She Just Walks Around With It

Before The Contractions Kick In...

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 02:53:00 +0000

As I type this, I have just taken my second dose of cervix-ripening Cytotec and the nurse is preparing my IV. It's 8:25 p.m. Ish and I are in our very comfy hospital room. I'm hooked up to a fetal monitor and something else that's supposed to gauge my contractions, were I having any.

We called the hospital this morning to find out what time we'd need to come in for our final check-up/potential check-in. They said they were crazy busy and to please call back at noon.

Hey -- when you're ready to go at 37 weeks and then almost 2 weeks overdue, what's another 4 hours, really?

We were told to come in by about 2:30 this afternoon. We figured this had to be it, and packed our stuff up with more care than ever before...remembering all the things we forgot and/or decided not to bring on our four prior trips, when we weren't sure we'd be staying. I even had a bit of an emotional good-bye to the kitties and to Sherlock in particular, since he was, really, my first baby.

-- Hold for setting up the IV --

That took longer than expected. It's 9:30 now.

Anyway.

They did the non-stress test and then decided to give me a cervix-ripening drug and monitor me for a few hours to see what would happen.

Can you guess what happened?

That's right. Not a damned thing.

So we met with the doctor at 6 p.m. She said that we could go home if we wanted to, let the Cytotec "simmer" in my system, let me go a couple more days and see if this baby would come of her (mostly) own volition. Or, we could stick with the Cytotec tonight and keep going and get the labor going.

We chose the latter. Neither we nor the doctor think that much would happen over the next two days without help.

So here we are. FINALLY.

I don't think I technically qualify as being "in labor" at this point, but I'm not sure. I'm having tiny contractions -- which, believe me, are plenty uncomfortable -- but they're going to try to have me sleep tonight (I get a sleeping pill, even!) to get as much rest as possible.

I guess we're all hoping I'm in active labor by morning. Which would rock. Although at the same time, I know this can be a one-to-THREE-day process, so it's anyone's guess.

OH. And speaking of guesses...

No one has guessed the name yet! Feel free to re-enter (post below)!

Lastly. I don't even know how to begin to express how amazing and special it has been to share this experience with you. I think it would have killed me to have gone through this waiting game without having a way to express my fears and frustrations. Your support, advice, warmth, care, and thoughtfulness has helped calm me more than I could have ever guessed.

I am so lucky.

Make Your Best Bet!

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 23:42:00 +0000

It's on! Almost!

It is 4:45 p.m and Ish and I are home from the doctor again, after loading up the car again, thinking we might go to the hospital and not come home empty-handed again.

But we were wrong. Again.

Yet...could it be? Tomorrow will be lucky trip #5?

The doctor we met with this afternoon basically said it's time to induce. Hooray! News of SOME SORT!

However, the hospital's birthing center is -- awesomely -- tiny and busy right now, so she said we should call them tomorrow morning to schedule a time to go in. Boo! News that basically equals MORE WAITING!

But still, we have motion. We will call, we will find out what time to go in, they will do some more tests, and then in all likelihood: begin the process.

*cue trumpets*

So instead of yammering on about how completely weirded out I am mentally and emotionally (because I'm both totally feeling under-prepared to have a kid and also TOTALLY READY RIGHT NOW I'M SO OVER THIS OMG), I thought hey! Let's have a contest!

I mean, Ish and I have been thinking about doing one, and seriously -- now seems as good and fair a time to take bets on when she'll be born as any. Your guess is as good as ours.

The first person who comes closest to her actual birth date and time will get a lovely boozy prize of some sort. Napa Valley wine? One of my favorite sparklings? I'll discuss with the winner. Note: Everyone, including my close friends and relatives, is welcome to join in the guessing. Let's say that you can guess until 5 p.m. Pacific time tomorrow.

I will also give a prize to the first person who correctly guesses her first name, since I'm amazed to report that she finally has one.
Note: my sisters and the handful of people who may have accidentally heard and/or finagled the "short list" out of us are not eligible to win. Duh. This guessing will stay open until she arrives.

Good luck!

I'm also thinking this will probably be my last post for a while, unless something weird happens and we are not able to begin the whole process tomorrow. Otherwise, I'll just plan to fill up your Twitter and FB feeds with waaaaaaaaay TMI. So that'll be fun for us both.

Here we (hopefully) go!

* * * * * *
Update: If you're really invested in this (which is sweet but totally not expected) here is my post about what kinds of names we're considering. I think the name we've chosen fits most of these guidelines. But I also realize there are still like, a billion to choose from and so I'm not really being helpful at all. Sorry!

Happy 4th!

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 02:45:00 +0000

I totally think it would be awesome if, somehow, this baby decided to shoot out of me before the end of the day.

Really -- it would be great fun to share this birthday with her, since it's a really fun birthday to have. Everyone's already celebrating, there are plenty of bbqs and parties and fireworks and good times to be had. Plus people tend to remember the date. Fun all around!

But, well, that's not going to be the case.

We went to the hospital yesterday for our routine check-up, and discussed our options with the doctor. He was all ready to start inducing us (4th of July baby!?)... until he saw the ultrasound. Not only has my cervix not budged from its high-and-tight position, but the baby hasn't even, uh, dropped. She's in the right position and she's close, but there's a big ole' gap between her head and my cervix.

For those of you with more than a passing interest in the mechanics of this, the "gap" means that even if they gave me drugs to ripen my cervix and/or start contractions, this wouldn't necessarily do anything. Except make me miserable. (And until she's where she needs to be, it seems no matter of home remedies is going to spark labor. It's almost like there's nothing to spark yet. Which is crazy, but there you go.)

So the doctor said we could try that. He said we could monitor my drug-induced crampy-contractions for four hours while the baby potentially stays exactly where she is -- which, hoo boy, sounds like fun! -- or we could wait.

We opted for "wait."

Let me state for the record: I am not opposed to inducing labor, I just don't want to until we have to.

But here we are, 9 days late. And if I don't go into magical, turn-on-a-dime labor by Monday, we go back to the doctor (and back to the hospital) Monday afternoon. And that, I believe, is when we reach "have to."

In the meantime, you should be happy to know I am doing what little I can to shake Peanut loose.

Yesterday, our friends Ben and Emily decided to come up to visit us, figuring they'd either help look after our house while we were at the hospital, or keep us company while we continued our waiting game.

At some point, we got the notion to start listening to records (yes, records), and that resulted in me deciding I should dance. Not, you know, a LOT. But I needed to get up and sway. And what better song to sway to than "The Lonely Goatherd" from The Sound of Music? NONE!

So if you will, please picture Ish sitting on a chair, watching as Emily (who is 16 weeks pregnant herself) and I and my eeeeenormous belly dance our version of The Preggo Shuffle to The Lonely Goatherd. It involved a lot of step-touching, arm-waving ridiculousness, and actually felt pretty good.

Sort of like this:

By the time we finished the rousing last bars of "Odl lay odl lay odl lay!" I was exhausted. Em was collapsed on the floor in a heap of giggles.

Ish just looked at the two of us and said, "That was the worst lap dance ever."

Just A Quick Note

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 03:49:00 +0000

No. No labor.

I know many of you are following along on Twitter and/or Facebook, and I'm doing my best to provide regular updates of, well, all the nothing that's been happening there. We do *plan* to Tweet the birth, as much as possible. (Please be sure to follow @Ish in particular, I don't know how much tweeting I will be able to do myself...)

But let me just add for any of you who AREN'T on Twitter or FB or whatever, if you scroll down on this very page and look to the right under where it says "I TWITTER"

-- wait, hold on, here:

well, that's where my tweets are.

Not that they are, by any stretch, uh...interesting. But at least you'll know that something is going on without me having to write yet another blog post that says a whole lot of nothing.

* * * * * * *

Thanks for all of your suggestions on how to induce labor. I would far rather one of these tactics work than have to be induced through drugs in the hospital, etc.

However, I feel compelled to say that I don't think any of these tactics will work if my body isn't ready to start the process. And, while I can't really speak to this for sure, I just don't think it is.

BUT. Well. Feeling as unready (bodily speaking) as I do concerns me, given that the doctors are already speaking of inducing. So I have decided to schedule an acupuncture appointment for tomorrow morning. Because you know? I'm pretty sure that will do something. If it doesn't send me into labor directly, I suspect it will at least bring my body to the next stage of readiness.

Should be an eventful 4th of July weekend!

Oh, and by the way: I haven't posted much about this at all, but the first month I went to see an acupuncturist -- I was hoping she could help me get my wonky cycle "worked out" -- I got pregnant. So, right. "Worked out." HA!

