on the field. Thank God because J was upsetting the whole neighborhood with his screaming of obscenities. Between football and baseball this time of year is just nerve-wracking in our house. And loud. And possibly R-Rated for language.

Yesterday we also found out that little Muppet is a she. Which, frankly, stunned me silly in the ultrasound room. I had pretty much decided that she was a boy and was extremely unprepared. Happy, of course, but shocked. J whispered very quietly in that room, "well there goes Boy Name We Chose" and then broke into a grin. Bittersweet is what you call it I think. Because that is what this whole thing is about for us, gaining something really lovely but letting go of possibilities. The possibility of a boy is gone (well I suppose the tech could have been wrong but I do have a picture of her labia so I doubt it) and the reality of a daughter has set in.

I am terrified to be a mother of a girl. First, the explosion of pink is coming now and I doubt I shall be able to stop it even though I will try and try and try. Second, gah my mind just blew up with all the shit to worry about--none of which I can do anything about right now so I will just stop. Those of you who have ever been a thirteen year old girl can probably guess what I am thinking about.

Plus, we don't have a name. We shook on the boy's name ages ago, it's been settled since long before the Muppet existed. For girl names we are continents apart and the battles are ugly. We hate what each other likes and can I just suggest to all of you ever considering having a child well EVER start negotiating now. Get the solution written out in blood. Otherwise you will find yourself shrieking during halftime of Monday Night Football about how NONAME LASTNAME SOUNDS GOOD RIGHT because that is rational.

So yes, it's a girl. How do I stop the pink?

Cheesey

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Mantra

For those concerned, the muppet is not dead. Cruising along, gaining weight steadily with a lovely and easy to find heartbeat.

My OB gasped at my weight, which might cause horror for others but made me laugh. It's not that I have gained too much but I am one of those people who can carry weight and not appear overweight or large. In a culture where the only women who admit their weight are those that are 120 lbs. or less, my weight is a surprise.

She said I was fine and not to worry but I think maybe I am growing a huge baby. This wouldn't surprise me much. J was nine pounds and while I was only five I was six weeks early. I will let those who know about infant growth do the math and GASP IN HORROR. Now they might have gotten my mother's due date wrong (likely) but I was in intensive care for those weeks so . . .I would have been a damn monster at full term.

Still, having an intense addiction to Discovery Health Channel has taught me that a larger baby (but still normal) is a blessing. If a little uncomfortable.

I will just repeat that as a mantra.

Helpful Even In The Womb

I had dead baby thoughts this weekend. This part of pregnancy is hard, because while I am happy to be out of the vomiting-want-to-die stage, the puking was re-assuring. I haven't felt the baby move yet, and I know that while some people feel something as early as sixteen weeks, some people don't feel a thing until twenty weeks. Still, it is hard to not feel like I am making this whole baby business up (my gut however is not making a damn thing up since it proceeds me by about twenty minutes).

I was just bragging to my boss about how even though I am so congested I could DIE I haven't puked in ages.

Y'all know where this is headed.

Yeah, the little whatsit gave me a GO AHEAD AND THINK I AM DEAD and I vomited all panicky into a (leaking!) baggie while driving--this time at the slow poke speed of thirty miles an hour. I have to admit it was grosser this time as I filled the bag (EW) and it was full of lettuce and chicken and bacon from my lunch salad.

The real delight was cleaning the leaked out puke out of my car when I got home. THANKS KID, I could have waited until tomorrow when I go to the doctor.

Cubs Rant

Fucking Carlos Zambrano.

Such a damn drama queen. He makes a really damn stupid base running mistake and then loses his mind and can't throw a strike and it's the fans fault. They don't support him. Well you haven't won a game since the fans committed to paying you ninety million dollars fool. Maybe you could cut them a break too?

Throw a fucking strike tool.

A Dream That Better Not Come True

I had the most horrible dream the other night. And I know the internets are full of other people’s really boring dreams that they find just fascinating and actually I am totally guilty of posting my pointless dreams repeatedly this one chilled me to the bone. I was shaking off the aftershocks all day long, reminding myself that it wasn’t true.

In my dream I went to the doctor’s for a regular appointment (it must be noted that it wasn’t my regular doctor or her office but it didn’t seem to surprise me in the dream at all). I had been having pains all day and mentioned them to the nurse who hooked me up to a monitor and found they were contractions. I started to panic as I am just about eighteen weeks and that is certainly much too early for any sort of delivery but the nurse was nonplussed. She told me that it didn’t matter since my baby was dead anyway. We could just deliver now.
Since I was freaking out so much, because isn’t that the only possible response to that, they had another nurse come in. This one found that the baby wasn’t dead and gave me some sort of giant pill to stop the contractions.

I guess the truth is you never feel safe. Never feel as though you will be fine. I read a story online the other day (unintentionally as I had NO IDEA what I was about to read) about a couple who went in for a normal delivery (39 weeks so not really even early) and their baby died on the way to the hospital. How does some one write about that later or even have a later after something like that happens I have no idea. But since reading that story I feel much more aware of how unsettled I feel. How anxious. Finding out the gender in a week or so is causing me fits because I feel like I NEED to know. Despite the fact that I don’t actually care one way or another. It is like knowing what the baby is is going to keep it safe. Maybe not calling it an it?
I don’t think it ever stops. My mother worries about me every day. You are bringing something into the world that you love beyond reason so it is almost natural that you are terrified of losing it (IT AGAIN I NEED A BETTER NOUN PLEASE). I suppose the trick is to learn how to control that fear, to make it manageable so that you are not me—lying in bed, white faced and afraid to move, over a dream that is unlikely to come true.

And you know that if it does come true, there is nothing you can do to stop it.

Now Go Shop

Because I know that the internets sit around and wait on me to post about what products I am using I have to tell y'all about my skin. I believe I have mentioned (whined like a little girl who let go of her balloon) that my skin got jacked by the pregnancy hormones about a month ago. I was so broken out and hideous. And then, to make matters more interesting it got dry as hell a few weeks ago as well. Which are two problems that really don't play all that nicely together. My skin was flaking off in sheets and breaking out like I was getting ready for the seventh grade dance. AWFUL.

So I finally caved and thought I would treat the dryness first, since it couldn't be helping the acne situation. I took Amalah's advice, and used some certificates on Philosophy's Purity cleanser and Hope in a Jar moisturizer. I'd been using Hope in a Bottle but that is really more of a treatment than a moisturizer and since I was mimicking a desert here I took the plunge.

So Amalah is brilliant. Because as much as it pains me to spend 20 bucks on a cleanser (but I had a certificate and a discount--and apparently care too much if the internet thinks I spend too much on skin care) but these two products are really making a difference for me. A week later and my skin is so much smoother and softer without resulting in an oil slick. The acne is slowly coming around but you know, still pregnant, so I am not expecting miracles.

My other issue has been my sinuses, which are not congested but just swell and ache and cause all kinds of angst (and wrinkles in my face--goddamn I am a sexy beast). I went all DEF CON 5 on my sinuses with allergy pills and a humidifier but what has done the most good is the nasal rinse.

Pregnant ladies and allergy sufferers everywhere, run DO NOT WALK, to the drugstore and spend your ten dollars. Yes, it is gross to propel water up your nose (and have it come out your mouth a little) and yes, the first time I did it something grey came out (and I screamed IS THAT MY BRAIN?!?!) but now I am like a little crack whore for my nasal rinser. It clears my head, gets rid of that ache, takes the swelling out of my eyes. Brilliant.

