Stories from the front lines of an unplanned pregnancy.

Friday, December 21, 2007

"Deck the halls with boughs and folly..."

Um... quick question. How in the hell did Christmas sneak up on me this year? Seriously. I just looked at the calendar and apparently, it's like four days away. You know, if it hadn't been for the fact that the mister and I finally got around to making solid holiday plans, I get the feeling that we would've woken up at noon on tuesday and not even remembered that it was Christmas until we flipped on the tv and were confronted by It's a Wonderful Life marathons on six different channels.

Coming from a holiday-mad household, I never realized how incredibly easy it was to entirely skip out on Christmas. This year, with every penny earned being stashed away for diapers, or doctor's bills, or a breast pump, it was pretty obvious that we'd be scaling back on the holiday festivities. But what was amazing was how fast we went from "scaling back" to "what's... Christmas?" It started out simple enough. No tree. Trees mean moving furniture and buying lights and ornaments and one of those stupid tree skirts and all the rest of the crap that comes with it. And as I'm not one for frugality, there would be no 99 cent store waxy faced angel on top or some sorry assed Charlie Brown tree to put it on. So, skip the tree, save a wad of cash. But no tree begot no wreath. No wreath begot no house decorations. No decorations begot no holiday parties... and on and on and on it went until just like that, we had about as much Christmas cheer as the local Jewish Community Center.

Of course this slow crawl towards grinchdom was not entirely without incident. You have to understand, I come from the kind of family that felt it was not only appropriate, but entirely necessary, to festoon every square inch of our home with as much tinsely, shining, sparkling, cinnamon scented decorative schmaltz as was physically possible. We sang Christmas carols from 12:01 am the friday after thanksgiving until the tree finally got lugged out to the trash at the end of january. We sent Christmas cards by the dozen and made spiced cider by the gallon. Not only do I know what figgy pudding is... but I have eaten it, my friends. So it is entirely understandable that I actually wept a few silent tears when I found out that the mister didn't even know the words to Deck the Halls (see: the title of this entry). And that I've secretly been reading The Night Before Christmas to the squatter, lest a general apathy towards the holidays is genetic and he's got his father's genes. But besides a few mini meltdowns in the face of the Williams & Sonoma holiday catalog and nearly every Kay Diamonds commercial that comes on... I think I'm handling it pretty well. Or I was, anyway, because now even without stockings hung by our chimney with care... I'm having a proper Christmas!

That's right, my darlings, the mister's gift to me this year was a pair of round trip tickets to new york so that I can have the holiday I so richly deserve-- I mean we. We so richly deserve. Anyway, the hubby, the squatter, and I fly down on Christmas eve, the mister flies home alone on Christmas night (quelle tragique), and then I follow him about a week later on new year's eve. The only thing that could make this whole plan better would be if the mister didn't have to rush home 24 hours after we get there to be at work the next day. But "the man" that's keeping him down is also "the man" who's paying for our mini vaca.

Shit! I wanted to wrap this up all cute and tidy and say happy holidays to all and whatever, but there's a pound of fetus doing a little softshoe routine on my bladder and i have got to--

Friday, December 7, 2007

And on and on she goes...

Hiya, Kids. It feels like it's been an age, but I've been suffering a serious bout of pregnancy brain this week and just haven't been my usual self. Twice I got out of the shower without rinsing the shampoo out of my hair. Twice. So yeah, it's been like that. Anyway, I'm gonna try and make this post as coherent as I can, but something tells me that's just a nice idea that's not gonna happen, due in large part to the fact that I'm also watching the 75th Annual Tree Lighting and Random Artist Album Promotion Spectacular on Bravo. But you can bet your sweet ass I'll try, babies. Just for you.

(Random Thought No. 1: Shawn Kingston (performing with Natasha Betyourass, or whatever) has the BEST obnoxiously large and extraordinarily expensive shiny thing on a chain ever. It's a flipping box of crayola crayons. The sixty-four pack! Now that's gangsta.)

