Monthly Archives: July 2004

“Another lazy Saturday …”

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oh, the horror of pregnancy

More amazing physical changes

I am often asked by far-away friends if my pregnancy is starting to “show.” So I’ve taken a few photos so that those of you in Ohio can see just how many changes I’m going through! Isn’t it amazing what the human body is able to withstand?

So Clint and Iain and tossing barbs at each other over their cribbage game [note: the verbal kind of barbs, not like, pointy sticks. Yet.]. This cribbage game has lasted since approximately 8:45 p.m. last night. We’re not exactly clear on who’s winning. But there’s been some pretty salty language being bantered about, considering there’s a lady and a child present, and the banterers are a schoolteacher and a future man of the cloth. In fact, it’s pretty fucking hilarious, actually, because they’re both so … creative with the English language. Or Latin, or Hebrew, or whatever Clint is speaking these days.

So I get some aural entertainment as I read Martha Stewart Living [can’t stop, I swear!], Entertainment Weekly [dude, I had no idea both Shyamalan and Wes Anderson were working on movies! Score] and this haunting copy of Parenting that arrived in my mailbox today. I want to know who’s been monitoring me closely enough to send me a full-size, glossy, free national magazine devoted solely to the caretaking of offspring. Damn you, P.A.T.R.I.O.T. Act!!

Anyway, time to put my Little Homemaker skills to the test and whip up a batch of lasagna. Luckily for Clint and Iain, I’m actually adept at many dishes involving pasta and spaghetti sauce, so this is likely to come out as a tasty comestible and not a crunchy combustible.

This post brought to you by: I Feel Fine from the album “The Beatles/1962-1966” by The Beatles.

For the last time, I’m not naming my child Helicopter

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I came home from work today to find Clint and Iain chucking playing cards at each other. The aim of the game, they told me, is to poke the other one in the eye.

In fact, it’s very similar in aim to the hackey-sack game they played with the Pasta-Roni box in the kitchen. And the blowdart game they created out of old Bic pens. When they’re short on supplies, they just pull the change out of their pockets.

This is a Y-chromosome thing, isn’t it?

On a more dangerous note: Is there a 12-step program for eBay addicts? My quest for affordable maternity wear is giving me carpal tunnel syndrome. Also, is it bad form to advertise your own eBay auctions on your blog?

Good times are here again

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T minus one hour until Clint gets here!! Clint was Iain’s college roommate and best buddy, and the trio of us were regular Three Musketeers during those days. In fact, we briefly considered naming the Beanster after him, but Clint Eastman would be just a little too cruel.

Now he’s got some time off after South American missionary work, and we get him for almost a whole week. It’s kind of like when Gandalf returns to Hobbiton at the beginning of the Fellowship of the Ring — we’re way psyched.

Aside from that, I still can’t put down Martha Stewart Baby. But today, instead of despairing about not hand-crocheting the entire layette out of virgin hand-dyed wool from Uzbekistan, I’m feeling psyched about crafting something to welcome my bambino — a quilt, maybe, or some embroidered onesies. Of course, there is no craft project actually in sight, but it’s the thought that I could be doing so that gives me joy.

Nevermind, don’t ask. Clint is coming!!

Where no one has gone before

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My beaner baby

This, my friends, is my uterus and my baby. I’ll give you three guesses as to why we call him Lima Bean.

And now, because Iain warns me that I should not turn my blog into a Boring Baby Blog, I will tell you how he has Coke splurted up his nose. Poor guy.

Monkey in a Fez Hat Candle

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There is no satisfactory explanation of the above title. Suffice to say that all the mojitos at Little Havana reminded me of this guy I met in California, a friend of Jeffro’s, who made me the only mojito I’ve ever had in my life. This is the same guy rumored to be behind the Playboy interview with Monkey in a Fez Hat, the Candle. Hence. [Long story short, the phrase popped into my head — much like ‘dead-cat bounce’ — and now will not leave.]

Yeah, so I haven’t had my Raisin Bran yet and I KNOW I’m not making any sense. But blog onward I shall.