If more than a little disgusting.

Alone

J spent most of the week out of town for a work event. He came back Thursday night and then left again this morning for his high school reunion. Fool actually wanted to go to his (I avoided mine like the damn plague honestly). I guess I understand. He grew up poor and was on his own so young that really it is against all odds that he would become as successful as he has. I think he wants to flip off all the people who were mean to him. I am sure he will have a great time.

I spent my time getting my hair all prettified (it has morphed into the PYRAMID OF DOOM lately, when my hairdresser's dad cut it last time he hesitated to cut off enough). Maybe now I will stop rocking the ponytail every day. I think I am at the point where I need to put a little more effort into my appearance or I am going to start getting depressed.

I do miss J when he is gone, even though he has been out so much the past couple of months that I am a lot more used to it. I do love having the bed to myself though, I can't lie there.

Pregnancy is a lonely experience, which is something that I didn't expect. You wouldn't think you could be lonely, the baby is right with you after all. But no one is really doing it with you, even your partner (if you have one) isn't changing at the rate that you are. And of course, everyone has a damn opinion about what you are doing, eating, how you look, etc. It's isolating. I am grateful for it, of course I am after everything that we have been through, but I can't help but miss the old days. But the old days aren't coming back.

Ever.

Petty Moment

Allow me my lunchtime pettiness.

If you are wearing flip flops with a skirt suit I will laugh at you. If your shoes are so uncomfortable that you can’t stand to wear them for the three block walk to the deli than you are ridiculous and need new shoes. Obviously, you don’t care about looking cute so I doubt your “real shoes” are anything so special. The fact that these are red polka dot flip flops only makes it worse. That you did this on a day when it is pouring down rain and is less than sixty degrees makes you even funnier. Then you splashed in a puddle outside of the alley where all the homeless people like to urinate. PLEASE BUY SOME REAL SHOES.

Speaking of the homeless, when standing in line to buy soup (y’all it was COLD today) this homeless kid like horns in line in front of me to get crackers from the counter guy. Shoved me straight out of the way. I was making the WTF face behind him as the counter guy patiently gives him the crackers. Then I feel like a jerk for being impatient. But still! Not only are you trying to gank free food (he also wanted free soup) from a place that charges for it (so he wouldn’t have to walk all the way down to the soup kitchen!) but you shoved aside the people who were waiting to pay for it. Because your time is so much more valuable than their’s!

I am still probably an a**hole huh?

Checking In

My lands it has been a while. I've been busy . . .not doing much honestly. Gestating wildly. My stomach now hangs over my pants in an alarming rendition of beer gut. I bump into things with it and also my boobs which are . . . well huge judging by how J's eyes occasionally widen when I taken my shirt off.

J has taken to telling people that I am getting big which may be true if I were not pregnant but it's only going to get bigger and sadder from here. The glee with which he forwarded a FRIGHTENING belly pic of a friend of our's wife is the best reason so far that we will be taking pictures of that nature of me. Because he is already telling people that I am a fatty and I don't need photographic proof floating around.

I see people looking at me and they are clearly trying to decide if I just do not have the decency to suck it in or if I am pregnant. I suspect all doubt will be removed here pretty quickly but it's a little weird.

This weekend we went to my pal L's son's first birthday party. When I say we I mean my mom and I because J is a big fucking baby about going to social events that do not revolve around him. This actually worked well because I hadn't seen my mom in a month and we chatted away and contemplated stealing the guest of honor who was just so damn cute.

I felt bad though, because as the only white people there we were clearly freaking the guests out. People kept checking on us, trying to get us to eat more, fretting about whatever. I hate being the stressful guest, especially since we were so happy.

Of course if they had wanted to hand over baby O as a party favor I think my mom would have accepted gladly. And run like hell.

My Grandfather Misspelled My Mother's Name Causing Years of Beuracratic Mistakes So I Guess This is Traditional

I was thinking today about how I don't know how to spell my middle name.

That sounds ridiculous doesn't it? I am 28 years old. I am reasonably intelligent. I should know how to spell my own fucking name right? But I don't and neither do my parents.

My middle name is Ann, or Anne (everyone who thought my real first name is Anyabeth and just realized how cruel Anyabeth Ann(e) would be I am sorry). Growing up my mother taught me to spell it Anne, which is how my grandmother's name is spelled. That is how it was spelled on my school records and on my social security card.

Fast forward to applying for my driver's permit, and the yet unnoticed discrepancy on my birth certificate. ANN. No e.

My mother says that since my middle name is from my grandmother's name that of course it would be spelled the same way (this makes stylistic sense too, because my sister's middle name Suzanne has an e--or DOES IT? Shit, I THINK IT DOES). My dad claims that they didn't want her to think it was for her, they just like the name, so of course they didn't spell it that way.

My guess is since in the 70's in Iowa father's filled out the birth certificate, my dad spelled it his way, and when my mom applied for my social security number she spelled it her way. And they never actually talked about it.

So when I added J's last name to my name (somehow keeping all three of my prior names) I think I decided what spelling to use.

I just can't remember which one it was.

BRILLIANT

Sleepy Sunday

Yesterday we ran errands and spent too much money on stuff for J for four hours and I came home napped for three hours and then went to bed for good for ten hours. Apparently, I can only handle an hour of activity per day now.

Which is just a damn shame because today I made an emergency start for J's softball team. I've played on this team for years but in the current condition I've been sidelined for the year. But they only had one female player for today (a double header) and if you know anything about co-ed teams--well your team actually has to be co-ed in order to be allowed to play. So, I agreed to play if they could find another girl.

Before anyone has a stroke there were very specific conditions at work here. I caught, and was not to get into any confrontations at the plate (any play the pitcher was going to cover). When I hit I could run to first and then use a courtesy runner.

And it was fine. No problems at all. We were very competitive the first game and then the second team didn't show so we won that game. Which thank god, because it was SO HOT out there I could barely move. If we had actually had to play the second game I might not have made it.

I am officially in the second trimester now and I actually feel really good. KNOCKING VIGOROUSLY ON WOOD. All things considered I am hoping the worst is over and I will cruise through the next few months.

Of course given my history I probably need to go to bed right now from all this activity.

Updates

I came home from New York with a heavy dusting of acne all over my face. I am not sure if it was caused by the weather change (such extreme humidity coupled with dryness in air conditioning), the fact that I forgot my facial cleanser and used hotel soap (I KNOW), that pregnancy has made me look ugly in every other way so why not this one, or because I had shat in HELP ME twelve days.

Since I've been back I've been coating my face with a steady diet of acne serum which is clearing it up pretty quickly but also is causing a wee bit of dryness in certain areas. Like just under my nose I pulled off approximately 82 pounds of flaking skin this afternoon. Which is just as sexy as you are picturing.

The Cubs are tied for first. I have nothing to say about that. Just picture me clapping and cheering randomly throughout the day.

At some point between thirteen and fourteen weeks you are supposed to wake up and feel good. Have more energy, not want to DIE anymore. This morning I woke up much less queasy and was like OOOH MAYBE. But sadly I threw up in a baggie on the bus tonight so NO.

Sandwich Ecstasy

J left on a business trip Sunday night and my dogs have been hopeless mopes ever since. I'm told that they did the same thing when I was gone but I didn't have to deal with that so I don't care (actually that isn't true, I was happy they missed me and they can miss him but can we stop wailing by the window like I am beating you with a crowbar please?). J takes care of a few things in the house that I just am unwilling to do. Or hate. OR AM TOO LAZY FOR FINE OK?