So this is cool: Yesterday was a major pregnancy milestone for yours truly. The cashier at IKEA actually asked me if I was expecting! Shut up. I know it's not as exciting as, say, that one time the mister and I got caught with the gimp in a Denny's bathroom, but it's huge for me. I'm carrying pretty small (I'm halfway there and unless you know me, I look like most of you prolly did directly following thanksgiving dinner, meaning bloated but not necessarily pregnant) and I'm still kind of sensitive about people just thinking I'm rocking a serious beer gut and not give me the fawning attention that we pregnant bitches so richly deserve. So last night I was all kinds of stoked when she actually called me out on my knockedupedness. Although, looking back, she could've just been reacting to the ginormous heap of Swedish snacks that we brought to the register. Technically, I'm only supposed to be eating for, like, one and an eighth... but recently I've taken the liberty of eating for an small third world country. Just another reason I wish I looked more pregnant-- it would stop all the damn stares I get when I'm ordering at dinner.

(Random Thought No. 2: Did you know that the tree this year is the first "green" one they've had? I love when shit is "green". I rarely fully understand the concept behind it (the tree's lighting involves solar panels and like, witchcraft or something, I think) but having anything to do with it makes me feel like a better person. Or it makes people think I am, anyway, which is really just as good.)

In other news, the mister and I are driving down to Fort Meyers Sunday night to meet his fam. Or so he says. Ha, we'll see what extenuating circumstances keep us from getting there this time. And to make an already awkward situation even, we're spending the night down there before coming home on monday. Oy. I've always dreaded this situation, even before I met Christian. Every romantic comedy I've seen seems to have the dreaded "meet the parents" scene that involves a really uncomfortable sleeping arrangement discussion that ends with me sleeping in his little sister's room where the boyfriend in question then knocks on the door, begs for a little secret nookie, and we both end up caught with our pants around our ankles when mummy comes in with fresh towels. Okay, maybe not every romantic comedy... but you get my point. And seeing as how Christian's parents still refer to me as "Christian's girlfriend" (No joke, when I met his mom and sister, after spending the entire day with them his mom turns to his sister and says, "Well hopefully Christian and his girlfriend will come by for thanksgiving later this month." While I was standing there. Named my Alex. Apparently, I just haven't earned the right to be called by name yet), I get the feeling it might be even more uncomfortable than that. Or, I'm just being ridiculous and am going to have a fantastic time and they're going to love me and it's going to be beautiful and happy and wonderful and warm and welcoming and--

(Random Thought No. 3: Ashley Tisdale is the worst performer I have ever seen. It's like one of those creepy baby pageant contestants grew up, lost the bouffant, and has decided to lip sync her way through the Pro-Am section of the competition. I think I'm going to be ill.)

So... wait. What the fuck was I going on about, again? Whatever. I should prolly go wash dishes. I've got to keep up this facade of being totally domestically competent for the mister. Yeah right. He's totally on to me-- The other day I forgot to dry an entire load of laundry and I haven't made the bed properly in like a month.

Anyway, with love and... and... oh, I don't know,

(Random Thought for the Road: You think when I finally pop out the squatter I could become a Rockette? No. Seriously, do you? Let me know...)

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

I'm just on a roll tonight, kids...

So since I'm already spiraling downward into the abyss of utterly lame mamahood (you know damn well I've already showed those sonogram pics to every sighted person in the greater orlando area and every unsuspecting facebook friend, instant messenger buddy, and blog reader that I've managed to accumulate), I think it's time for a confession.

I.... am.... a.... "Nestie".

Not to be confused with a "nasty", which i also happen to be occasionally (see: this past week when I realized that shaving my legs has become far too much effort and have more or less given up on it). No, a "Nestie" is the cloying nickname given to women who have joined the online community The Nest, a spinoff of their original wedding-centric website, The Knot. While I've managed to avoid The Knot and all its doves and diamonds trappings, somehow I've gotten sucked into the pastel wonderland that is The Nest's other offshoot, The Nest Baby.

A sweet idea in theory, I quickly learned that the NB is actually an underground cult of fetus obsessed broads who devote a staggering amount of their time to such incredibly important conversational topics as, "Window Treatments for Jillian Marie's Nursery-- What Do U Think? :-) " and "Mean People Suck (long vent!!)". Think I'm kidding? Here's an actual message board topic posted earlier today:

Subject Line: "Wal-Mart Stole my Baby Name!!!"
Body: "I was watching a commercial for Wal mart the other night. It was about a mom getting her little girl an iPod. The mom says something like, "Why do I choose Wal Mart? Because of Mackenzie Lynne..."

THAT'S MY BABY'S NAME! Well, it will be if it's a girl! I thought that was too funny! I've never heard the combination of names before, and I thought I was being all original!"