I decided to continue to see that acupuncturist through my first two trimesters. I have no idea if it's the acupuncture that made those first two trimesters so incredibly easy (and don't want to count my chicken before it hatches), but it certainly didn't hurt. And if tomorrow's session "works," you will be hearing me sing some serious acupuncture praises indeed.

WHAT'S UP, MA BITCHES?!?!

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 21:26:00 +0000

We had a routine check-in at the doctor's office this morning, which means we had the conversation. Again. The one that starts with the doctor/nurse making a meaning-to-be-kind joke about when is this baby going to get with the program?, all happy-funny-like. The one that goes from happy-funny to oh-crap the moment they ask me the questions they have to ask me. Have you felt any... Did you see any... Has the baby...

No. Nope. Not even a little.

Quite frankly, I'm rather calm about this. She's not going to stay in forever. She'll come when she wants to, and who am I to tell her different? So far I feel fine, IF A BIT ANXIOUS, YOU KNOW, and so whatever, I wait and make jokes at the doctor's office.

So today -- perhaps out of hope, perhaps out of disbelief that a woman 5 days overdue could have a sense of humor about it -- my nurse took a long time to find the heartbeat with her baby stethoscope thing while I tried not to panic.

(I don't care who you are or how many times you've done this, I think every time you don't hear your baby's heartbeat, your own heart stops.)

"I think she's riding high," I offered, because that was the case last week.

But even still, even after checking and seeing the image on the screen, the nurse seemed determined not to place the stethoscope above my belly button until she got desperate. Because that's not where a baby who is getting ready to be born should be.

But that's where she was.

After our check-up, the nurse said we should head to the hospital for another round of non-stress tests (NSTs) like we did last week. Guess it's SOP for when you're overdue. So we scheduled another appointment with a delivery doctor for Monday -- if we haven't had the baby by then, we should be prepared to make "a plan" then.

We then went to the hospital and listened to the baby for a half-hour. Everything looks perfect, and my blood pressure is back to normal. We scheduled our next NST for Friday. But the nurse at the hospital said we should pack our stuff for Friday's appointment "just in case."

So hmmmm.

At this point, I'd be shocked if she arrived before Friday. I'd also be surprised if they felt the need to induce me Friday if I haven't made any progress. Which is all to say that if she doesn't come in the next 24-48 hours, they might induce on Friday. Unless they don't. And then if she doesn't come after that, they'll check me again on Monday and induce me then. Unless they don't.

It's quite scientific, you see.

* * * * *

As I was walking down the hospital corridor on my way to the maternity ward for the third time in a week despite non-imminent labor, I honestly wanted to throw open the door and yell, WHAT IS UP, MA BITCHES!?!?! But I'm not totally insane and didn't. Instead, I Tweeted as much. No one seemed to think it was funny, but I think it's hilarious.

Long Overdue

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 15:14:00 +0000

****************************
UPDATED:

Oh, Anonymous.

I'm not sure, but I don't think my job here is to entertain you.

Posts about my relationship with Ish -- especially the ones where I'm happy -- never garner much response. I understand this. I mean, what are you supposed to say? How great for you?

At the same time, it's important to me to at least mention our relationship every now and again. It's not action-packed or self-deprecating, but my marriage currently makes up most of my life. After a bad divorce, relationships that didn't work, dating "challenges" and plenty of general misery, I really enjoy having a husband I like to write about.

No, perhaps following this meme structure wasn't riveting, but I thought the questions were good. I like reading other people's answers to them, anyway.

So you know? I don't blame you if you don't find the day-to-day aspects of my life interesting. Please feel free to read someone else's drama instead.
****************************
ORIGINAL POST

I have nothing to complain about. Today will be the third day that I -- or rather, our daughter -- is overdue. I'm not comfortable in any bodily way, but you know? If I manage to give birth to a healthy child, it will have been worth it. Plus, seriously. I have air conditioning, ice cream, wifi, and a doting husband who does more housework than I do when I'm not pregnant.

I've been thinking a lot about that last part. That "doting husband" thing. I never write about it, and I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm reluctant to write mushy posts about how fabulous Ish is because I'm reluctant to write mushy posts at all.

But I do realize there is good, meaty stuff to write about him, and us, and how we went from dating to living together to getting married to where we are now. We're in the best place I could ever imagine being. We're beyond happy and googly-eyed about this kid, and sometimes I feel I almost need to pinch myself. Hey, I got to marry Ish!

And yes. "Got to" is exactly how I feel about it.

So last night when I was busy lying (laying? gah, I will never get it right) in bed NOT going into labor, I remembered that meme that Dooce did a while back, and thought it might be fun to try myself. It's not about Ish alone, but touches on many aspects of our relationship. (And I thought that following a structured Q&A would be nicer than rambling aimlessly.)

Insert Some Facebook Meme Title Here, Like "All About Your Marriage"

What are your middle names?
I'm always leery of these types of questions. Does anyone really care, or is this just phishing for personal information? Well, whatever. My middle name is Jane, after my mom's sister. Pete's middle name is Randolph, after his grandfather.

What is your social security number?
Ha ha, just kidding. They didn't ask that.

How long have you been together?
Our first date was Saturday, August 6, 2005. So almost four years.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
That really depends on how you define "know." Pete answered my Craigslist personal ad on the afternoon of Friday, August 5th. The answer is therefore either "24 hours" or "we didn't."

Who asked whom out?
I thought my Craigslist ad had expired, so I was surprised to get his email. But it was cute and funny and he totally got what I was trying to get across. We had a brief but amusing email exchange, culminating in his saying he wanted to buy me a drink and our exchanging phone numbers. So he asked me out, but I made it easy for him.

How old are each of you?
My birthday is in July, his in August. I'm currently 33, and Pete is 40.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
Hmm. My sisters live in the Northeast, and we see them about twice a year: once for Christmas, once for some inevitable other event in spring/summer (weddings and births, for example). When we're visiting, we live together, so we spend ALL of our time together.

Pete has one sister who lives in Arizona. We get out to AZ more than twice a year (it's closer and easier than getting to New England), but our trips are much shorter, and we stay with Pete's parents -- so we don't see Whitney or her family 24/7. Altogether, it probably comes out pretty evenly.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
I don't know how to answer this. Pete and I don't really argue, so we don't have any topic that comes up time and again. I think what's hardest on us as a couple is what's hardest on us as individuals.

He had a really rough end to his first marriage. I am NOT the same person I'd be if my parents were alive and well. That's our baggage.

On a day-to-day basis -- and when we look at our future -- we're in very similar boats. We are frustrated that we don't do more with our creative passions; at best, I'm a part-time writer, he is a part-time comedian. We berate ourselves for this, but when push has come to shove, we've both ended up following a safer (corporate/suburban) life path. We both wonder if this will always be the case, and both hope that it won't.

Did you go to the same school?
No, not even a little bit. I grew up in CT, then had one totally false-start semester in Delaware, but ultimately went to and graduated from UCONN in 1997.

Pete grew up in CO and AZ and had much fancier college-ing than I. He went to Middlebury for a year, then transferred to UPENN (class of '90) and got his MBA from Stanford in '96.

Are you from the same home town?
Oops, I accidentally answered this above. But you know what's interesting? Or, okay, you know what's interesting to me? Pete's parents and grandparents grew up in the Midwest. My mom grew up in Minnesota, and both her parents AND my dad's parents were from Minnesota. I think that there are likely many ways that Pete's mom's upbringing was similar to my mom's, and his dad's was similar to my dad's, and that there's some kind of familiarity/understanding/way we connect that has something to do with that.

Who is smarter?
This is a tough question. If you were to ask, say, "Who has a greater capacity for learning and retaining information?" I would say that we're about evenly matched. But there is no question: Pete knows more than I do about almost everything...from trivia, to history, music, geography, politics, art, architecture, all things financial and mathematical, and even fucking vocabulary.

It's annoying, but I love him for it.

Pete also has an almost idiot-savant-like ability to remember faces and names (first and last).

Despite this, I do not feel intellectually inferior. I can go one-for-one with him in the clever department (or at least, we amuse each other). I know a subset of pop-culture, literature, and history that he doesn't.

I daresay my "emotional intelligence" quotient is higher, but not by a lot.

I can, however, out-focus him any day.

Who is the most sensitive?
I don't even know. If I had to pick one of us, I'd lean toward saying Pete.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
We haven't found a regular spot in Napa yet, because the places are either really low-end or really expensive for what they are (e.g., $20 burger places). This isn't to say there aren't plenty of restaurants that aren't worth the expense, we just can't eat there all the time.