So I've been walking the dogs and getting up in the middle of the night to regulate the pug/kitty races on the stairs and tomorrow I will drag the damn trash cans to the curb. BAH. Dude needs to get his ass home. I hate walking the dogs.

My dad took me out to lunch today. Since I've been pregnant I've had a hard time eating. I am not eating enough, I know that is part of what is making me sick, but I am struggling. Nothing sounds or tastes good. Things cause me to retch. Food is complicated and frustrating and I just want to skip it. But the rule is, that if I really want something I must have it right away. RIGHT AWAY. This weekend, while J and I were cleaning the house, I wanted one of those Costco hot dogs with onions and ketchup SO BADLY. I could barely stand it. And J is a sport, so we finished up and went to Costco on a SATURDAY. That is love people. I snorked that thing down and it was so good I CRIED. Just a little. But man, that was the best five minutes I had had in weeks. So today my dad takes me out to lunch and about midnight last night it hits me. I need a fish sandwich from this place at the Market. They make great fish and the bread is fresh and toasted and I am pretty sure coated in lard and their tartar is full of mayo and it is SO GOOD. And I needed that sandwich. So my dad agrees that we can go there (perhaps he was afraid to disagree?) and I am SHAKING with excitement when we order. And when the waiter comes I clap. I could not help myself.

Goddamn that was a good sandwich.

The Only One

J and I are going to have just one child.

I am amazed how many people are appalled by this. Actually I am shocked that people feel the right to have an opinion on it at all. Which is why I tell people shit because meh, no one is ever happy. But if it comes up people just freak out if you say you are just having one. It is only vaguely acceptable if you are like forty, but if you are young like us, having one child is a crime against nature or something.

I am actually not against having two--I think most people imagine the family they grew up in as being normal. But I am not sure. J is positive he doesn't want two. And I do think that every child has the right to be wanted. There is no point in having one that the father doesn't want if it can be avoided.

I know many people who are close to their siblings, where their sister or brother is their best friend. And I do think that it is a relationship that cannot be recreated in any other way. But there are no guarantees. My mother barely speaks to her brother. My father can only handle his sister in small doses. My sister and I have had stages when we were close and stages when we were not. I think we are currently working towards closeness. What I mean is, that blood relationship means shit if the two people can't get on. I don't think having a sibling means you won't grow up to be lonely or a psychopath.

If it were that easy to insulate your child I would totally do it.

J has a welfare child's fear of poverty. And he is desperate to never have more kids than he can afford. Which is admirable and practical. And while I think he is silly to think we cannot afford two children (I mean we can't afford them today but I think someday we would be alright) I can't really discount that we could do a lot more for one than we could two. College and sports and medical care--those things cost money. And you can only stretch money so far. And I think a lot of people who grow up poor have a real urge to give their kids the best of everything. I will try to pull him back from that but I can't pretend that he is wrong.

There is also that if you only have one you outnumber the kid. That is a powerful position. And given the whole vomity Epstein-Barr episode of the last six weeks, I am not really eager beavering to give pregnancy another whirl.

But honestly, people act as if we have announced that we are planning to raise our child to be an axe murderer. I do know some lovely only children you know.

We could change our minds, stranger things have happened. But really, the way people push the multi-child agenda it makes me think one is the way to go. It feels like a bait and switch really. Like they will lure us in with angel baby and then number two will be a whirling dervish of destruction and mayhem.

Home Sweet Home

I am here to say that a business trip in the middle of summer to New York while you are barfy pregnant is just as delightful as you might imagine.

It went ok, all things considered. I just barely managed all the social obligations of the trip but did fine with the professional ones. I walked all over NY to find the Yankees Clubhouse Store so that I could buy J presents (including an outfit for the freeloader, who we have decided will be a 49er fan, a Penguins fan, a Cubs fan and a Yankees fan at least until he/she can talk). I schmoozed and I raked people over the coals. I managed not to smack people who got too personal. And in the middle of this my belly got er LARGER. To the point that when I got back Thursday, J was determined not to mention it but I let him off the hook and he was like yeah you look PREGNANT now.

NY is a weird place to me. Not nearly as exciting as people want you to believe. New Yorkers will always talk about the energy of the place but really, there are just a lot of people there. People who think where they live is the center of the fucking universe so I think the energy they are speaking of is just arrogance and narcissism.

I did have room service for the first time in my life (room service being one of many things my father tainted for me because they are a rip off). I was sick enough Wednesday (Zofran, not really wonder drugging it for me right now ALAS) that I bailed on my final dinner (which was not a business dinner or I would have toughed it out) and ordered in and watched the Cubs game. And passed out at like 9:30 (what I had an early flight). I am a WILD WOMAN.

I did sort of enjoy the room service bit. Even if a sandwich and fruit was FORTY FUCKING DOLLARS. I wasn't paying. And they brought the whole linen table cloth, multiple forks, silver domed trays extravaganza to my room like I was fancy or something.

During my trip I had people ask me about my sex life, offer to take me to a strip club, not understand why pregnant women cannot do shots and was paid to look at a guy in very small underwear. I also saw the Versace store, found out it is very true you can't get a cab when it rains and met a Little Person nun.

I am still exhausted and grateful to be home.

NY, NY

This week is the busiest week of the year for me professionally. We have a giant work event, which had me out of the office for the end of Thursday and all of Friday. Then I flew to New York yesterday to be in meetings all damn week. This is exhausting under the best of circumstances but pregnant. I got in last night, not even that late and it was all I could do to lay in my bed eating snacks and watching crappy hotel cable.

J was a peach (AGAIN--how does he keep this up) and went and got Harry Potter for me at midnight Friday. So that I could read it on my flight. I have to say I devoured that book. I was sort of dreading it, because it was the end and I was so worried she wouldn't finish it properly. But it was such an action packed book (NO SPOILERS DO NOT WORRY) and, at least for me, was a satisfying end. I finished it in record time (crying, so much crying) and re-read the end to make sure.

That book was the only thing that got me through the flight as I was hot and cold at the same time, sitting in front of this very annoying woman who was nattering about freezing bass in water to prevent freezer burn for TWO HOURS and I was starving, despite my snacks.

And then my suitcase was the last one off, which made the chimes of DOOM DOOM DOOM ring in my head because I had packed all the paper for my meetings in my suitcase (so much paper and it is so very heavy). Also, I can imagine trying to find business clothes to fit my weird body would be really difficult. Even in NY. I finally get my bag, get to my hotel and there is drama about my corporate card at the desk and BLECH. I've had computer problems and a really creepy guy follow me for blocks and had crappy french toast for breakfast this morning.

On the plus side, when I booked my room I was supposed to share it with some one else. And she ended up not making the trip. But we booked the upgrade room in hopes it would be larger thinking we would need extra space. And it is fancy. I have a couch and a cordless phone (plus a desk phone and a phone in the bathroom) which is hilarious because this is New York it's not like it's a big room. And it's separated from the hallway with an extra door. And the left me treats so I think the staff thinks I am much fancier than I am. Which is fine, bring up more of those pralines please! But don't charge me because they are already being weird about my card!

Also, I forgot the card that lets me log into our system when I am not on the network. It's on my key chain at the fucking valet is SEATTLE. We are telling NO ONE this as I have figured something out. And it makes me look rather unprofessional and stupid. I blame the pregnancy brain though. . .eh it's probably just me being stupid.

We're telling NO ONE.

Tonight the business starts with dinners and BLAH. But maybe some one will get me something delicious.

