And you thought it was bad THEN
How pregnancy is like ninth grade:
Maybe your freshman year of high school was all roses and football games, but mine was awkward and generally unfulfilling. Thank God I had 10 years of relative normalcy before my hormones went buck-nuts again.
Of course, neither ninth grade nor pregnancy is always as bad as I like to make them out to be, but then again I’ve always been a fan of hyperbole, exaggeration and fishing for sympathy. So shoot me.
This post brought to you by: You Do It To Yourself from the album “The Bends” by Radiohead.
Right. Leopard print.
This is the last thing that I, a pregnant lady, would want to think about wearing. Sorry to burst any bubbles.
P.S. Look, I can’t help it if the baby likes Cheezits, OK? I gotta do what I gotta do to stop the Macarena party in my uterus.
Portraits of Baltimore County
To the guy in the black Pontiac stopped on Walther Boulevard: It is really, really declassé to open your car door and do the technicolor yawn about six inches from my car. Not to mention nasty.
To the teller at the Towson Bank of America: Your loquaciousness and joie de vivre really brightened my day. I enjoyed hearing about all eight generations you have so far researched and wish you the best of luck in your future genealogical endeavors.
To the security guard at the Mini-Library: Keep on rockin’ out, chica.
And now, to the deaf, dumb and blind salesclerk at Crate and Barrel: Your absolute fucknuggetry so completely soured my outlook toward my fellow man that I considered jumping off the top of the M&T Bank Building to my miserable, ineffectual death. Then I remembered that you were the miserable, ineffectual one and I thereby resolved to a.) never in my life shop at Crate and Barrel again, even if Iain’s best friend were registered there and b.) find some way to make you pay for the hour and a half I spent wandering painfully among useless, overpriced kitchen accessories. May this garlic press find its way to your groin area and never let go.
Boxes desperately wanted
I feel like a science experiment: WOMAN CLONES HUMAN BEING — INSIDE HER ABDOMEN! Film at 11.
We need a what? Shit. Now that we’re homeowners, we apparently need a lawnmower [know where we can get the old-fashioned people-powered kind?], a rake, a hose, a shovel … oh, for Chrissakes, do I look like I’m made of money?
Like a polaroid picture: So cousin Kyle’s wedding last weekend was a blast. She was radiant, Jay was charming, the whole thing was ultra suave. Lord, and the steak was amazing. Later, my sibs, folks, and Iain and I shook our collective groove thang til the break of dawn. Hella fun. Here’s a picture: Me, all five siblings and my sister’s boyfriend.
An aside: Somewhere along the way somebody taught The Beanster to do the macarena and he’s been bopping around in there ever since.
Please don’t: Memo to the guys who are calling me “Mommy” now that I’m pregnant — it’s not cute, it’s creepy. Sorry to say, but I’m not your mother and you’re freaking me out.
This gum tastes funny: Like we weren’t stressed enough, Iain is quitting smoking this week. Rather, he quit Tuesday, and we’re still reeling from the aftermath. Put a pregnant woman and a recently quit smoker [of the non-filtered variety] in a room together for more than five minutes at a time and one of two things happens: The woman starts crying, or the man … starts crying.
Good thing we’re tough bastards, innit?
The good times are just begun: Speaking of tough bastards, Tuesday also marked our two-year anniversary. Two whole years, and it just keeps getting better [or longer, depending on the day]. But seriously. I highly recommend marrying your best friend, especially if your best friend tops 6 feet tall and is exceedingly hunky.
In fact, dare I say it … I’m still “desperately in love” with this guy, and am looking forward to the next two years.
Ha! Just kidding. Long-haul, that’s my middle name. See you in 50, sweetheart. I wouldn’t change a thing.
And now, a rare word about work: Who’s going full-time? That’s right, this girl is. Holla.
This post brought to you by: #1 Crush by Garbage, from the “Romeo + Juliet” soundtrack.
Best Week Ever
Hey ya: Jeffy’s Tour de France A1 for the Merc was on newsdesigner today! Big props, Jeffro.
All bets are off: Doc says it might be a girl after all …
I love you, Mr. Title Agent Guy: Who knew settlement could be so much fun? [And now I’m a fuckin’ homeowner, so you better recognize!]
Bootylicious: I found a pair of pants I can button AND zip! I’ve said it before: God bless ultra-low-rise jeans.