I'd say Taylor's Automatic Refresher is our current go-to. It's designed -- in looks and menu -- like an old-fashioned burger joint, but the food is updated, fantastic, and affordable. And in addition to offering root-beer floats (OM NOM), they have a decent wine list (including sparkling).

If we were gonna step it up, I'd say Thomas Keller's Ad Hoc would be our desired regular destination.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Our trip to Paris and London. I never finished blogging about it, did I? Note to self.

Who has the craziest exes?
While this might depend on a very, very nuanced definition of "crazy," I'm pretty sure any way you slice it, I do. This is probably why I'm still friends with so many of them.

Who has the worst temper?
Definitely Pete. He gets very angry at the cats ("It's like negotiating with terrorists!") and at bad drivers. Surely I get annoyed with these things, too, and lots of things will make my blood boil, but I don't have the kinds of outbursts he does.

Ask me again after we've had a child.

Who does the cooking?
We both do. I probably cook more often, but that's because I'm home more. We both enjoy it, and Pete's got some great recipes. My stuff tends to taste better, but that's because Pete errs on the side of "healthy" where I err on the side of "needs more butter."

Regardless, we still get take-out a LOT.

Who is the neat-freak?
HAHAHAHA. It is a struggle for me to keep anything clean. I WANT things clean and organized, I MAKE things clean and organized, but it is a constant internal struggle for me to do so. And there are plenty of days where I just let things go.

Pete, on the other hand, can't sleep if the dishes aren't done. Who am I to stop him?

Who is more stubborn?
Me? Maybe? To be honest, stubbornness has never been an issue in our relationship. We're more likely to have issues over who's being more sensitive about something. It's a sappy mess when one of us hurts the other's feelings. Not because of the person whose feelings got hurt, but because of how bad the hurter feels.

Who hogs the bed?
The cats.

Who wakes up earlier?
Pete does because he has to for work, but I hear that this baby will change things a bit.

But if you must know, we're both morning people. Don't hate.

Where was your first date?
We agreed to meet at the Nob Hill Tavern on California St., near where I used to live. From there, we wandered down to the Crepe House on Polk for a bite to eat, then walked around some more, chatting. We dropped into The Bell Tower (where we had our first kiss), then back up to a dive bar that used to be called Hanuma Bay (it's changed owners and names twice since then), and ultimately to my apartment.

Despite what it might sound like, I barely drank at all that night. Pete left before dawn, though barely. And we saw each other again the next day.

Who is more jealous?
After four years and much empirical data, I would say that neither of us is the jealous type. At least, not of/about each other. Of other people? And their stupid blogging/writing/comedic success? We're both on the same page, there.

How long did it take to get serious?
The fact that Pete was married-and-separated (3,000 miles separated, mind you) when we met posed certain obstacles to our being too serious. My relationship with him was something totally outside of his relationship with his wife -- totally outside his relatioship with everyone and everything in his "regular" life, actually -- and never the twain shall have met. Or something like that.

We had fun and were good for each other and that was it for a long, long time. Six months after we started dating, he decided to go ahead with a divorce. The divorce wasn't final until a year-and-a-half after that. All the while, he kept me at arm's length.

For example, Pete was good and kind and supportive enough to travel back east with me for my father's funeral. (We'd been dating for under two years at that time.) That seems like something someone in a serious relationship would do, right? But then after the funeral, I flew back to San Francisco alone, while he went to visit his not-yet-ex wife.

Ouch. But also, totally understandable.

I guess in the end I would say that we were always a little serious; otherwise, what would have been the point? Why would I have bothered? Why would he? But it wasn't until we moved in together that we were officially "serious," and I don't think my full-on, THIS IS IT kicked in until he proposed.

Who eats more?
Pete.

Who does the laundry?
We both do, but this is new. Until we lived here, Pete did all the laundry. Now I do it, unless I'm 8+ months pregnant, in which case I do one load and then it's three days later and Pete decides he may as well just finish it.

Who's better with the computer?
I'm pretty sure that I know more about computers and the Internet than Pete does. I certainly have been playing around with them longer and in more ways than he has.

That said, I think there are many men about Pete's age (who don't work in the tech industry), who learned a lot more than they'd care to admit by having an interest in online porn.

Who drives when you are together?
Pete does. For a long time this was because he had a car and I didn't. Once we both had cars, it was because if we were going somewhere together, and it was somewhere social, he'd be willing to be the designated driver a lot more readily than I was.

Now that it's easy for either of us to drive, usually he does. This is because he often confuses my not knowing where things are with an inability to drive. I can drive, I just don't know how to get there! He likes to remind me to do things like "signal" and "get in the left lane if you're going to turn left." And then I have to reply, with as much indignity as I can muster, "I KNOW HOW TO FUCKING SIGNAL. WAIT, WE'RE GOING LEFT???"

* * * * * * * *

BlogHer And My Life's Parallel Universe

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 16:49:00 +0000

It is totally weird and surreal that the huge annual mega-amazing BlogHer Conference is going to happen and I'm not going to be there for it.

It's best this way, I'm pretty sure. I knew I couldn't personally handle being the Conference Manager while a) being this pregnant and then b) with a newborn. The job is far too demanding (mentally, physically, emotionally).

That's why it's a great job.

But I took it a step further. I also decided I couldn't really even GO to the event, "just" as an attendee, with a newborn. Oh, women do it. It's baby-friendly for sure, and seriously -- when are you going to be around a more supportive group of strangers in your life?

I also know, though, that BlogHer is an immersive experience...and I have no idea what kind of post-partum person I'll be. Maybe I'd be totally fine, but maybe I wouldn't, and I decided to just not worry about it this summer.

(Of course, part of me can't help but think that it's impossible that the event can even exist if I'm not there. You know? Sort of like how I am always shocked on Facebook to discover that people I haven't seen since high school ALSO grew up and got older and didn't just freeze in time. Weird!)

In the meantime...I am incredibly touched and honored that last week, BlogHer selected me as their "BlogHer of the Week."

I encourage you all to vote for your favorite blogger as well, because it's really a nice program, and I love that they do it.

Oh, and if you're new here because of BlogHer, hi! I, um, don't know what to tell you. Thanks for perusing, and thank you for supporting what BlogHer does.

And if you didn't think that my post below about the Incredible Journey that wearing pantyhose at 8.5 months pregnant is...well, might I direct your attention to my post about how I'm TOTES THE CONSUMMATE PROFESSIONAL when it comes to wearing pantyhose as a conference manager?

The post was called: My Job, My Ass, And Mysterious Nylon-Eating Ebola and featured this image, among others:

So I mean it when I say I can't believe I won't be at BlogHer in Chicago. The blog posts practically write themselves...

Enjoy!

Where Were You When You Heard Michael Jackson Had Died?

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 03:47:00 +0000

Because I? Was in the hospital hooked up to a bunch of wires and monitors listening to my baby dive-bomb my bladder with a blood pressure thingy on my right arm and my iPhone in my left hand going "Wait, WHAT?"

So, no. I guess I CAN'T go around saying today was a no-news day just because I didn't happen to go into labor.

I mean, whoa. Huh?

We did go back to the hospital this afternoon for the aforementioned follow-up tests, but they were (thankfully) rather boring. Everything seems fine, and/but/despite that there remain zero signs that this baby has any interest in being born.

I'm really okay with this, though. Not just because I have long suspected she'd be late, but because -- as a friend of mine pointed out -- there seems to be an extra lot of celebrity souls floating around out there lately, and I'd like to avoid any run-ins. You know.

Today was an absolutely insane day online. Twitter basically exploded this afternoon. As fellow blogger Anissa tweeted: Farrah and Michael just broke Twitter, which might be the most socially relevant things either one of them has done in a long time.

Aww, too soon? Well, it got worse, fast, and I participated as much as anyone. Because inappropriate laughter is my solution to everything.

It's all just very strange and sad and notable. I have no deep thoughts on the subject (well, none that I feel the need to share: you don't really care what I thought about MJ's "issues"), but I DO think the only way to properly honor the deaths of pop icons is to join in the pop discussion using pop tech tools. And then make fun of it all.

I mean, the stuff almost writes itself. Michael Jackson became a trending topic on Twitter instantly -- faster than I've seen anything trend -- but for the first hour, the name Michael was SPELLED WRONG.

What do you even do with that?

In fact, the first couple hours after MJ arrived at the hospital spurred a flurry of weird online activity. Do you remember those first hours of 9-11? When there were unconfirmed "reports" of DOZENS of planes that were off the grid and supposedly flying into buildings in every major US city? Today was like the Celebrity 9-11 version, where suddenly everyone was squealing about other dead celebs who aren't, actually, dead.