Seriously. These are the women with whom I hoped to find solidarity. Turns out the only thing I have in common with 97.3% of them is the fact that we're knocked up. Hooray for us. But until I pick up the glue gun and get to work glitzing up my 400 page Pregnancy Journal, or finally order that belly casting kit from well we simply won't have much to discuss. I guess it doesn't help that a good chunk of these chicks have at least ten years on me and have been shooting fertility drugs since before i graduated middle school, so this is a superhugeohmygodthankthelordhallelu! sort of event for them (which would explain the sparkly shrine erected around their pregnancy test) and should, therefore, be treated as such. But for me, excited as I am, lucky as I feel, I just can't muster up that kind of unbridled enthusiasm for crib bumpers and breast pumps.

But I say all this to show you just how insane it is that a few weeks casually browsing through people's nursery photo albums and soul crushingly dull blogs ("Ate a slice of chocolate cake today :0 !! And I've been soooooo good so far!! Oh well.")... and now I think it's starting to suck me in. Not only do I keep a blog there-- actually, it's this blog with a few minor omissions and additions. c'mon i'm a lazy shit, remember?-- but now I actively post and respond on that damn Second Trimester message board that they've got. Next thing you know, I'll be uploading pictures of Christian and I wearing matching santa hats with his hand on my belly and referring to the due date as the Blessed Event!! (two exclamation points). Grody.

However... lucky lucky lucky for me, I have managed to draw a few of the saner women out of the woodwork with my snarky commentary and liberal usage of profanity. So now, when I want someone to complain to about how wretched this heartburn is and how I'm this close to peeing my pants every time I sneeze, they'll be there with a witty reply and a refreshing lack of emoticons and exclamation points. And maybe, if I'm lucky, some Tums. I guess some sisterhood isn't all that nauseating, afterall. Anyway, sure beats the hell out of trying to talk to my eighteen year old middle school crush about leaky nipples. Trust me.

With love and-- "Ew, did she say leaky nipples?!"

Filthy hypocrite...

Okay, so I know I voiced some pretty loud opinions against people showing off their stupid sonogram pictures... But I am nothing if not shallow. And a hypocrite. So here, for your viewing pleasure (fat chance), are two more pictures from Little Man Anglim's first authorized photo shoot.

This one is entitled, The Quiet Rage of the Unseen Child

I call this one, Real Thugs Suck Thumbs*
(subtitled: Fool, do not make me pop this thumb out my mouth and bitchslap yo ass)

So there you have it, folks, the undeniable proof that I'm not just fat. Sure, that could still be just an enormous mound of undigested chocolate chip cookie dough... but if that's what's kicking around in my uterus, I've got far bigger problems than my binge eating.

With love and a wee little pecker,

*That hovering mass to the right of his nose is not some partially developed sister growing out of his eye socket (as I feared), but his other hand. The pimp hand. Way strong.

Survey says...

<--- That, my friends, is a penis.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Baby's first encounter with the paparazzi...

First ultrasound tomorrow. Finally.

But what is it with people and their sonogram photos? With the exception of those nifty 4d ones (which to be honest, I still don't need to see, thanks), for the most part it's like looking at a Rorschach test. Oh how adorable! A motorcycle! A hamburger? A prairie dog wrestling with a laundry basket? Oh it's a girl! I'm sorry, of course it is... and there's her darling little-- wait, is that a... a... is that a tentacle?

Spare me, alright? I promise I'll spare you. Well unless you're my mother, who's so desperate to get a glance at the little squatter that I'm surprised she hasn't simply tipped me over and shined a maglite up my choch' yet. I'm fully aware that precious few will be as interested in my grainy blob of a black and white fetus as me and the mister, so I will not be going for the 12 wallet sized photo option, and I will not yank the damn thing out of my purse every time someone so much as glances at my belly. Their confused, polite smile as I attempt to outline what may or may not be a pair of antennae is not needed to validate what I already know-- this kid's going to be hella good looking.

Anyway, the only thing I'm really concerned about is whether this kid's got all his bits in the right spots. I'm about as dipsy with my prenatal pills as I was with my birth control ones, and I'm hoping that a lack of supplemental folic acid hasn't somehow produced an extra limb or something equally disturbing. Clearly, I have no working knowledge of vitamins. Or fetal development. Either way, the only emotion I'm looking forward to tomorrow is relief when I can see for myself that the squatter isn't floating upside down at the top of my uterus like a carnival goldfish five minutes after you get it home. Also, I'll hopefully be finding out whether I've been accidentally creating a flaming homosexual or just a girl with dreadful taste in music by swapping out that Mozart for Embryos crap for The Best of 80's Pop One Hit Wonders. What?! I've got to listen to it too, you know.