He Is Just a Champ

As much as I adore J I often forget or overlook or whatever don't appreciate him properly. He really has been a champ about this whole pregnancy nonsense. I have been a wee bit needy, weepy and vomity and just sort of a mess.

So here is a list of lovely things that J has done in the last couple of months that have earned him thousands of pounds of goodwill and I probably owe him eighty-four thousand blow jobs (which lets face it I probably will not allow him to cash in well EVER). It's a pretty long list and I need to have it recorded so the next time he ruins one of the LAST TOPS THAT I HAVE THAT FITS ME WELL I will not overreact and shove his face into the garbage disposal.

1. Made sympathetic noises while I barf (discounting that time that he callously watched me puke into the garbage disposal).

2. Let me sleep in every possible day, never making me get up to take the dogs out.

3. Listened to every rant I have had about the maternity wear industrial complex, the scary princess conspiracy and WHY ARE PEOPLE SO JUDGEY ABOUT ME NOT BUYING ORGANIC.

4. Kept buying different kinds of cereal in case one became magical and stopped the pukey.

5. Badgered the doctor into giving me meds for the puking and then bullied me into filling said prescription.

6. Bought me a new laptop (well not NEW NEW but new to me) for very little money and then set it up so it's all lovely and shiny.

7. Bought me ice cream on demand.

8. Slept in the guest room on hot nights as to not make me all sweaty. Also easier access for night peeing.

9. He has done all the laundry and dishes for more than a month.

10. No complaining about #9.

I'll hate him soon, but at the moment I think he is just dreamy.

Well except that he is losing all this weight and getting buff and making many many jokes about porking old girlfriends at his high school reunion that I am not going to and am frankly am too insecure and immature for at the moment.

BLISSFUL

I won't torture y'all with my poem about Zofran--the wonder drug that has changed my fucking world. I threw up every day at least once for two weeks. I feel nauseated every second of every day for longer than that. Imagine being carsick for 14 days straight and tell me how chipper you would be. My doctor prescribed a drug, which worked somewhat, but all it meant is that every time I felt sick I was definitely puking.

Zofran just takes that away. It's a million dollars and god bless my OB's office who stalked my insurance company (unbeknownst to me, I had no idea that they were even trying) and made this happen. But Zofran makes you feel normal. Oh y'all, that squeal of rapture you just heard is every pregnant woman in America imagining that shit. This is totally worth the fleeting, but still there, fear that my kid is going to have to go through school with the nickname Flipper. Kids can be so cruel to those with fins instead of left hands.

Don't get me wrong, the other symptoms are still around. I am not my normal self. But for the first time I am not reduced to tears at thinking about the fact that if everything goes well I will be pregnant at least 26 more weeks. That is a long fucking time y'all.

In other news I can no longer suck it in. As an American woman I learned to suck in my stomach at like twelve years old. My stomach is flat(tish) normally but I can make it perfect if necessary. Well, correction, I could do that, because those days are over. It stubbornly pooches out and is hard as a goddamn rock. It's not baby at this stage (though my book helpfully mentions that by next week the baby will be the size of a mouse, thank you people who do not realize how fucking terrified I am of mice and now one is MY BABY?) but gas and fluid and god knows what else. I caved an bought maternity clothes. Because when I lost weight a couple of summers ago I made the decision never to run around in gaping waists again and had everything tailored down. So I am down to one pair of pants that button and I doubt they will button by the end of my business trip in a couple of weeks.

Maternity clothes are a fucking racket. Because the ones I bought were cuter and nicer than most I have seen around (and not much more expensive because DAMN everything costs a million dollars) and they will work. But I would never pay that much for that quality for regular clothes. In my next life I am becoming a maternity designer.

I am slogging through it all, during the busiest time of the year work wise, getting ready for my trip and watching my stomach in HORROR.

But I am not puking daily anymore (this could stop tomorrow in which case we will be back to all woe all the time) and it is BLISS.

Fucking Failure

I am filled with all kinds of angst today, angst that is probably brought on by equal parts hormones and fatigue and phlegm dripping down my throat. I am so tired that I feel every single bone in my body, each one, down to the last distal philange. I felt dizzy this morning and went to lay in the office cot room--thinking I would be ten minutes and feel fine. I stumbled upstairs after a forty minute nap. After lunch I had a brief black out and my desk. Like some sort of drunken sorority girl.

Being pregnant is hard. And since I don't look pregnant (except to me because I am huge y'all but everyone else just thinks I am fat) I don't think people understand. I think until a woman looks like a characterature, until she is a fucking cartoon, people assume she is normal. But there is a dreadful cocktail in my body that demands that I eat while making me projectile vomit--get carsick for a couple of months straight and see how chipper you are.

I already feel the working mom stress. And there is no kid. Because I can tell my boss thinks less of me. Maybe I am imagining it. But she was like "You better not throw up while we are in NY," oh well since you SAY SO. I just enjoy it so I haven't been able to help myself. I don't want to lose my job or have people think that I am unprofessional because I am pregnant. But I can't pretend that I am at my peak of work performance. I am getting things done but it is hard. I maintain it's no different than when people are sick or have personal issues that need dealing with outside of work but I know it feels different. I don't want to be the girl that sets back feminism thirty years because she gets a little woozy in the afternoons and has to go home.

I desperately do not want next week to happen. It is an intense, on your feet work event, followed by a cross-country flight and then meeting after meeting with dinners late into the evening. It is an opportunity to network and really get a lot of things accomplished and to shine professionally. I made great impressions last trip. This trip I am pretty sure I am going to come off stupid. And I hate that. I hate feeling less than capable. But what can I do? I am truly doing everything that I can.

And it's just not good enough.

Morality From Uncle Chris?

Since I just cannot stop puking my doctor prescribed another damn medication. Which my insurance refuses to cover. And it is 1300 hundred dollars.

So I guess I will keep vomiting.

One thing cheered me up. Uncle Chris spent most of last month in Chicago and bought out the Wrigleyville store for me. He sent some awesome t-shirts for me, a pink hat (which was a lovely and thoughtful idea even if I RAIL against the pink sporting goods industrial complex), and a onsie for what he termed the player to be named later.

He doesn't like people to know he is a nice guy but he is awesome.

I offered to lie to whatever hootch he is trying to bend over a bar this week but he said no need.

I am confused by this display of morals.

Dreaming

Last week I had a forty-eight hour period when I threw up every single thing I ate or drank. So J nagged me into getting some anti-nausea medication.

Which doesn't actually work. Ok, it does a little, I don't currently want to die, but I still throw up and I still feel nauseated so I am not sure that was worth my ten dollar copay plus my kid possibly having a fin.

I have officially tried everything and the nurse recommended no longer drinking water, stop taking my vitamin and sacrificing a virgin at midnight. But who knows any virgins in this day and age?

So mainly I am just lying around, eating tiny snacks in small slow bites and waiting for these fucking weeks to past. While trying to manage during one of my busiest times at work.

I haven't actually thrown up on my boss or anything though.

In other news J is getting in shape. Part of me applauds this decision as men in his family have a nasty habit of dropping dead awfully young. The other part of me resents him trying to look all foxy while I am just trying to find pants that button. He has big plans to get cut arms and email them to my friend L in hopes that I don't know, that she will pass out in ecstasy?

A guy can dream.

Holiday Week

Because I am a fool, and (in my defense) because summer doesn't start in Seattle until July 5, I neglected to wear sunscreen to J's Fourth of July softball game. I roasted myself like a red pepper and well, it's just sad seeing as I got more burned than I did in Hawaii. Then we came home and ate summer sausage with cheese and crackers and a lot of steak. Apparently, one does not celebrate our great nation with vegetables.