Note: Jeff Goldblum is NOT dead. He did NOT fall off a cliff in New Zealand. I swear. And I know this because Kevin Spacey told me so.

(That's true. But also? Weird.)

I think my bottom line here is that I'm glad I didn't give birth in the middle of today's media circus, even if it did have its moments of redeeming funny. And, because it's late and I'm tired and hormonal and totally unfocused, I'm just going to share with you some of my favorite Tweets from the day.

@Ish: Mark Sanford is SO wishing he'd come back a day later.

@kristysf: Is there a "feathered hair" avatar overlay?*

@jimmywee: Farrah Fawcett is the Mother Theresa of this situation.

@kristysf: Apparently death is the new spray-on tan. #celebritytrends

@btemps: Easiest job ever: Michael Jackson's mortician.

@missycorbett: Ed McMahon. Michael Jackson. Farrah Fawcett. I bet Patrick Swayze is breathing a sigh of relief.

@Ish: So now when the baby comes, I practically *have* to dangle her over a ledge, right? As a tribute?

Pretty good, huh? And while there were faaaaaaar more tasteless Tweets floating about that I won't republish here, you gotta love TheOnion.

@TheOnion: BREAKING: Last Piece Of Michael Jackson Dies

Although this one was pretty good, even if it did take me a few minutes to get:

@giromide: BRUCE WILLIS HAS BEEN DEAD THE WHOLE TIME!

* * * * * * * *

I'm not sure how this post went from being about major celebrity deaths to my non-labor to my simply posting tweets from earlier in the day, but oh well. I thought I should post SOMETHING today.

It's probably time for another popsicle.

*For those of you who do not use Twitter, one of the things that has happened recently is that people have changed their profile pictures ("avatars") to have a green colored overlay. This is to indicate support of a free Iran.

Just In Case

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 17:01:00 +0000

Yesterday afternoon I had my regular weekly check-up. There was a slight rise in my uterine protein (words I'd never uttered before yesterday, mind you) but more notably, my blood pressure had risen enough to warrant concern.

For those of you with even a passing familiarity with Bad Things That Can Happen During Pregnancy, you have heard of preeclampsia. It is most commonly detected -- and characterized -- by high blood pressure. So though my blood pressure hadn't exactly "spiked" into the OMG range, I think we can all agree that it's best to err on the side of caution, given I'm due, like, now.

Thus, my doctor sent me to the hospital to have lots of labwork and monitoring done.

Just in case. And just in case my blood pressure stayed up, or got higher, and just in case my labs weren't great, and just in case anything else could be un-good, my doctor said it was possible that this trip to the hospital might result in an induced labor.

So Ish and I (and PinkJaime, who was here visiting for the day) returned home to gather our things for our first official We Might Be Having A Baby Now trip to the hospital.

I would like to point out that my hospital bag was, in fact, packed. (I shall not mention that it had been packed for less than 24 hours. Whatever.)

But so off we went. To the hospital to maybe give birth. Or not.

We arrived and they took more urine --

Ladies, as an aside, if you have not been pregnant before but will be someday, here is something NO ONE told me: you will pee in a cup at every doctor-related office you go, every single time. So much so that I instinctively looked for a cup at our lawyer's office's bathroom a couple weeks ago out of habit. HA!

-- and several vials of blood. I got set up to the fetal monitor again. And a blood-pressure reader that took my levels every 15 minutes.

It was really quiet. The maternity ward up in St. Helena is really small, and very private. It was relaxing, actually, and will no doubt be great when I'm actually in labor. However. Yesterday's visit, with its "you might be here to give birth or you might just go home again" waiting, really kind of sucked.

Thank heaven for Facebook and Twitter.

But sure enough, after a couple hours, I was free to go. The baby's movements are great, there's enough amniotic fluid, my proteins and platelets and whatever else are, I guess, fine. My blood pressure hasn't gone back down, but isn't so scarily elevated as to warrant staying.

So I'm home again. And under what the nurse called "House Arrest."

I should note that prior to being sent to the hospital, my OB determined that my cervic has not budged, and not only has the baby not dropped, she's actually repositioned herself far higher than she's been in weeks.

I go back Thursday for some follow-up testing. In the meantime, I'm watching a lot of Law and Order (Criminal Intent and SVU) and trying to take deap, cleansing breaths...in between stuffing my face with Ish's homemade chocolate-chip cookies.

An Incredible Journey

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 20:06:00 +0000

Did I fool you? Did you think this post was going to be about my labor? Or about how amazing pregnancy has been? That perhaps I'd finally speak fondly -- or at least humbly -- about the power and natural beauty of the human body and spirit, as it magically reveals itself through nine months of gestation?

Ha ha, no.

(Especially not at 39 weeks when my mini-watermelon spends her days head-butting my bladder and the act of inhaling and exhaling is like performing an ab workout.)

No. Labor is not imminent. In fact, there are zero signs so far. I've always thought she would be at least a little late, so I really don't expect her to arrive before her due date of Thursday.

Anyway. This post is about, well...

Do you know what I did last weekend? I went to a wedding wearing pantyhose.

Wait, hold on. Let me write that again in case you didn't fully appreciate the gravity of my words: WEARING PANTYHOSE. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

You wanna marvel at the human condition circa ready-to-pop pregnant? Watch an otherwise already uncoordinated pregnant lady attempt to shower, shave her legs, and get herself into pantyhose. Because THAT is an incredible journey if ever there was one.

I don't want to get too graphic (I think my photo below is graphic enough to last us the rest of my pregnancy, yeah?), but let's just say that currently, my access to areas of my body below my knees is rather limited. Putting pants on requires a lot of blind stepping, mashing, grabbing, wobbling, and -- ultimately -- LOLing at myself. Because I miss the holes a lot.

So, since about the 6-month pregnancy mark, I haven't been too concerned with shaving my legs. (Pregnant ladies, I'm not alone in that, right?)

But last weekend I had to go to a wedding, and the only dress I have that I fit into is knee-length, and I realized that presented quite a problem. I can't very well show up at a wedding with leg hair so long it flaps in the wind.

And leg hair was only half my problem. I know that it's not necessary to look tan all the time anymore, that milky-white skin is perfectly attractive, that bare legs in June are totally acceptable. But, let's be honest here. My legs are so pale they're practically blue. And rather splotchy. (Why? From what? I have no idea. Bad skin has plagued me all my life. In the last five years, my legs -- one of my only body parts I never felt self-conscious about -- have developed random red spots and pronounced veins. I keep telling them I'm 34 not 84, but my legs don't listen.)

So I couldn't do it. I couldn't show up at this wedding with camouflaged-by-Sherwood-Forest legs, and I couldn't show up with blinded-by-the-glare-pale(-except-where-totally-discolored) legs, either. I had to shave them, and I had to cover them.

Sometimes being a woman is really stupid.

The fact that I didn't kill myself during the shaving process is testament NOT to my coordination, but to my knowing myself really well. First of all, I had Ish on stand-by, keeping watch to make sure if I fell over or maimed myself with my Venus razor, he'd spring into action immediately.

I started off by trying to use the built-in ledge in our stand-up shower. I mean, that's what it's there for, right? But it turns out that having all this baby stuff in the way not only makes it difficult to reach your ankles, but also REALLY messes with your center of gravity.

Eventually, I gave up and decided To hell with it and sat my ass down. In the stand-up shower.

I sat Indian-style. And sideways. And both knees up, and one up/one down, and quite possibly developed a few new poses that either Tyra or a Pilates instructor would be impressed with. It took a LONG time.

Now, I won't lie to you. I was damn PROUD of myself for having done it. I even felt a bit sexy when I dried off and moisturized. (Well, sure, I only moisturized where I could reach, but still; every little bit helps).

So after the shaving ordeal -- which I should also mention involved having to figure out how to stand back up again in the shower, an event which took great patience and humility -- I got dressed. I did my makeup and hair and packed for the drive to the city and prepped what I needed and made sure everything was done before conceding that it was time to try and fit myself into the largest sized pantyhose I could find at the store.

I realize I should have searched for maternity pantyhose online and purchased them well in advance, but I didn't think that far ahead.

Anyway. The process began as it always does. Getting my feet into them wasn't SO so bad. I'd scrunched up the hose (as you do) so they could unfurl as I stretched them over my legs. The only difference between this unfurling process and all others is that I didn't so much do it from a sitting position as from a rolled-onto-my-back-on-the-bed position.

Oh, it didn't start out that way. I tried to sit on the bed and bring my hands and feet together, but I nearly fell head-first onto the carpet. So then I kind of had to let my body do what it needed to do in order to allow hand-feet contact. Turns out, when you sit on the bed and bend your knees and let your body go, you roll over backwards. (Or at least, I roll over backwards.)