Debauchery: Wishing Kris a wonderful bachelorette extravaganza.
The blessing of the pregnancy emotional roller-coaster is this: what goes down must eventually go up up up, and today is that day.
This post brought to you by: Bubblehouse by Medeski, Martin and Wood; Rave On by Buddy Holly; and Girl U Want, by Devo. Rock and roll.
Vandals took the handles
Tomorrow’s the big day: we’re about to drop a shitload of money, and I sincerely hope it’s going to be worth it.
Here goes nothin’ …
This post brought to you by: Subterranean Homesick Blues from the album “Greatest Hits” by Bob Dylan.
When you’re bored and lonely, blog!
Tonight’s agenda: Blog, browse eBay, do some laundry, and if I’m really good, watch Walking and Talking and eat ice cream.
Random phrase my brain won’t let go of: “Dip the engine bloc in salt water to soften it.” No idea where it came from or what it means.
Redemption: So the bridesmaid’s dress I wore to Mandy’s wedding in May still [technically] fits. Though it has a little satin ribbon that’s supposed to go ‘round the waist, I found that I if I tie that just below my bosom, Empire-style, I can still wear it and not look too ridiculous. Score.
For love or money
Ohmigod, I love eBay. Love it to little pieces, because today I made a profit. [Doin’ better than when I put in grueling 20-hour workweeks at A+F (don’t shoot me) and still managed to spend more on clothes there than I made in take-home pay. D’oh.]
I’m desperately casting around the house to see what else I can sell … hmm … . Problem is, we’re kind of low-class and broke-ass anyway, so it’s not like I have designer handbags or new-in-box electronics laying around. Ah, well.
I also love other pregnant ladies. Went to a picnic at the Gunpowder today at the request of Karen. There were three other pregnant woman and a little kid, plus assorted husbands and Karen’s folks, so I got to ask as many questions as I wanted about maternity clothes and the best place in town to deliver and whatever else we talked about. Plus, the day was frickin’ gorgeous, the hamburgers were delish, and Carole even brought Oreos. I’m so spent.
I also also love Boardwalk Fries, because they taste good with cheez even the next day [if you pop ‘em in the oven for a bit, of course]. It’s a small vice, but a girl’s gotta have SOMETHING, dammit.
I also also also love fresh-baked banana bread with real bananas in it, especially when other people praise me for it. That makes three things I can cook that other people actually enjoy eating: banana bread, lasagna, and BusterBar. Funny thing is [don’t tell!], the banana bread is from a box, the lasagna is no-boil, and BusterBar is just a few pounds of butter, chocolate, cookies and ice cream layered together. Oh, well. The important thing is that I make it and other people compliment it, thereby validating my worth as a person.
In other news: We’re no longer at the “penny-pinching” stage in regards to making sure we’re set to buy the house and clothe the baby. We’re in full-fledged penny assault mode.
Each penny is methodically squeezed, wrung, drawn, quartered, and then recycled into penny surprise casserole [which tastes bad, but has 100% of the Daily Recommended Allowance of copper, so there’s something].
Iain’s natural thriftiness has rubbed off on me, and in my pregnancy-induced psychosis I’ve taken it to all new levels. I’ve given up my cell phone, my cable TV, my store-bought cigarette habit [and then my hand-rolled and thereby cheaper cigarette habit], my weekend beers, my quarterly Gap spending sprees, my InStyle addiction, my daily subscription to The Sun [it pained me GREATLY to do it, though, I’ll have you know], my NetFlix habit, and those little microwave dinners I used to bring to work.
And to top it off, I’ve been putting our personal possessions up for sale on eBay. I’m so damned determined that my house and more importantly my child are going to look nice and be well taken care of that I’ve sacrificed more than I ever thought I would. Or could. [Me quit smoking? Unpossible!]
Hey, wait a minute … does this mean I’m becoming a grown-up? Or am I just turning into Ebenezer Scrooge?
Freecycle Baltimore
Well, this sounds like a good idea. Via [indirectly] deliriouscool.
Drowning in estrogen
So I baked a loaf of banana bread with real bananas in it. Then I put in “Gone With The Wind,” all four hours of it. And I knitted.
In case you can’t tell, these girlie coping mechanisms mean that all the card-flinging testosterone has left, and I’m sad. Guess I’ll go read my La Leche League manual and … I dunno, take a bubble bath or something. Bah.
Only a few more days …
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