With love and Wham!


Saturday, December 1, 2007

My grandma will kick your grandma's ass any day...

So, yesterday was the first time I've seen my grandmother since I broke "the news". Bum bum buuuuuum!! And true to form, we both did everything in our power to avoid even the slightest allusion to not only my pregnancy, but pregnancy in general, infants, babies, toddlers, children, their parents, the circle of life-- basically, anything that could even begin to remind her that I was knocked up. Which made it all the funnier that somewhere between Africa and Dino-Rama we had this exchange:

Grandma: Digs a pen out of her purse to mark one of the two straws in their large coke with an A for Alex.
Alex: Um... You know it's not contagious, right?
Grandma: Yeah. (Beat) But slut is.

And then for about three minutes we laughed so hard we couldn't breathe. This, my friends, is why my grandmother is amazing. Also, why everyone in my family is terrified of her.

See? It's in the genes.

With love and hereditary cruelty,

Thursday, November 29, 2007

File it under t.m.i...

...But I am one lucky fucking lady. Emphasis on the profanity. Oh yeah.

Listen, when the time comes for you crazy kids to finally settle down and get married and all that lovely shit, girls, have your man talk to my man first. Seriously. Don't go signing anything until you've sent him over to our place with a notepad and a tape recorder, because I guarantee you... he will learn something.

You want to talk about foreplay? Last night, dear husband made dinner, cleaned the oven, rubbed my feet, watched Project Runway with me, AND gave me a back massage. Let me tell you, I needed a new pair of panties before we even got into bed. I don't know when he did it, but apparently he's taken an advanced crash course in "Being a Phenomenal Husband". Okay, granted, the class seems to have skipped a few fundamental lessons, like "Ten Places Wet Towels Don't Belong" and "The Art of Food Shopping", but what's a soggy bath towel in the middle of the living room floor when you're eating spinach and provolone stuffed flank steak and discussing tacky menswear with the hubby and Tim Gunn? Exactly. (Ooh, and on a completely unrelated note, what in the hell did Sweet P. do to that shirt last night?! I've seen chimpanzees with Down's syndrome put together better made pieces with a handful of leaves and a pile of their own poo. I mean, really.)

Anyway, see? Just cause i'm always moaning like the grumpy little shit I am, doesn't mean that I don't have plenty to be happy about, too. Like the sex god husband. And these fresh baked cookies I've been munching on all day. And the fact that the squatter's recently decided to take up in-utero Capoeira (cutest thing ever). That's right, kids, right now I'm on a hormonal upswing and life is simply b-e-a-utiful.

With love and peace and rainbows and starry ski-- okay, now I'm just being a twat,

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


6. I am a entirely too cranky for someone who's entire day revolves around VH1 reality shows and snacking. Note to self: Inquire about prescription mood elevators at next prenatal appointment.

Five things I realized today...

1. The trash in the bathroom will not take itself out. Nor will anyone but you ever do the honors. This is a fact entirely unrelated to how overstuffed it is.

2. There are few things in this world as immensely satisfying as a Nathan's hotdog.

3. You cannot sleep off a headache-- No matter how many hours you devote to the cause (I think. I gave up after four).

4. Roommates are God's way of letting you know that he hates you. The messes they leave all over the kitchen are their way of showing you how much they agree.

5. Jodie Foster is the big brother of that precious little Efron girl from Disney.

Thank you, that is all.

(Editor's Note: Number five is not actually true, but the humble opinion of the writer who feels very strongly that a. Zac Efron has not only a purdy lil' face and an unhealthy love of the pancake foundation, but a vagina; b. Jodie Foster is a man; and that c. The two talented (albeit gender-bendy) actors are related. Look at them, for Christ's sake. They're nothing but a y chromosome and 20 years from being the same person.)

Monday, November 26, 2007

This is so much cheaper than therapy...