Happy Hour this evening was a real blast. I think it had a lot to do with the fact that I didn’t have any morning sickness this time. Really great to see the old gang again: I Spy, Seadragon, Eebmore, DaB, Bre, Dean, Fool’s Fate and Maphet. Plus there were some new faces: Chaos Theory, Messy Hair Girl and also Textureslut [now that I figured out his handle, I realize I used to read this all the time when I had my blogspot blog. Must have lost those links]. Plus there was Chaos’ wife and her classmate, and Seadragon’s two non-blogging friends. Quite an impressive posse, I assure you.

It was my first time at Little Havana, and I must say it was quite the Pretty People crowd, which I’m unaccustomed to. Checking my lipgloss at the mirror next to an Urban Outfitters model is slightly disconcerting, especially when my baby belly is extending beyond the confines of my belt. Ah, well — at least they weren’t rude.

The water was pretty good, though, and free refills. Highly recommended.

Anyway, a good time was had by most, so far’s I could tell. Looking forward to the next one — date, place and time suggestions welcome!

Hmm. And as an afterthought, I’ve completely updated my “Baltimore” group in my RSS reader, because I’ve been woefully off-track with keeping up with my fave local blogs. But now I know ALL your shit, guys, so watch out.

This post brought to you by: El Paso by Marty Robbins. And hell, by The Party’s Over by Willie Nelson. I’m in a country mood, y’know?

Tomorrow is another day

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No mojitos for me, though: Tonight is happy hour at Little Havana. Not quite sure what I’m going to do with my hands, what with the no-alcohol no-tobacco policy my fetus, Beaner, has imposed. Hmm.

I’ll show you where to stick that whistle: I fuckin’ hate lifeguards. Always have, likely always will. Went to the pool again today, and spent the whole hour hating the skinny Brazilian girls and the lifeguards. Can’t help it. Hormones have made me a sullen ball of hatred, shooting death rays with my eyes at every single person I see.

U-Haul can suck it, too: Yeah, so did I mention we bought a house, too? Like I don’t have enough going on in my life, we’re moving in a few weeks. Oh, the joy.

Christ, I know I’m Miss Bitter today, but I can’t help it. I hate everyone and everything, and all I want to do is lay in bed with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch and write threatening letters to various members of the Republican Party. The ice cream is taken care of, and my better judgment is warning me off those letters, so in the meantime I think I’m just going to stare at the wall and scowl.

One of the few things keeping me sane, aside from Iain’s infinite patience and a stack of Stephen Kings, is reading Heather Armstrong’s account of her pregnancy [example]. It gives me hope that maybe this won’t kill me, after all. Maybe.

This post brought to you by: We’ll Find A Way from the album “Summerteeth” by Wilco.

Dead-cat bounce

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For some reason, that is the phrase of the day. Got stuck in my head somewhere along Joppa Road and just won’t get out. Ah, well.

Say, know what the coolest invention ever would be? Ice cream flavored with Girl Scout Cookies — Tagalongs, specifically speaking. *giggle* Know what’s cooler than cool? That I have a half-gallon of it IN MY FREEZER! That’s right, beeyatch. Because some kind-hearted soul invented it and put it where I could find it: namely, my grocer’s freezer. Which, coincidentally, is where I’ve been hanging out lately, seeing as it’s so refreshingly cool compared to the blood-boiling sauna that I call an apartment.

Mmmm … ice cream …

So I have decided that being pregnant but not telling anybody about it is like a glimpse into the life of a closeted gay person. My entire life was colored by this fact about myself, yet I couldn’t let anybody know, and had to go on pretending I was like all the other non-pregnant people. It was hell.

Of course, I do realize that I’m lucky to be among the het majority, and that breeding is quite a bit more socially acceptable to some people than the mature, consensual love or act of love between two adults of the same sex. That’s why I say “glimpse.” But still, it sucked. My knocked-up coming-out was such a relief, and I only had to hold on to that for like, 6 weeks. Imagine being pregnant since you were born and not being able to tell anyone! Pure torture.

Of course, now that everyone knows, I can a.) stop beating the abovementioned dead horse [dead cat? bouncing? what?] and b.) bore you all to tears with my crazy symptoms, crazier mood swings, and ever-still crazier behavior.

For a half-second, I thought I might take suggestions on names, and then realized what suicidal stupidity THAT would be, so forget it. I’m naming my future son or daughter Supa Mojo, and that’s really all there is to it.