Forgive me for not having the energy to draw this, but please just picture:

Me, in full makeup and curled and tousled hair, rolled onto my back on the bed, my dress hiked up to expose my rear-end, my giant belly impeding my every move, my legs flailing in the air -- knees bent and OPEN, the only comfortable position I could manage -- while I try not ONLY to "catch" my feet in the bottom of the hose, but to not snag them in any way.

When I managed, somehow, to get the hose as far as my knees, I sat up again. Exhausted.

At that point, I felt like I needed to set up base camp, like I was halfway up a mountain climb. I adjusted each leg, so that the nylons weren't twisted or bunched. I smoothed my dress and hair. I caught my breath.

I stood up.

I then commenced with the shimmying.

At first, it was the usual pantyhose dance. Up a little on the left, up a little on the right, left, right, left, right, till the waistband gets to just under the butt. (Did I mention how being a woman is sometimes stupid?)

Then we got to a critical juncture. I decided I'd hike the (reinforced, I'm no fool) "waist panel" over my ass first, before trying to get it over my frontal mass. Because, I reasoned, my backside is currently smaller than my front side (for like, the first time EVER) and I figured that getting the waistband up and over my ass would help keep it in place as I tried for the front.

Whereas if I tried to get the front up first, the whole thing would certainly just snap back down again before I'd have time to reach around and pull the waistband up over my butt.

So with my butt covered and the waistband in place, albeit precariously positioned, I pulled the front of the waist panel up.

And realized that no amount of modern engineering could have made this work.

I don't think they make a pantyhose waist panel large enough to stretch comfortably all the way up and out to where my belly button is currently located. Perhaps it's physically impossible to create such a thing, or perhaps the pantyhose engineers of the world think that pregnant women -- especially chubby ones -- would never be stupid enough to try and fit themselves into such antiquated funnels of misogyny. Who's to say.

But since not wearing pantyhose was not an option, I soon realized I had, basically, two choices.

Choice A: I could try to convince the pantyhose to stay as far up my front baby bump as possible. This might require constant vigilance and adjustment, but the upshot is that I could convince myself that the pantyhose actually sort of "fit." Downside: any lack of vigilance on my part would result in the waistline rolling down again. Possibly as far as my thighs if I tried anything tricky, like dancing.

Choice B: Understand that there is no physical way for hose to stay up, so just keep them under the baby bump in front. Upshot: would not require constant adjusting. Downside: uncomfortable, because the waistline of the hose in front would be buried under my flap of tummy/pouch - possibly irretrievably so. Also, since the hose are up past the butt on the back end, they're effectively sitting at a 45-degree slope. That can't be good for the longevity of the hose.

I opted for A. Maybe if I gave them time to "stretch" they would give up and hold me in?

I hoped so. I hoped the long car ride would be just the ticket. I carefully positioned myself in the car, and we headed for the event.

An hour later we arrived at the wedding. The drive hadn't required too much movement and the hose felt like they'd basically stayed in place, so I was thinking that maybe they had stretched enough to stay put.

Of course, the moment I stood up out of the car, I immediately felt my pantyhose roooooolllllllllling all the way down in front and in back. I rushed myself to the ladies' room as elegantly as possible, which is to say "not elegantly at all," seeing as I basically had to waddle like a penguin to avoid having the hose roll any further down, like, say, past my hemline.

In the ladies' room, I took great pains to adjust myself from toe to waistband and, still set on Option A (more out of stubborn determination than rational thinking), spent the rest of the event with my arms firmly planted on my sides to try and keep the pantyhose waistband up.

I was not successful.

The battle raged until it was time for us to leave. I can't tell you how many times I lost track of what conversation was happening because I was focused so intently on trying to catch my waistband and re-roll it upwards in a breezy fashion.

But you better believe that when we got into the car to go home, I pulled those suckers off as quickly as I could. It was dark, and we were on the highway, and I don't know how completely batshit crazy I must have looked, contorting myself and shimmying this way and that, pregnant and seatbelted in, but it was totally worth it.

And now I'm not sure how to end this entry. There isn't really a lesson to be learned, because most people wouldn't have been as stupid as I was in the first place. I guess next time I'm in the position of having to expose my legs while pregnant, I will either rethink dress pants, or invest in professional spray-on tanning.

One incredible journey is enough.

p.s. I know I'm not posting that often, but I am rather active on Twitter, and relatively active on Facebook. In case you're looking for labor updates, that is.

Baby Week!

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 23:38:00 +0000

I don't mean in real life, though it sort of feels that way. (Is it me or is EVERYONE having babies?) (Oh, and no - "Marlo" was not one of our names for consideration, but I do like it.)

Anyway.

It's BABY WEEK on the Discovery Health Channel. It's like they knew that suddenly everyone on the interwebs was gonna be popping out kids and decided to show us stuff they thought would be relevant. (I don't actually know how television programming decisions get made, but I wouldn't be surprised if they planned Baby Week around Dooce's due date.)

And...since I'm not awash in hormonally induced bouts of melancholia ALL the time (see dramatic post below, whoa), I have a new project!

Tonight I will be live-Chattering the Discovery Health episode of "Births Beyond Belief."

Did that sentence make any sense to you?

First of all, you have to be familiar with "Chatter." Chatter is BlogHer's very own version of Twitter. You just go to BlogHer.com and click on the "Chatter" tab and do what it says. (See that tab in green next to where it says "Groups"? Yeah, down on the page a bit. Click there.)

Chatter is fun because it's full of nice people who aren't bots or dumb celebrities. Fun!

So I'll be there Chattering tonight's episode at 8 p.m. Pacific time. I will ALSO be there tomorrow night (also at 8 p.m. Pacific) when they air the show called...

...you ready for this?...

OBESE AND PREGNANT.

Duuuuunh duuuuunh duuuuuuuuuuuuhn!

I have not done any homework so I do not know what the show is about, other than what its title suggests. I HOPE that the show will be helpful and informative and great and wonderful and delicate and inspiring. I WANT it to be those things. But I am super skeptical. Interested, but skeptical.

I bought a book all about being overweight and pregnant, and all it did was terrify me into thinking I'd have a far more complicated and dangerous pregnancy than a "normal" woman. And while I understand that there is science supporting such theories, that's just not been my experience.

So I'm left wondering: Is it me? Are there really great (and even grave) differences between the the obese moms and the non-obese? Or is this just a niche that hasn't been explored and, therefore, exploited to death?

Guess we'll see tomorrow.

IN THE MEANTIME, tonight's episode of "Births Beyond Belief," which could also be entitled, "Births That I Will Think Seem Crazy," should be fun. Because when else would I have an opportunity to blog the word yurt?

Hope to see you there!

Nothing At All Like That Last Time

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 18:14:00 +0000

When my husband left me, I was alone all day, everyday. No more husband, no more dogs. Just me in a big lonely house with my cats, the TV and the internet. I had work to do, but it was only part time and not especially demanding or engaging. My closest family and friends lived hours and miles away.

We were waiting for the house to sell, and there was nothing left to do but wait. There was nothing to pack because the house had already been de-cluttered. We needed the rest of our stuff stage the place. And so while knew I was going to go, to move to San Francisco, I didn't know when. Until we had a buyer and a sell date, everything was on hold.

This was almost exactly eight years ago.

It was so weird. Sitting in that house, going for walks or drives, doing stupid routine things while waiting for my entire life to change forever. I remember that time so vividly because it was so abnormal. I had so much time to myself, so much serenity. All I could do was wallow in the quiet and sad, waiting for it to be different.

Any second now. Really soon. But not today.

My life now looks nothing like it used to. I'm happy and the changes that are coming are changes we -- a different "we," a good "we," a healthy, wonderful "we" -- planned. We chose this move, this house, to have a baby. We chose growing, more, positive.

Before, it had been about sickness and death and divorce and ending and failure and closure.

But as different as it was years ago...well, here I am. I am home alone all day, every day. And I am waiting for my life to be forever changed. There's nothing left for me to do except wait and wonder and worry. It's too quiet and I have too much time.

I am not complaining. At least, I don't mean to sound like I am. I am grateful that I am not having to work right now. I am exceptionally aware of my good fortune and am grateful that I have a home and a partner and the physical, emotional and financial means to take care of a child I want and thought I might not be able to have.

Oh, but this waiting. The silence. It's not good.

I have plenty of things I could be doing, but I seem to be in this strange sort of stupor. I figure it's at least somewhat hormonal. Still, I feel the gravity of it all. I can't help it. I'm aware of this huge thing coming, and I feel heavy with the weight of it. With the wait of it.