So it turns out I have virtually no friends. Alright, I also have absolutely no license (yes still, asshole, but that's another story. Fucking cones...) which makes it an understandable pain the ass for the handful of remaining friends I have to come see me out here. But let's disregard that fact for a moment and focus on the real problem at hand (besides the DMV's insane obsession with the health and safety of its cone collection): My precious few friends and I are rapidly losing all common ground. Okay, besides the fact that a couple of them also have vaginas and one of them is even brown (the girl, not her vagina. Although that prolly is, too-- I've just never had the privilege of seeing it), it seems like more and more, all the stuff we had in common is going the way of my virginity, my waistline, and my youth.

It was a whole lot easier to relate in the first trimester when we could fondly recount late nights spent blowing chunks into the bushes outside of Burger King or tell stories of early mornings curled up in the fetal position in bed, totally drained of energy and fighting a skull pounding headache. Sure, their misery stemmed from one too many games of flip cup while mine was the direct result of being knocked up... but at least we had something. Now, it seems like there isn't a single part of our lives that matches up. I'm practically married and don't even own a box of condoms anymore. While most of them are still hooking up with whichever slightly attractive finance major stumbles past their dorm room door or whatever cute skirt wanders into their job at the mall. My typical weeknights involve food shopping and reruns of Mystery Diagnosis while dear husband checks the fantasy football stats. Theirs include classes, parties, rehearsals, and frequent outings to various clubs across the orlando area. They work lame jobs while pursuing big careers and blow their paychecks on movie tickets and going out clothes. Me? My job includes baskets of someone else's dirty drawers, researching lactation counselors, and the occasional nap. And pay? Ha. Just an entirely bill-free existence and the occasional big, sushi dinner date.

But would I change the way I'm living? Of course not. I'm incredibly happy and I don't regret a damn thing about the way my life's turning out. It's just... well it's kind of lonely over here in Grownup Town. I long for someone under the age of thirty to talk to about weird new hairs and sex with a bump or husbands who work a lot and fear of skidmarks in the laundry. All the pregnancy books say that the best thing to do is join a support group for pregnant bitches... but something tells me that the kinds of women who join those groups are the very last kinds of women I want to be friends with. You know the ones. The ones with "Matty's Mom" bedazzled across their velour track suits, the ones who will eventually save their kids crusty umbilical cord stump for the enormous baby book that they've been working on since before the pee dried on their pregnancy test, the ones who tear up at Playskool commercials and have already furnished and decorated their nursery's complete with a "Whimsical Farmyard" theme. Those pregnant bitches. Ew. What I want is a support group for pregnant bitches who are more upset about not being able to have a drink (or three) after a particularly long talk with yet another advice filled nosy neighbor than the fact that there were no more spots open at their local Mommy and Me. The kind that still swear like a sailor, even in Baby Depot because "Holy shit, $3,000?! It's just a fucking crib!" The kind that haven't registered for Lamaze class yet and only felt guilty about deciding against cord blood banking for about thirteen seconds when they realized that kind of money could buy them a much needed solo vacation to Tahiti for the kid's first birthday.

So quick, somebody find me a group like that and I promise I'll stop driving all my friends mad with endless anecdotes about what I learned on a Baby Story and how saline nose spray saved my sex life. Otherwise, I'm just gonna have to start poking holes in all their condoms and switching out their birth control pills for mini Altoids.

...See if i won't.

With love and a side of bitter resentment,

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Bright eyed and bushy tailed...

The only thing worse than not being able to sleep is laying, wide awake, next to someone who can. And is. And has been for an hour. While I, on the other hand, am flip-snap-flip-snap-flip-snapping my phone open and shut and rolling back and forth on my side of the bed like some kind of autistic insomniac. Which, come to think of it, isn't really that far off the mark. Maybe, I'll crack open the window and pray for a late night visit from that trippy, radioactive Lunesta butterfly. He's like Santa, but for the prescription drug abuser set. My winged hero in dayglo green.

...Only, I'm at a complete loss in regards to what kind of treats one leaves out when trying to court an animated, phosphorescent, lepidoptra. Something tells me that cookies and milk aren't exactly the way to go.

With love and a butterfly net,

Can you fucking believe I spelled phosphorescent right on the first try? I totally did.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

On why I'm not a healthy eater...

A scene from my morning, featuring the Squatter (also known as the the

Hmmm... I'm getting hungry. Now what should I have for lunch? Man, I am seriously craving some chocolate chip ice cream and a grilled cheese sandwich. But I should probably have something healthy. Like a nice, big green sala-- Ouch!