Only meat.

J had invited some people over and though they said they were coming many fewer actually showed. This is why I do not have a ton of friends. If people did that to me I would be crushed and angry and take it personally (I mean there are legit reasons that this could happen of course). J shrugs this off and thinks nothing of it.

I am not really sure who is the higher evolved person. I am certain that his friends have worse manners than baboons.

There were about seven people total at my office all week which led me to have record breaking productivity. I had many things to get done, which my main reason for not "wasting" my vacation days, I did none of them. Which since I am leaving on a big business trip in two weeks means that I am a moron.

But a moron with MANNERS.

Take What You Can Get And Run Like Hell

Y'all I learned a very important lesson today.

It is possible to barf up an entire hot fudge sundae into a ziplock baggie while driving a car sixty miles an hour on the freeway.

And no one died.

While I am naturally sad that I wasted perfectly good ice cream (which my friend L got for me because she RULES, she also told me today that I don't look that bad--those two things were the best things that happened to me today), I did get something out of it. Ziplocks work really well for on the go barfing--you can shove most of your face in there (I did get a drop or two on my pants but I think if I hadn't been driving the car and trying not to crash this wouldn't have been an issue) and then zip it up when you are done so you don't have to smell that curdled milk smell all the way home.

I am totally putting some empties in my purse. Since the one I used this time was full of wheat thins (I was totally debating in my head where I could put said wheat thins and then DECISION MADE), hot fudge puke plus wheat thins smells and looks pretty horrible. If y'all couldn't figure that out on your own.

Then I came home and took a nap.

I am eternally grateful that I was not on the bus when this happened. And also that I had the baggie. Also, that I didn't crash. I am pretty sure some people in the car pool lane were staring at me but it's not like I have dignity at this point so stare away.

Grossest thing? Was immediately starving, the gut wrenchingly starving but the only I had were those wheat thins and fuck I wasn't eating those.

Best thing? For ten minutes I felt normal. I didn't feel sick, I had energy, I was singing with the radio. I had this flash of this is how I used to feel, this is what happy feels like. I mean it was gone right after but still ten minutes of happy. I'll take what I can get.

Because Nine Hours Of Sleep Is Not Enough

In the past couple of days I have watched J lose two softball games (and obsess about the first one enough that I HATE the guys that played in that outfield that game because LORD catch the BALL! My husband has been mumbling about that shit in his sleep ever since and I hate you!). I kept score both games so perhaps I am bad luck? Twice today I had to rush the bathroom to barf and that sucked. And now I do not even feel better after I throw up. J's plan to have just one baby is looking better and better.

In happier news I have a new niece! My sister got a puppy this weekend and I am so excited. I just love puppies and that puppy smell. I do not love puppy shit in crates and trying to get puppies to walk on leashes. When I think about that I look at my greying dogs and am so glad that they just want to lay in this bed all the time.

I have never been so tired in my life y'all. According the the internets the Spawn lost it's tail this week and maybe now! it will stop wearing my ass out so much? I am sorry to be so worthless y'all. It's all I can do to stay awake.

How Many Days Until The Next Trimester?

Thanks y'all, for all the kind words and happy thoughts. I should have known the internets would come through for us.

One of the sad truths is that even if you are married and happy and of appropriate age not everyone will respond the way you want to when you announce that you are pregnant.

I think in our case, it is mostly worry that colors people's reactions. But in others, it is a sanctimonious thing that irritates the fuck out of me. See a lot of people ask, "Did you take the drugs?" And there is this snide tone, once I say no, actually we were supposed to start this month. Because they are saying See? You just needed to relax. You didn't need interventions, babies happen when they happen.

I don't know why people want to argue this point. It took us almost three years to get pregnant the first time. Medical experts say that women my age should see a doctor after a year. Give me a fucking break alright? If you don't like the drugs, well I actually don't understand that. I think the media and their coverage of sixty year old mothers and high multiples distort what people think about reproductive assistance. A lot of couples get this help and the methods are safe. It can put you through the ringer but so can supposedly well meaning friends and family who suggest you just pray more and that if it is meant to be it will happen.

I suppose I could pray if I get strep throat too, or I could take anti-biotics. I think God created people smart enough to invent such things so that we could all benefit but you know I could be wrong.

Sorry, I am just crabby as hell. I am so afraid that I am going to lose this baby. To an irrational degree. Then I am afraid that I won't but will be a terrible mother or won't be able to cope or something else. There is a lot to worry about. And mildly assuring is the unstopping gagging and nausea that is kicking my ass. It's re-assuring because well, the baby is probably growing with all the torturing me and all. But it is hard to feel grateful when you spent the day at work trying to gag quietly so your co-workers won't hear.

I don't think I was entirely successful.

There are full body gags, the kind that sound like some one is stepping on my throat and my head gets thrown back and lord. It is just not ok. I have to keep full but I don't want to eat. At all. I hate eating. Nothing tastes good and many things make me gag and I don't feel hungry but I know that I am. The one time in your life as an American woman you are allowed to eat (though not guilt free because GOD people want to give babies their food issues in the womb now) and I am totally not enjoying on moment.

News

Oh Internets, I have been holding out on you like a uptight virgin on prom night. I've wanted to give it up but WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?

I haven't been able to write here, because every single thing that is interesting or funny that has happened to me in weeks has to do with this thing that I weirdly couldn't talk about or wouldn't talk about and GAH. I am sorry. I do weird things sometimes.

I'm eight weeks pregnant.

I learned last time that you have to tell the people in your life that would have to know about a loss about the pregnancy. Because the day I had to tell my boss about my miscarriage, well it was awful in a way that I cannot even describe. So I have known for a month about this and have managed not to blurt it out to you.

I don't know why I chose this way.

Actually I do. Because I thought it would be better this way. I wanted to be eight weeks along and have seen a heartbeat on an ultrasound before saying a word to the Internets (also make sure that I had told everyone that needed to know first because you know, if you can't tell your mother about your pregnancy then it's probably bad to tell total strangers).

I knew right away and it would have been so much easier if I hadn't. First, I had a rapturous, almost sexual dream about a sausage McMuffin with extra cheese. I don't ever dream about food, in fact the only food dream I ever had when I wasn't pregnant was when I was seven and dreamt about drowning in the cream filling from a Twinkie. It was a nightmare brought on by my dad trying to force me to eat one (for some reason I didn't like them and my dad thought this was a sign that I was a defective child and tried to cram it in my mouth--which sounds violent but wasn't more teasing but still kind of a weird thing to do I admit). The McMuffin dream was followed by a day where I had a crashing hormone headache that was identical to one I had with my first pregnancy. So even though it seemed impossible and J made so much fun of me I just knew I was.

And I tested. And it was positive. And I was happy for about ten minutes and then started freaking out. Which was not helped at all by the fact that J was pretending that it wasn't happening. I don't know if he was just in denial or trying to prepare me for the worst but I hated him for about a week because I couldn't not think about it and couldn't tell anyone (except you know I told L) and he wouldn't talk about it with me.

The best thing I did was tell my mother who was unreservedly happy. She just doesn't think in terms of the negative. And I needed that permission to be happy. By this time we had had a couple of betas with good growing numbers and I was marginally reassured. My mom being happy has made this experience bearable.