Physically I'm fine. Whatever. I'm uncomfortable but it's not killing me, so I feel no need to whine and complain about how physically hard this is.

But as I said earlier, I feel kind of done emotionally. It's hard to wait for my entire life to change in ways I can't anticipate. Yes, it's fear of the unknown. It's also worry that something will go wrong, and wanting to feel relief and joy that nothing did.

I'm tired of this weird, emotional echo-chamber and want to get on with things. By which I guess I mean everything.

What's another couple weeks?

Any second now. Really soon. But not today.

Am I Naked Or Wearing Pants? Even I Don't Know!

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 18:06:00 +0000

I refuse to post photos of me where I'm sporting more than one chin, which explains the dearth of photos of me from the last ~~couple years~~ ~~few years~~ ~~four years~~ ever.

But that is not to suggest I'm not otherwise ~~brave~~ stupid. Last night, I took a bath to relieve some of the pressure I'm feeling in my hip joints, as my pelvix slowly releases itself from the rest of me. The awkward task of getting out of the tub -- UGH -- and toweling off -- double UGH! -- left me exhausted, however, and so I had to wobble (like a Weeble) over to the bed and collapse. As I lay there, I looked down at my increasingly ginormous belly and marveled that I could see my toes at all.

And I thought, You know what? To hell with it. I'm going to take a picture of this.

And I did.

You're welcome.

Also, I took a picture of Ish last Friday from the hospital waiting room as we went for our final ultrasound.

I'm sure whatever he's reading will come in very handy once the baby arrives.

Just Your Average Update

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 00:59:00 +0000

Tomorrow I will be officially 38 weeks.

Last week, my doctor decided I needed to get the baby weighed (via ultrasound) because my measurements were a little conflicted. The external measurement -- which, btw, seems very un-scientific to me, seeing as it's just a tape measure on the belly -- suggested I/the baby was a bit big or could be early. The previous ultrasound, however, suggested she was perhaps behind schedule.

I love so much how there's a four week window.

What we learned as a result of last week's ultrasound is that, as of last Friday, she weighed about six-and-a-half pounds. Which would put her on track to be exactly average sized at her due date: about seven-and-a-half pounds on June 25.

But there was a but.

Oh, she's in a great position and has good fluid and the placenta is where it should be and all that stuff is fine.

My cervix, however, shows absolutely no signs of wanting to be birth-ready. It's a great cervix for keeping a baby in, apparently. Not so much for letting baby out.

Will this be an issue? Who's to say? The doctor gave us tips for how to help the cervix along, and to be honest with you, I don't know which of the three suggestions sounds most uncomfortable. I guess in the meantime, I will try and will my cervix to chill out.

In the grand scheme of things, I don't care when or how the baby is born as long as she's healthy. That's the official story.

The unofficial story is that I am really, really tired. Not just physically -- although I am, and my body's new "let's wake mommy up in the middle of the night and not let her back to sleep just to prepare her for having a newborn" thing is SO FUN -- but emotionally. I feel like I've been doing nothing but preparing myself, my head, my heart, my home for this child. I can't get more ready without crossing over into Crazy.

Crazy. Like, practicing how to wrap the baby sling properly and then actively considering using a cat as a substitute baby. (I came dangerously close to trying this.) Like, having a total meltdown at the idea of mis-organizing the onesies and burp cloths, resulting in a tear-soaked email to my friends asking BUT WHERE DO THEY ALL GOOOOOO? Like, ordering JUST ONE MORE THING that we probably don't even need and won't remember getting from some online store, just to feel like I'm doing something productive.

Like, having every single thing that comes out of my mouth (or blog) be about how pregnant I am.

I need to stop this madness, before I say TO HELL WITH IT and crack open the bottle of Hendrick's in the freezer and help myself to a martini or seven. Let it be noted: it is really a flaw in nature that ingesting gin is not one of the preferred methods for ripening one's cervix.

Making It Work For Me And My Pelvix

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 23:06:00 +0000

Last Tuesday, Ish and I took our first "childbirth preparation" class at the local hospital. We decided it might be more helpful to take such a class prior to the baby being born, because we're totally on top of things that way. (She is due around June 25, btw.) (Also, we're going to Part Two of Two tonight, stay tuned!)

So the first part of class...was...um...interesting? Terrifying? Enlightening? Informative? Stupid?

Yes. It was.

For starters, the couples in attendance represented a fantastic cross-section of Who Lives in Napa. There were the folks who'd clearly just come from office jobs, and folks who have possibly never set foot in an office building in their lives. Sitting on one side of us, we had a couple who each ran their own home businesses, and on the other side was a couple whose male half was wearing a RAIDER NATION t-shirt and who, as Ish said, "probably owns some kind of watercraft that's taking up most of his credit card balance."

White collar, blue collar, no collar, ankle collar...

Just to complete the visual, there was also one very young couple -- they were maaaaybe 18? -- who just seemed out of their depth and like perhaps the class was court-ordered? We wondered this because the young man seemed about half-interested at best. Like he'd rather be just about anywhere else. During the video segments, he didn't so much "watch" the movies as "check his cell phone." Meanwhile the girl, who wore a permanent scowl, was also sporting a fashionable ankle monitor. But despite their seeming disinterest in the class, both the boy and the girl had this fun little habit of shouting out answers to the instructor's rhetorical questions. Incorrectly!

When the class ended, I noticed the couple outside, calling for someone to come pick them up. That's when I also noticed that their "small blanket" (recommended for class) was actually a Spiderman towel. While they waited for their ride, the girl swung the towel around and fashioned it into a cape.

I make no judgments on their parenting abilities. For all I know, they could raise a perfectly amazing child. I just don't think the ankle-monitor/Spiderman towel bode especially well.

Anyway!

Overall the class was good and I'm glad we went. I know more than I did before. I look forward to Part Two. But best of all, I feel reassured. I feel reassured because I have chosen to view this class as a metaphor for parenting in general.

By which I mean: Wow. A lot of people are going to tell you a lot of things. And some of these people are going to claim to be "experts" but that doesn't mean they are 100% correct about everything. In the end, it's going to be up to YOU to distill the good advice from the bad. Trust yourself to know what will work.

Doesn't that seem all rational and good? Aren't you proud of me? Well, wait till we get to the part about the cocktail party.

The instructor began the class by leading intros and then telling us about herself. Turns out, she's been teaching childbirth prep for fifteen years. She's seen a lot of stuff. She knows her stuff. She came across as sweet and nice and caring and as someone whose heart is really in it. Expert!

But then as soon as we got going, despite the three minute discussion on how "there are no wrong questions," she refused to answer any. She clearly hated to be derailed from her spiel. Most of her answers were, therefore, either We haven't gotten to that yet or We don't talk about that until next week. Except for the time the woman asked, "So, do contractions ever last longer than one minute?" and the instructor smiled, gave a slight shake of her head, and laughed a bit, in a "haha, you have no idea what you're in for" kind of way. AND THAT WAS IT.

So no, not especially helpful. Mostly the instructor reeled off hospital-approved information. And I figured I couldn't really do anything but believe everything she says, because even if she doesn't answer questions well, she's got a whole helluva lot more experience than I do.

Until she pronounced "pelvis" as "pelvix."

Not one time. All the times. In diagrams, during the slide show, in discussions, and using the visual aid. Pelvix, pelvix, pelvix. Every time she said it, I'd look around the room just to see if anyone else noticed or cared. Every time, only Ish had a look for me that said, "What can you do?"

And just when I thought I was going to burst from wanting to scream something along the lines of "LADY, IT IS THE PELVIS. ISSSSSS. IT IS ONE OF ABOUT 4 BODY PARTS WE'RE DISCUSSING TONIGHT, AND YOU HAVE BEEN DOING THIS FOR 15 YEARS AND I WANT TO HAVE FAITH THAT YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!" she started referring to the cervic.

So okay. I know in my heart-of-hearts that probably none of her points were less valid because she has difficulty with some words. Truth be told, English was not likely her first language, and who am I to judge?

Still, this whole childbirth thing is kind of scary and stressful, but there IS a way to answer questions from couples regardless of when that information comes up in the presentation, and also there is no such thing as a pelvix. Or a cervic. And while I want to believe that there is a black-and-white science to the whole thing, I think it just goes to show that even experts aren't maybe expert on everything.

* * * * * * * *

But here's where we get to the point, really.

I'm not what anyone on the planet would call "spiritual." Nor am I "meditative." I do not discount these things, I recognize their virtues, I simply have never engaged in them successfully. At least not in a way that would be widely recognized.