Squatter: A salad? Bitch, how about a roundhouse kick to the bladder, instead? You know I don't want no goddamn salad. I ain't no goddamn rabbit. Yo, you got any Ho Hos out there?

Me: You know what? I think I'll have that grilled cheese sandwich, after al-- Ow!

Squatter: And some Ho Hos!

Me: And some Ho Hos.

Friday, November 23, 2007

About as warm and mushy as a freshly used wad of Kleenex...

In case you were wondering, Thanksgiving didn't suck the swinging testicles I expected it to.

Mostly, we holed up in the apartment tangled up on the couch and wallowing in our own grime-- which, as it turns out, is actually pretty enjoyable when you have Boston Market takeout, bad reality tv marathons on VH1, a freshly baked (previously frozen) pie, and the cutest little hundred degree fountain of snot laying across from you looking all appreciative and shit. But we even managed to pull it together towards the end of the day and head out for a spell to go meet my mom's future in-laws and eat half our weight in apple brown betty. Okay, that last part was just me. Eventually we said our goodbyes and practically crawled back to our couch-- him because he was running a fever again and me because I was now carrying around roughly fifty pounds of mcintosh apples and cinnamon in my gut-- and fell asleep in front of House reruns so that we had to be literally carried off to bed in a sugar coma. Actually, again, that last part was just me, but I digress.

Anyway, all in all a lovely day that filled me with thankfulness for three of my very favorite things: Sloth, gluttony, and-- of course-- my family. But um... next Thanksgiving? Well alls I'm saying is somebody had better bring the goddamn caviar.

With love and tryptophan,

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Potato, po-tah-to...

Would hunting down and murdering all the painfully vapid twats that have ever been featured on My Super Sweet Sixteen fall into the "ends justify the means" category? Yes, I will have committed murder... but more importantly, I will have rid the world of one (okay, 30) more squealing, giggling, shrieking, crying, and (apparently) rap obsessed ingrates. We already have a Paris Hilton, and I'm quite sure that we'll be well enough without a gaggle of equally entitled, brainless, and rhinestone encrusted new ones popping up in pink bmws all over the country.

You say serial killer, I say American hero.

(... I also say that maybe I should cut back on the tv for awhile.)

With love and a gun to the back of the frosted, blonde head,

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Thanks-sucking. (Wait, was that even clever?)

I'm going to start this post off by listing the things I'm thankful for. This way, when I start moaning about how shitty this Thanksgiving is actually going to be, I don't have to worry about being bitched out for being a wretched ingrate. So here we go:

Scrub pants. My mother finally being complaint-free. Mint chocolate chip ice cream. Dear husband. The fifteen Law & Order marathons that were on tnt this year. My squatter wombmate. The new orlando IKEA. Not having to work. Seedless grapes. Knowing I'm going home for the Christmas hols. Williams & Sonoma catalogs. Valet trash service. Oh. And not having been disowned by any memeber of my family for being a teenage statistic. So for all that, thanks, God. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Sweden.

Now then, that out of the way-- FUCK ME, THIS THANKSGIVING IS GONNA SUCK.

No, seriously. While the rest of you lucky bastards are going to be comatose in front of the tv, picking bits of turkey out of your teeth and basking in the warm glow of familial love, there is a good chance that I'm going to be in a mighty sulk, balled up in the corner of the couch, waiting for my extra large pizza stuffed crust pizza to get here (Pizza Hut does deliver on Thanksgiving, right?). And dear husband? Undoubtedly snoring miserably in bed with a fever. That's right, the poor sap went and got himself sick two days before we were supposed to make the hike down to Fort Meyers Beach to turkey it up with his family.

Okay, so it might have been a painfully awkward affair meeting his father and his good ol' boy grandpappy all in one fell swoop like that-- not to mention the three hour drive there and back in hellish traffic... but there would have been FOOD! Lots and lots of free food. And people! People to talk to! ...Oh my God, I'm tragic. But come on, there's no shame in admitting that I'm a little starved for socialization or expensive hors d'ouvres (these people just bought a recreational army tank... I'm sure they'll spring for something sprinkled with caviar), is there? Whatever. I don't care. We're probably not going, anyway. Apparently, Christian's grandfather's health is in such bad shape that the chance that Christian might pass along whatever bug he's fighting off might just be too much for the old man. And I guess no number of fancy pants appetizers or adult conversations is worth putting the poor old guy in jeopardy.