Last week we had an ultrasound and I could barely talk to the tech before we saw the heartbeat. Even though I was living in a mess of fatigue and nausea I was still convinced that nothing would be there. Once there was a heartbeat I felt like I could breathe.

I actually felt fantastic. Sick as a dog but I felt safe. Nothing is ever certain but this felt good.

Then Zoot miscarried. And my friend that was a couple of weeks ahead of me miscarried last night. And I am terrified. It just feels like the chimes of doom are closing in. Failure is an option, I have definitely learned that before.

I do not know how to be this person. Who goes to bed at a second grade bed time, who has to eat protein every few hours or DIE, who cannot help but be afraid of the worst every day. My pants barely button (thanks to having tailored all the waists in my pants last summer) but I worry about jinxing myself with maternity clothes. Even though I have a business trip next month and it's clear my clothes won't fit. I don't know how to be this person, but I guess I am learning every day.

Two Kids From Minnesota

I do not feel the amount of shame about DVRing the finale of Beverly Hills, 90210 when it played on Soap Net this weekend.

I didn't watch the last couple of seasons of the show but really enjoyed the finale when it first aired. Looking back, I enjoyed it for all the wrong reasons because it didn't really hold up so well but is awesome in some very fucked up ways.

One, I just love how it seems like the writers realized like two episodes away from the finale that they needed to wrap shit up and SOMEHOW Kelly and Dylan needed to get together. So they go through some fairly elaborate and really stupid mechanics to make that happen. Including her now ex-boyfriend realizing that she and Dylan belong together because they did the same readings at Donna's wedding that every damn bride in the world uses. If that is the requirement than I am pretty sure I have to divorce J and marry the best man from my best friend's wedding a few years ago--even though she is no longer with the groom.

Two, the wedding is just so damn tacky. Donna's breasts are freakishly round and damn Tori Spelling has a lot of money why do her implants look like shit? And why did she pay for veneers that make her look like a fucking beaver? The bridesmaids dresses are the same ones that we wore for the above mentioned wedding. And while they were oppressively expensive for me at the time (almost three hundred dollars before alterations) they weren't like SO high end like you would expect from a Beverly Hills designer DONNA. Also, while they are very nice for bridesmaids dresses I was pleased to note that they made those girls look oddly pudgy in the belly and have pointy boob syndrome. If Kelly Taylor looks knocked up in a dress than I can feel better about her wedding pictures.

Three, who the fuck did Brian Austen Green's makeup in this episode? The two of them are crying way more than is appropriate for normal people (and also, their claim that they have been in love since they were ten? didn't they hate each other in the beginning? or at least she thought he was a putz and he wanted to bone his future stepsister?). And the makeup artist has rimmed his eyes in red, I think to make those tears look real. But he looks like he has pink eye and does coke. And why the hell didn't he shave? He doesn't look rugged and manly he just looks like he forgot he was getting married. Like Donna Martin would put up with that shit.

It's still awesome because they brought back some terrible characters and AHN-drea but didn't bother with that twat Gina. Sadly, no Brenda. I know that everyone hated her on set but seriously, wouldn't that have made the finale?

I fucking love that we get Soap Net now. I DVRed the pilot (since they just start the show over now).

Dream Girl

Oh y'all, I am sorry about the crabby. Though I found out later that Paris Hilton is 26 years old. When I was 26 I had been married four years, bought a house with money I earned my ownself, was in the process of selling that house and buying another and generally got myself dressed in the morning on my own. So the comments about her just being a child make me want to tear my hair out.

But I am over. Truly.

I feel as though I did not sleep at all last night, because I had a bizarre dream. I know other people's dreams are boring as hell but this is my blog and I will bore y'all if I want to. I was at this strange zoo with my track team (of all the unbelievable things in this dream this struck me as the most unbelievable--that I would ever be on a TRACK TEAM), we were involved in some sort of race through the zoo. But this zoo was dark and stormy and was full of angry animals who were not very well contained. As in a grizzly bear scratched the hell out of me and these (oddly tiny) elephants chased after us with weird hoods containing their tusks and trunks but were free to trample us with no impediment whatsoever. Through the whole dream I was like, "I am the slowest person on the team and am going to die."

This is not exactly a brilliant observation because the only two slower people on the planet are my mother and grandmother. And my grandmother is in her eighties.

I woke up totally exhausted (I had been fleeing angry elephants all damn night) and have not since recovered.

It's not even eight yet but since my Cubs just beat the Mariners I think it's time to toddle off to bed.

Such an old lady.

Pissed Off For No Reason

I am too lazy to look it up but J sent me this oh so sanctimonious article by Jamie Lee Curtis about how Paris Hilton should make us all realize what terrible mothers everyone is! Because that is what our culture needs! More blame for moms!

Can I just say that Paris Hilton is 23 years old (or something) and is not a "child" the way some media coverage makes it out to be? That she is spoiled and irresponsible or whatever and that is a shame but she will probably grow up and who the fuck cares? And if you want to blame her mother why not blame her father too or can even JAMIE LEE CURTIS not pretend that we are not a society of sexist assholes?

DAMN I am crabby today.

Had the saddest excuse for a weekend ever as J was out golfing until 11 on Friday night (I KNOW! Yes, they went for drinks after but still! 11!) and then we celebrated my mom's birthday Saturday (actually lovely, though J celebrated by having to buy new tires for my car because I have been getting a weekly flat for months now). Sunday he played softball all day long and I laid on the bed and napped. Pathetic.

J is actually late again tonight. Given my current mood he may be hobbled.

Law Abiding Citizen

My car license tabs are expired. Since we bought my car used they don't expire during the month of either of our birthdays like it is supposed to and we always forget. Literally, ever year we have forgotten.

This came into my head AGAIN when I got to the park and ride tonight and a county sheriff was sitting in his car along side mine.

Once I saw him I became convinced that he was waiting for me, waiting for me to get into the car and pull out so he could pull me over for driving with expired tabs. I even looked through the glove box to make sure I had the current insurance card (though what I thought I would do if I didn't I don't know--fly home?). I was worked up into HYSTERICS over this. All flushed and worried about how we would pay what would surely be an exhorbant fine. And when I pulled out I had this rush of shit to the heart, like the WORLD WAS ENDING. But of course the dude didn't budge, he was probably waiting to pick up his wife from her commute or something. Police do not wait in parking lots to pull you over for tab tickets.

This is the assurance all of you have that I will never rob a bank. Because I am exactly this kind of person. Certain I will get caught instantly for any little thing. That's why I always did my homework on time, obey speed limits and in general act like a fucking freak.

I'm still a little nervous about driving again tomorrow.

Do Not Touch My Hair Fucker

There was some sort of Ultimate Fighting thing happening at the Event Center tonight and the street outside was like a Frat Boy Factory exploded. The line of assholes outside of bars was thousands deep it looked like. Since J wanted me to walk up and meet him and some friends at a bar I had to walk the gauntlet. I plugged into the IPod in an attempt to insulate myself from the crazy.

It didn't really work.

I think most women have had the experience of men screeching at them on the street. This had nothing to do with me, I was literally the only woman on the street. The shouted and hooted and lord men are ridiculous. Some attempted to be nice but I was tired, my feet were swollen and strange men in backwards ballcaps are trying to bone me in the bathroom of a bar advertising Bladder Buster Night.

At the bar we had the world's worst waitress. Maybe it was her first night or maybe the girl just kept making a living because she was hot and the guys tip her well anyway. She was nice but I ordered a diet coke when I got there and an hour later I still didn't have it. I left J there, it was hot and I was just wiped. I told him I would pick him up because fuck. I have a twelve pack of diet coke at home.