When I go to get massages, for example, I am fine with the fact that they play "relaxing" music and sounds of tinkling brooks and whales and nature. However, this does not do anything to quiet my mind. If I wanted my mind quieted, I'd listen to music that I knew -- perhaps ABBA? -- so that at least part of my brain could be actively engaged in something. "Listening" to streams and windchimes is boring and so my mind goes into overdrive and I spend massages internally dictating my next blog entry or singing songs or hatching book plots or, most commonly, chatting with the massage therapist.

Hey, it's just how I'm wired.

But ho-ho! I should have thought about this sooner!

Because all of a sudden I realized it. Of COURSE the "relaxation" and "breathing techniques" part of this prep class were allllll about tinkling music and centering one's mind. DUH. One second it's all business: lights on, pay attention to this next slide; the next second it's lights off, calming tones, pseudo-hypnotic "imagine you are somewhere peaceful..." routine while soothing music plays in the background.

I wasn't ready for it. I sat there, straddling the chair with my closed eyes and Ish massaging my back, and all I could think about was the episode of Law & Order: Criminal Intent I'd just seen. And also maybe the burrito that was waiting for me post-class.

Meaning just like massage, this kind of setting doesn't help me do anything except think about the exact things I shouldn't be thinking about. I'm not distracted. I'm not relaxed. I'm searching desperately for something, anything, to pay attention to and focus on.

Oh, I tried to listen to the instructor. I tried to picture a peaceful place and think about the baby, but those thoughts take about 3 seconds to leap from the miracle of childbirth to wondering when Ish and I should put together the Pack 'n' Play and whether I'd order extra salsa later.

And honestly, this didn't bother me at first. I was sitting in the darkened room, content to be thinking about baby furniture and burritos and Law & Order...until it hit me like a ton of bricks: Uh, if I can't focus on something distracting when I'm in no pain whatsoever, what do I think I'm going to focus on when I'm experiencing labor pains?

My guess? LABOR PAINS.

Asking me to quiet my mind and experience silence and focus on peaceful settings and nature and beaches and tinkling brooks is all well and good, but I am positive that if that's all I've got, each contraction is going to feel like friggin' King Kong just stomped through my mind's pathetic little woodland area.

I realized that if the point is to ensure that I focus on nothing but exactly how much pain I'm in, this kind of meditative, "picture a quiet place" stuff is the way to go. If, however, I want to be distracted, if I want to focus on ANYTHING other than the worst pain I'll ever experience, we're gonna have to do better than windchimes.

I had to recalibrate. I had to be honest with myself.

How am I going to do this? I wondered.

You know what I've heard? I've heard that, for as peaceful and centered as anyone may (actually) want to be, hospital rooms end up feeling like Grand Central Station anyway. Nurses, doctors, husbands, well-wishers, and all kinds of other, gloved professionals will be in and out of the room constantly. I think, for me, trying to pretend otherwise is probably an exercise in futility.

But then, you know what my happy place really is? A hopping martini lounge. Somewhere all my friends are gathered. Like, say, a loft in San Francisco full of drunk, happy people I adore, wearing dresses and boas and singing their lungs out while someone tries to keep up on the piano.

And while I understand that for many reasons, I don't probably want a piano and a dozen people singing in my room while I'm in labor, I feel like I'm making progress towards figuring out what will work for me.

I kind of liken my sentiments to why some people love New York City. When you're in the middle of the hustle and bustle, you can feel free to get your crazy on and no one will notice or care. Over time, you don't even notice or care. So that's what I'm envisioning. Hustle and bustle -- music, something engaging on the tv, people chattering and doing stuff, Ish massaging anything he can get his hands on, energy, DISTRACTIONS -- going on all around me, so I can feel free to get my crazy screaming in-labor self ON.

The videos we saw of couples walking down the hospital corridors, holding hands, breathing, quietly meditating, helping mom picture mountainsides as she slowly rocks her body during another painful contraction...this just seems utterly horrifying to me.

I mean, I'm not crazy. I want touch and massage and probably a shower or 17. I want to be told I'm doing a good job. I want encouragement and help and deep breaths and rolls on the birthing ball and all that good stuff.

But if we're being really honest about what's going to make me feel better, I don't want to be told to picture the ocean, I want to picture a giant, ice-cold martini. I don't want to have calm lighting and whale sounds, I want Sex and the City on repeat and a tap-dancer Shuffling Off to Buffalo.

Hmm. Maybe I should pack a mirror ball in my hospital bag. What do you think?

A Traumatic Sunday Afternoon. But First: Stick A Cracker In My Eye

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 22:17:00 +0000

Once when I was in middle school, I was eating a pretzel at lunch. As part of my pretzel-eating process, I was removing some of the outer salt, because I don't like anything overly salted. By mistake, one of the huge flecks of salt shot directly into my eye. I spent the remainder of the lunch period flushing out my eye in the girls' bathroom (eww) and had to tell my embarrassing tale when I returned, late, to my class.

You know why I remember this?

Because last night ALL I DID was take a bite of a tortilla chip and a giant chip-crumb shot right into my eye. It hurt like hell, but unlike middle school, I didn't have to go far to get to a bathroom. And unlike the pretzel salt, which (it turns out) dissolves pretty quickly in eye fluid, chips aren't as swift to break down. So I was able to fish the piece of chip out of my eye in one piece.

Not that this is riveting blog material, but honestly. Have you ever had food fly into your eye TWICE in your life? It's not like I go around asking for it. It's not like I'm doing something totally out of the ordinary or unusual by removing salt or, you know, simply BITING a chip. But here I am, a grown adult, having to excuse myself in front of guests to go get tortilla chip out of my eye.

It's times like those I don't exactly feel evolutionarily advanced, you know?

Speaking of which:

I have a long blog post coming about the first "childbirth preparation" class that Ish and I took last week, but it's taking me forever to write for no reason, but IN THE MEANTIME, I'm sort of experiencing a crisis at this very moment and didn't know what to do about it so I decided to blog it because maybe that will at least calm me down a bit.

About 45 minutes ago, I noticed Eddie (the cat) coming into the house with what seemed like a leaf stuck to his face. I asked Ish to please check it out and if it was not something...er...leafy...to please hurry and get rid of it.

"It's not a leaf," Ish said as he brought Eddie to me. "Here, hang on to him. I need to get it out of the house" Ish said and I got all squeamish.

"What is it?"

"A lizard. Still looks alive."

Now, we did not have many lizards growing up in Connecticut. Oddly enough, I never had a lizard run-in while living in San Francisco, either. So this is new to me. And why a cat would want anything to do with a lizard is beyond me, but what do I know?

So next thing I know, Ish walks by on his way to put the lizard outside. I watch him bend down and return to the house rather quickly. To which I say, "Did you just put it outside?"

"Yes."

"Like, in our yard, right outside the door?"

"Yes. Where else should I put it?"

"Well, I was thinking maybe NOT in our yard? Like OUT of our yard, where the cats won't get it again?"

"I can't lizard-proof our yard!"

Well, and so that was the end of the conversation. If I'm not ballsy enough to remove the lizard myself, I don't really have a right to complain about Ish's lizard-removal techniques. And I figured if the lizard had any sort of lizard-sense -- and it must, right? Haven't they been around since prehistoric times? -- he'd not want to stick around a yard that had so many fanged creatures. To do so would make no evolutionary sense.

But again, what do I know?

Because Ish left to go on a bike ride and won't be home for another hour. And naturally, about 5 minutes after he left, Monster came through the room making a yowling sound and having something sticking out from his mouth.

He got as far as the dining room and stopped. I was too afraid to go look. But then, I also felt bad for the lizard -- assuming it even WAS the lizard -- and didn't want to abandon it to my darling but potentially blood-thirsty carnivorous cats. So I eventually crept SORT OF near to the dining room and saw the lizard, just sitting on the carpet, with Monster, just sitting on the carpet also, staring at it. Then Sherlock rushed to the scene.

So there I was, standing about 7 feet from the terrifying-to-me tiny lizard, watching my two cats also staring at the tiny lizard, realizing that none of the four of us had any idea what to do.

(Speaking as the representative human being in this equation, I apologize. Darwin would be so disappointed in me.)

But I knew, deep down, that I had to do something, even if it IS a scary (tiny) lizard.

So eventually I DID do something. I grabbed a decorative wire bowl and inched toward the three of them (da da daaa dah! evolution! opposable thumbs! wire bowls!) and then put the bowl over the lizard. Brilliance! The lizard was safe, I was safe, my unborn baby was safe from whatever completely harmless thing the lizard wouldn't have done to her anyway, the cats couldn't get into the bowl, and I believed the situation was pretty well contained. At least until Ish could come home and fix it.