So instead, I get to play Florence Nightingale with my darling, wretched, snot nosed husband. Hot tea and toast Thanksgiving feast for all!

...Man, that little punk's lucky I love him. Even with the snotty nose.

With love and chicken soup,

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Now I Lay He Down to Sleep...

Alright, so my ass is getting so big that the state's considering offering it its own zipcode, I'm hairier than Robin Williams after a Rogaine bath, and I haven't really been able to thoroughly brush my back teeth since the first trimester (major vomitage)... but have I really lost ALL of my sex appeal?

Apparently, I have. Despite my very best efforts at looking appealing-- for god's sake, I shaved my legs today!-- this evening, I was brutally alerted to just how unsexy I've become. Tonight, my dear babydaddyfiance (heretofore referred to as "dear husband", as it's a lot fewer letters), fell asleep on me. Well, technically he fell asleep under me, but you get the point. There I was straddling him with all the grace I could muster while trying to simultaneously keep my protruding roundness from getting mashed between us and keep from squishing his delicate bits with my ample arse, having a bit of a playful romp. A little ear nibbling, a little kiss kiss, a little... Hello? Are you with me? And friends, he was not. In his defense, he snapped awake and insisted that he was "good to go". But when said reassurance is slurred... well it isn't tremendously reassuring at all. Long story short, I finally convinced him to give up the charade and just go to sleep. In my second trimester, it seems like I'm always up for a roll in the hay, but it really loses its appeal when it's more like dragging a corpse through the hay to have your way with it.

Which leads me to wonder... Have I really lost the sexy? Already?! I mean, I sort of assumed that the sexy would be one of the first things to go after dear husband witnessed birth up close and personal. You know, after the magical freak show that is crowning. After the "bloody show" and placental delivery. But no... It looks like the sexy has left the building. Right along with my love of Taco Bell and my ability to breathe through both nostrils at once. I mean, how else can you explain how a perfectly healthy and fully functioning 22 year old would fall asleep mid-makeout, with a pair of newly enormous boobs swinging not five inches from his face? I mean, not to toot my own horn(s), but right now my rack is kind of spectacular. Man. Either I'm sleeping next to the missing cast member from the Golden Girls, or I've got to start tweezing my eyebrows again.

With love and celibacy,

Monday, November 19, 2007

The Good Wife's Guide...

In my endless quest to become the best domestic engineer/stay at home wife/lazy-pregnant-woman-with-excessive-amounts-of-free-time that i can be, I stumbled upon this supposedly real article from a 1955 issue of Good Housekeeping Magazine entitled, simply, "The Good Wife's Guide". Guide to what, you ask? Guide to being homicidal, suicidal, and hopelessly bitter by your 3rd anniversary, I think.

But either way, those dipsy dames over at Good Housekeeping seemed to think that they were doing all us Stay at Home-rs a favor by laying out some ground rules for navigating the tricky game of Housewifery. Unfortunately, their advice is starting to look a little faded at the edges and worn at the seams and in an overall need of drastic updating. So, I've taken the liberty of reproducing their article here... along with my suggested updates to make the whole list a little more relevant. The original point is marked with an asterisk, and my suggestions are preceded by a pair of hyphens.

(Editor's Note: After reviewing my commentary, it occurred to me that the said updates are, in actuality, changes that would need to be made in order to make the original advice more relevant to one particular lazy bones, tv obsessed, milky way bar loving lady in particular... who during her pregnancy has found herself less and less inclined to spend hours in her rubber gloves scrubbing the tub, vacuuming the blinds, and then dashing off to reapply eyeliner in time for Darling Husband to return home from work.)

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* Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
-- ask dear husband to call when he's on his way home from work so that you can properly time microwavable french bread pizza to be finished by the time he's walking in the door. or, greet him with suggestions as to where we'll be going for dinner tonight.

* Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
-- simply try and remember to brush teeth before key is heard in door. if couldn't be bothered to shave today, throw on long sleeved sweater.

* Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
-- show dear husband new patch of pregnancy hormone spurred hair i found on tummy. certainly kept me fascinated for a good twenty minutes when i got out of the shower, anyway.

* Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.
-- track down all evidence of earlier milky way and pizza hut craving, gather wrappers and boxes and bury under the topmost layer of trash in the bin. remember laundry that was taken out of the dryer before falling prey to America's Next Top Model marathon this afternoon, stuff back into dryer. try again tomorrow.