Sometimes I just don't have the energy to deal with shit. Walking back to the car (feet BURSTING OUT OF MY SHOES) a guy reached out and touched my hair. Fucking touched the hair of a total stranger. I just snapped my head over and stared at him, he sort of backed away slowly from me. At least I can make a guy's balls shrivel.

The Couple That Acts Like Assholes Together Stays Together

We had some moments during our vacation that made me realize, once again, that J is the only man could I have ever married.

The best of those happened the night we went on a dinner cruise. Several of my friends mentioned that while luaus are fun, the dinner cruises are much more mellow and intimate. The dinner cruise serves prime rib and luaus don't so the choice was actually very simple. You would think that I am about to write about holding hands while watching the sunset, or dancing on the boat or looking deeply into each other's eyes. But that would be a different blog, from a different woman who is married to a very different man.

No, the moment I thanked my lucky stars that I met this man and married him despite all logic to the contrary happened before we got on the boat. We were waiting in the sun with all the other couples and J starting laughing to himself. He was almost embarassed to tell me but he should have remembered that this is AB LastName he is talking to and I am a retched retched soul. So he admits that he is picking out all the newlyweds in the crowd. And trying to figure out which ones will be divorced in the first three years.

You can easily pick out the newlyweds in a crowd like that. The men look all mellow but deeply cowed from early marital nagging but lots of sex, the women look smug and have french manicures (I am deeply distrutful of women with french manicures--especially the ones with the damn rhinestones in the center but I understand them for weddings). We spent forty five minutes picking out couples and laying bets. I wish there was a way to figure out if we chose correctly. We totally did though--that girl was orange and looked like she was going to cheat on him on their honeymoon.

Marry a man who shares your interests--even if your interests are being a catty catty bitch.

Especially if your interests are being a catty catty bitch.

His Argument Is That People Can Throw It Away BUT DAMN STOP SENDING IT ARGH ** NOW EDITED

The first day back at work after a time away is always the worst. So many emails and pissy phone calls that are trying to kill the post-vacation buzz. I still want to write about my vacation and ART from Everclear (that concert was ages ago--I shouldn't even write about except to say he is delicious and the concert rocked and I want to lick him--there no entry needed) but dude.


***Y'all I bitched J out for telling (an admittedly much more detailed version with my name and all) of this story to people at his work (very paranoid about being fired) so even though I never had the details posted here it is hard to have the moral high ground when you have told the internet the (highly edited) version of the story.

For those late to the party. I hate people.

Vacation Over

We got back Saturday. That fucking trip takes ages. Especially since we had to detour through Honolulu. At his core, J is a loner. He is a very extroverted personality, but dude prefers to be either in a big group or alone (in our sixth year of marriage I have finally figured out that when he invites other people on our romantic dinners alone it is not because he hates me) and I did wonder how that was going to work on a trip with us alone. I prefer small groups, just the two of us works great for me but I think he was tired of me pretty fast.

I surprised myself by being pretty social on this trip. I was downright friendly. I met people on the plane, I was friendly in the pool, at meals, on our evening cruise. I was practically a social butterfly. That being said J was just OVER being with people all the time.

On our flight home there were half a dozen infants. Two of which were screaming behind us for most of the first hour. This is when I figured out that I am just more patient than J with babies and such. He just thought it was unreasonable that these people had the babies on the flight in the first place. I just think that by bitching about that you are just guaranteeing that we will have a screaming brat of a child who will embarrass us on a flight somewhere. I don't think I would ever take my kid on such a long flight but damn I don't know that. There are circumstances where I might. And besides I know that whatever kid I end up with will have their fucking moments.

We got home early Sunday morning (like 1 am) and I spent most of Sunday sick as a dog. Today we just laid around like vegetables and slacked off. I had crazy dreams about missing school exams and having bronchitis. I think my body is missing vacation. But who wouldn't miss that view.

Peeling

My parents didn't really believe in sunscreen. I am sure that they put it on us at some point in my childhood but I don't remember. And I know they never reapplied. I am fairly certain my dad has never worn it and my mom only became a believer after a particular trip to Florida where we all looked like we'd been dipped in cherry flavoring. My sister had a red front that flaked painfully and a white back after a nap by the pool.



When I was a kid we just gradually tanned and occasionally burned. Noxema smells like summer to me because I would absolutely be coated in the shit (plus aloe gel) from May to September. I wore t-shirts in pools. I took piping hot showers after long days in the sun to take the heat out of my skin.

Of course none of this explains how I still got scalded this week enough that I am now fucking peeling.

Drunken Blogging and I AM AN ASSHOLE

Before we left our friend said to skip the luau and go on a dinner cruise. Good call. Even better was luck to get paired with a fun assed couple. Once they announced that they were 49er fans well the whole boat was ready to kick our asses. They were a delightful couple and we all ate and drank like pigs. AWESOME.

Josh Hancock's father lost my sympathy today. WTF asshole? I know you are grieving. But your son was drunk, high, speeding and on the fucking phone. He plowed into a tow truck and killed himself. You can be sad, you should be sad. That is a fucking waste. What it is not, is anyone's fault but his. Take your lawsuits and shut the fuck up you tool. Seriously.

Since I have also insulted a deaf person this week I am pretty sure I am the worst person in the world. Might as well tell off a grieving father too.

God I love vacation.

Hubris SWEET HUBRIS

Meh. I shouldn't have bragged about my lack of sunburn. Because I got a little toasted yesterday golfing. Like how I slipped that in? How I golfed and finished just over par on a gorgeous course? I didn't actually golf. I just drove the cart (fancy cart with GPS and electronic scoring and maps and shit) and burned the fuck out of my left shoulder.

This sunburn doesn't even make my top ten worst or anything but still. Hubris isn't that sweet when it is me y'all.

Today we have no plans. I am not convinced that J will ever wake up since I have been up for HOURS and he is still snoozing. But he did golf for eighty-seven years yesterday in the heat and I suppose he deserves a little lie-in. Our lack of plans would normally lead to a morning at the beach but given my current skin issues that might be a dumbass thing to do. Which probably means we'll do it anyway. BRILLIANT.

My biggest goal for the day is to not shower three times. That is the minumum I have showered each day since we got here and frankly it is ridiculous. But I do not know how else you are supposed to deal with salt and sand and chlorine and GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE.

So two showers tops today. Big goals.

No Place to Be

So far the Neutrogena sunscreen spray has rocked my world. I cannot tell you how many people lectured me about sun protection before we left--which shocked me because y'all I have been ghostly fucking white my entire life. I do know about sunscreen. With skin like mine you either use it or burst into flames. So thanks for the lecture folks. I had planned to get a little more tan before arriving--as it is much easier to protect slightly tan skin. But things conspired to keep me out of the tanning coffin and so I am relying on the spray.

I have just the lightest dusting of pink on my shoulder and that is damn good. Especially since I have not seen any pale people since we got here. Locals are clearly not afraid of skin cancer. And tourists are all shades of fuchsia.

I took three showers yesterday as I am a big princess about my hair and have to wash salt and chlorine out immediately. I am fairly certain it will be bleached white when we leave but I am doing my best.

I am also leading the AB Family cribbage tournament of Hawaii. That is all you need to know. Also, J called me a dirty whore. That is what I call winning.

We are terrible tourists. People all around us our signed up for tours and luaus and various activities. We have spent our time on the beach and in the pool and napping. Apparently our priorities are on the lazy scale. Oh and J has a putting range setup in our living room.

We have been friendly. EVEN ME. Talking to strangers. It started on the plane and continued through various meals and even at the pool late last night when we met every stereo type of a New Yorker you have ever heard in the form of a couple from Long Island. Why do people from New York feel compelled to say that "there is no city like it"? That may be true. There is also no city like Seattle. And also, NO ONE CARES NEW YORKERS. It is an exciting city and an amazing city but you are not talking it up at this point. You are just making the rest of us dig in and INSIST that No, New York is exactly like Debuque I don't not care what you say.

J got burned yesterday and is now brown. In other news, I HATE HIM. Are these things related? You decide.

Our lazy ways would deeply upset the Type A me I am at home. We have no plans, no schedule. I would be worried that we were missing opportunities. And maybe we are. But the vacation me is just loving taking things as they come. We needed a break and we're getting it.

I guess I just do not give a fuck if we see the sugar plantations or not.

Don't Hate Me

Oh y'all. This is why people take vacations.

We flew out yesterday and even though there were some minor annoyances (rude flight attendants, a huge delay, rental car lines and then getting lost trying to find our resort) it is just gorgeous here. Worth everything. Every penny. And the annoyance.

Friday night we got to hang out with cousin Billy at a baseball game. We don't see him often and I forget that not only is he a source of a lot of great stories but he is just so nice. Most of J's relatives make me fear for my future's children's DNA but there are a couple (his mother, Billy, an aunt and his non-scary grandmother) that I would like to put in my pocket and carry around forever.

And then we flew to Hawaii. It's been a great weekend.

Our resort has the tackiest decor ever and who the fuck cares. We have a great balcony to stage cribbage battle royales. There is an incredible beach here and pools and . . .

Don't hate me ya'll.

Quick Update

Oh ya'll. So much has happened. I am fucking lost without my computer. There has been a concert (with the sex god ART, and J told ART an embarrassing story about me and then I died. THE END). Cousin Billy is showing up sometime tomorrow (women all over Seattle just flung their panties in celebration).

Most alarmingly, I got my first bikini wax.

I am not a hairy girl (well except on my head we have discussed my hair being enough for forty-seven people and also their seeing eye dogs). But we are going to Hawaii (SATURDAY!) and I didn't want to be broken in the bikini line because I was having to shave every day. I get ingrown hairs like you would not believe because even though the hair is light and there isn't SO much of it, it is thick like a sequoia tree trunk and dayam.

So I cheaped out. Which is a big mistake with waxing. I went to a place that had done my eyebrows before and did a fine job. And it was cheaper than the spa so I thought I would try them.

There is something very disconcerting about being naked with a woman you do not know, trying to explain how much pubic hair you want ripped off and realizing she does not speak English at ALL. I have nothing against non-English speakers but this is an act that needs to be accompanied by CONSTANT communication.

She missed spots. So I mainly look like I am balding. And my cooter broke out in a horrific rash. Which, HI, was why I was waxing to begin with. Thankfully, Bikini Zone tells no lies and cleared that up admirably. Important information: Bikini Zone contains lidocaine. Wash your hands carefully after use. Do not accidentally eat chips afterwards and numb your entire fucking face.

Not that I did that.

Pathetic Pickup

My computer crashed this week. Well, not crashed. The power source is just going and it's not under warranty anymore. So I will be blogging intermittently for a while until we can get that sorted out.

I was the recipient of kind of a sad pickup today. Driving down the road, since it's warm out everyone has their windows rolled down. And this older guy in a minivan pulls up next to me, he's blasting Blondie's Call Me and he leans towards me and shouts, "Hey BLONDIE, call me!"

J thinks this is awesome.

It must be summer.

But VERY RARELY So Shut Up

Secret to getting a buttload of compliments on your hair:

Step one: wake up with greasy fucking hair with nasty roots and stare in mirror.
Step two: glare at reflection
Step three: give the fuck up because damn girl your hair be ugly
Step four: throw in some baking powder to soak up some of the oil slick
Step five: back brush the fuck out of the top--showing total disregard to good haircare (hasn't that ship sailed) and damage
Step six: pin top into a sort of bastard mohawk-beehive-pompadour thingy
Step seven: wonder loudly if you look awesome or insane
Step eight: wear into world
Step nine: get many many compliments while silently wondering if people are making fun of you

Who knew?

Also, I do not know why I cheated on Kiehl's lip balm. But when I lost my last tub two months ago I tried Burt's Bees (which is crap. Minty. Irritating. Fucking useless crap at that) and then some Body Shop lip butters (which taste and smell so delicious but don't actually uh MOISTURIZE the lips). I finally caved and bought another tub of Kiehl's and lo the angels sang and I shall never cheat again because oh my lips aren't flaky and dry anymore. They just look soft and smooth and slightly glossy. HMMMM. Lip they have been properly moisturized.

Sometimes I am a dumbass.

Summer Thoughts

It warm and sunny and clear here today--the kind of weather that sells houses by the acre-full in Seattle. It also makes people break out the shorts and flip flops even though it isn't but seventy degrees.

I bought half a dozen tank tops and a pair of shorts today (that scream you just heard was my friend L squealing in ecstasy because I have been whining about what I was going to do about shorts for approximately eighty-seven years) so I am all set for Hawaii. Those who have been reading my blog for a while know that I have two major body issues: my big giant head and my fat weird knees. These shorts just cover up the knees without bringing out the stump in my short legs. I wouldn't go so far as to say they look good but they didn't make me cry so VICTORY it is. I found them at Old Navy, which bless their hearts but WTF is up with the sizing in that place. I tried these shorts on in seven different sizes and none of them made a damn bit of sense. The 10's were mysteriously larger than the 12's but the 14's were a size that would accommodate two of me. I kept on trying sizes on to see if I could figure out a pattern. There wasn't one, honestly just take the whole rack with you and good luck. I wouldn't have been surprised to have a size six fit me (and I haven't been a six since the seventh grade) and I wouldn't have been surprised to have an eighteen fit me (which is a size that would normally give me the vapors). What the hell Old Navy? Sizing is irrelevant much?

I just ate some of that leftover fried chicken and some pineapple for dinner. God that chicken is good. My goal for the summer was to perfect my fried chicken and if I have done it by May what will I do all summer except lounge around?

Overheard over the wall at work: "Well we don't really like to go at it quite so hard so far from home but we were just caught up in the moment. . . "

Turns out he was talking about hiking which would be a damn shame except I would prefer to think that this gentleman doesn't know a thing about any other "going at it" pursuits.

My hair has reached the crisis explosive stage where it is huge and crazy and threatening looking. I wore a barrette today. BE ALARMED. Tomorrow may bring a beehive because what else can be done with this er volume?

Reason #912 to Hate Being a Woman--Baby Showers

Yesterday I went to yet another fucking baby shower. Though J and possibly everyone else feels that I should be more over my miscarriage than I am but I still struggle with it a bit. And my friend and I found out we were pregnant at roughly the same time. Now she is just a few weeks from delivering and having showers and I . . .am not.

I wanted to go and celebrate this time with her and I am glad I did. But I don't think it is wrong that it was bittersweet for me. Her daughter is going to be gorgeous and I am so excited for her and her husband. But you know. I cried ok? I am not proud of it. But I made it through, and no one really noticed. It was the best I could do.

Other than that, I made some really fucking delicious fried chicken. And had a migraine for both days so I just took to my bed and ate fried chicken and ice cream sandwiches. Which isn't a bad weekend at all.