* During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
-- hide remote and light a candle. wonder when promised "immense personal satisfaction" began to rely on husband's ability to drink beer and scratch balls by firelight.

* Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.
-- stop washing machine, pray he doesn't accidentally wander into laundry room and find all work shirts stewing in their own dirty water. enjoy convenient new excuse to avoid vacuuming.

* Be happy to see him.
-- check.

* Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
-- sincerely promise to let him change the channel just as soon as law & order is over... unless there's a new I Love New York on afterwards.

* Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
-- while waiting for your chance to speak, keep yourself entertained through rambling stories from work by singing theme song to Green Acres in your head, composing a mental checklist of celebrities you'd like to shag, and attempting to nod and smile at appropriate intervals without actually listening to a word he says.

* Don't greet him with complaints and problems.
-- a warm, "Hello, Dear!" works wonders when placed directly before a list of grievances.

* Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.
-- instead, console yourself by throwing his now ice cold dinner of stouffer's lasagna at prized big screen tv and locking bedroom door before going to sleep.

* Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
-- Scooch over on couch, share corner of blanket, and offer tired, swollen feet (yours) for a massage. at some point during the day, make sure fridge is still running so that beer is cold when he goes to get himself one.

* Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
-- arrange his pillow? if there's a pillowcase on it, you've done your job. if attempting the shoe removal move, it is imperative that you do not gag and/or vomit when foot found in shoe is a sudden, rank reminder that someeeebody's been on his feet for the past twelve hours. should you be unable to contain your sickness, use a low, soothing phone sex operator voice to apologize.

* Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
-- which is precisely why we own a 65" tv, a lifetime subscription to Sports Illustrated, framed posters of both Bob Marley, Kurt Cobain, Led Zepplin, a pool table (still in pieces and in the middle of the living room floor), and tickets to this week's car show... but no blender.

* A good wife always knows her place.
-- absolutely: on top.

(Editor's Note: Proving just what a lazy twat I am, I totally ripped this entry from my facebook where I posted it yesterday as a note. Whatever.)

The Rundown...

So. There's nothing quite like being told by your trusted doctor that coming off of the Depo Provera birth control shots will give you a 6-10 month delay in your return to fertility only to find out a month and half later that you're pregnant. Apparently, shit does indeed happen. Estimated due date: April 24, 2008. And the countdown to the end of the wild and crazy times of my youth begins... now. Oh, who am I kidding. My youth was about as wild and crazy as Tuesday night bingo at the senior center-- a little truth that has a lot to do with my decision in regards to said KnockedUpness, to be honest.

Okay, so I'm sure you're near salivating for details. Or you're only mildly curious and I'm just too egotistical to comprehend how this news could be considered anything less than earth shattering by the rest of the free world. Either way.

Me: 19. 20 at the time of baby birthin', so will not be considered "teenage mother" and relegated to wandering local Wal-Mart in house slippers, with dirty faced baby on hip, looking utterly tragic and buying store brand white bread. Currently resides with baby daddy slash "oh-fuck-it-let's-just-get-married-since-we-were-going-to-end-up-doing-it-
ay"-fiancee in a tasteless little three bedroom apartment with the afformentioned's roommate. Will be moving out shortly after christmas into new, roommate and Kurt Cobain poster-free flat to start proper adult life with husband and baby.

Him: 22. Inexplicably level headed and responsible for a former frat boy and avid fantasy footballer. Has financial advisor and eats lots of fiber. Spends good portion of his nights propping up snoring, gassy baby mama so she can breathe and can often be found trudging to the store for jars of relish and rasberry seltzer water. Works 70 hours a week to pay for everything and still has the good humor to call unshowered, nappy haired, bathrobed and pukey woman, "beautiful". He's a saint and I'm one lucky bitch.

As for everyone else (heartbroken parents, dumbfounded friends, and the like), well they're pretty much irrelevant. Kidding! They're all terrifically supportive and loving and excited and blahblahblah. They're all also responsible for furnishing our nursery and showering me with gifts. I love them bushels and pecks.

Anyway, now that we've been formally introduced, I invite you all to pop in from time to time and have a laugh with me (or more probably, at me) while I make a fool of myself and a mockery of the noble art of housewifery and motherhood with my decidedly ridiculous behavior and affinity for salty language.