I sat back on the sofa. Eventually Sherlock got bored and left, and then so did Monster. Victory!

But I was still (am still) a little nervous, so I decided to blog so I thought, hey I should take a picture.

Want to see a picture of the lizard under the bowl?

What's that you say?

You say, "Huh? I can't see the lizard?"

Oh, well, turns out, NEITHER CAN I.

It has escaped. Meaning that, at this very moment, there is a lizard with a death wish scampering through my house. Part of me hopes the cats don't know it's free and roaming our halls -- I do not want harm to befall the lizard. But part of me really hopes the cats HAVE discovered the thing, so that I don't have to go to bed tonight wondering if I'm going to wake up with a big, fat, suicidal lizard crawling on my face.

And, Darwin be damned, I understand that I am no longer rational. As I write this, I keep looking at my feet hoping the lizard doesn't suddenly jump out at me from under the sofa. Yes, my evolved brain knows that I am bigger than the cats AND the lizard and that I should be able to intervene and not have this be traumatic. The icky-creepy-crawly part of my brain, however, cannot deal with hunting for a lizard that may or may not be in one piece any longer.

And that icky-creepy-crawly part of my brain IS WINNING.

UPDATE: Shit. Monster is outside lounging and Sherlock is asleep on our bed. Score one for the missing lizard.

UPDATE UPDATE: Ish is home. The situation has been explained. Also, he is far less concerned about the lizard situation than he is proud of his 20 mile bike ride that I should be paying attention to. Instead, he is now in hot pursuit of a lizard in our dining room for the second time today.

UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE: Ish just walked by me and out the door as I was writing my last update. "Did you find it???" I asked. "Most of it," he replied. UGH.

UPDATE THE LAST: Turns out, the cats had abandoned the lizard and it was just chilling behind the dining room curtain, but with only about 80% of its tail. Ish claimed the lizard was otherwise okay. He has been safely removed to outside the fenced area of our yard. NEVER TO RETURN. (DO YOU HEAR ME, LIZARD?? NEVER! TO! RETURN!)

Thank you for hanging in there with me.

Pregnancy Is A Symphony, And That Farting Is The Percussion Section

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Sat, 30 May 2009 20:26:00 +0000

In all my glory. Taken spur-of-the-moment with my iPhone, which explains the quality.
And the fact that it didn't even occur to us to close the cabinet door.
The photo is therefore both of me, 36 weeks pregnant, and my livingroom cabinets.

Please, allow me this disclaimer:

I hate potty humor and have no taste for it. I detest movies that focus on poop/fart jokes for laughs (sorry, but yes; I hated Dumb & Dumber) and for the first many years of my life, wouldn't even think of uttering poop words aloud, ever. EVER. Slowly, sadly, over the last several years, as if by design, Ben, Emily and Ish have together worn me down. Three against one is a tough battle.

These days I still don't think pooping or farting is funny in any way, but at least I can acknowledge that these words -- and yes, perhaps even these functions -- exist, and recognize that a lot of people do find the whole business of, well, "business" amusing.

Thus, when I began blogging, I could not have foreseen the day I would use the word "farting" in the title of a blog post. For the record, I do not consider this growth on my part.

I find that the best, most moving songs in the world are those that begin with a simple melody and single instrument, and build and build until the whole last verse and chorus are bursting with interest and instrumentation. The the best example of this that immediately springs to mind is the song, "One Day More" from Les Miserables. Each of the first verses are of varying melodies, sung by their primary characters. Then they all somehow come together and the different voices and melodies fit and right there is why people who love Broadway love Broadway. Totally goose-bump worthy. Even the 11,000th time you've listened to it.

(The Frank Sinatra duet of "Mac the Knife" with Jimmy Buffet also came to mind. The song doesn't even have percussion to begin with, but by the rousing end there's an entire big band orchestra wailing and two singers who, let's face it, hold their own.)

(There are probably a million other great examples.)

But in case you didn't know where I was going with this, THIS is what pregnancy has been like. At least, for me.

See, in the beginning, all these strange things happened to my body. I knew to expect some of them, while others came as a complete shock.

I looked up for this self-photo, on the idea that it's boring to look at pictures of me
looking into the camera (see below).
Except I couldn't see what I looked like.
I don't think I ever make this face.

The first trimester was pretty okay. I got bone tired by 9 p.m. every night. I only felt nausea if I went too long without eating. I had no cravings and no difference of appetite. My face broke out a little more. My boobs were sore. Otherwise, I had very mild instances of any of the HA, YOU'RE PREGNANT issues: gas, heartburn, aches, bloating, swelling, weird dreams, crazy hormonal fluctuations (crying at the sad mop not withstanding).

The second trimester was miserable, but mostly because it started with a month-long cold that I refused to take any over the counter medication for. So fatigue continued to be my biggest complaint. Oh, my skin decided to go from "oilier than usual" to "the most sensitive, dry skin on the planet." I also stopped being able to remember things. But given that Ish and I got married, bought a house, and moved (and I left my job) all during this trimester, I think it went quite well.

The beginning of the third trimester was even better. Aside from the strange butt-muscle pain and general aches and pains, pregnancy was just not so bad.

It still isn't so bad.

But about three weeks ago, it happened.

All the fun little melodies and harmonies of my body's pregnancy decided to play together for the big finale! The Grand Conductor has decided it's time to step it up! We're heading into the big finish, apparently, and it's time for great flourishes! and crescendos! and 76 trombones! and fat ladies singing!

Ish asked if he could take a picture of my belly from below.
He got down on the floor.
I am not sure if this is a funny picture or just really scary.

In the last three weeks alone, it's all hit. And in case you were hoping I'd spare you what all "all" I mean, sorry. Just skip on over this next bit.

I haven't seemed to gain any weight, but I quite clearly have a melon-sized baby inside, alternately bouncing off my diaphram (so that I can't breathe so well) and banging into my bladder (so that I have to pee, urgently, even when I don't). My nose gets stuffed with fluids just for fun. I am hungry all the time but am always also full. I sort of have to battle with myself to eat anything other than ice cream, which I have never otherwise craved in my life and also which -- fun for Ish! -- I don't digest too well. Cue the timpani! I am not especially swollen (my ankles, for example, are still intact), but noticed that I had to buy flip flops in a half-size larger than usual and I can't wear my rings anymore. My skin was doing okay, but now my legs are incredibly dry and my face breaks into the occasional hive(?). The butt pain hasn't gone away, and is now joined with the fun sensation of my hips gradually detaching themselves from my thighs. The boobs have gotten re-sore. Dreams are getting weirder and weirder. I am having a harder time trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. Standing, walking, climbing stairs, etc. has become a bit of a challenge now that such activities require my stomach muscles to hold up a bowling ball while so doing.

Glorious, I tell you!

But still, I will say that it really hasn't been anywhere near as hard as I feared. I absolutely consider myself lucky -- to experience pregnancy at all, and to have it be as smooth as it's been. Even now, with this crazy cacophonic climax.

If You Can Get Through My Ranting, I Really Need Your Suggestions

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Tue, 26 May 2009 16:31:00 +0000

*UPDATED* (See below)

I think we've done it.

Between gifts, a few online excursions, and a giant trip to Babies 'R' Us AND Target over the weekend, I think Ish and I have stocked up on the baby basics.

But right. I think. What do I actually know?

Oh, well, I know a few things. I know that the idea of baby "safety" makes everyone completely crazy, and the reports and statistics and number of things that COULD result in DEATH OR SERIOUS INJURY is staggering.

And I'm not buying into it.

Not that I'm planning to hand my infant razor blades, but I seem to be gravitating toward the "it'll probably be fine" end of the parenting spectrum. Because you know? I sorta remember the 70s and early 80s, and cannot imagine that a SINGLE item of baby equipment I was given would be allowed under current regulations. And yet we managed to survive somehow.

I don't want to make light of the standards we have now. I'm glad we have them. I like being informed. I'm glad we've discovered the dangers of BPAs and have a better handle on what causes SIDS.

But I also think that if I went the way of today's super-mom, gobbling up every single piece of consumer reporting available and taking it at face value, I would never leave the house again. It seems so illogical and even somewhat arbitrary.

Example:

There is a slight chance your baby might suffocate from a crib bumper. For this reason, bibles like Baby Bargains (awesome book, btw) does not (cannot?) recommend them. However, when they say "slight" do you know how "slight"? I looked into it. Approximately 1 in 3 million, and that's not accounting for other factors that might also be at play in that one child's crib/home.

Do you know what the chances are that you might be in an auto accident with your child in the car? I don't want to scare you (or myself), but it's a LOT higher than 1 in 3 million.

My point is this: Thousands of people will forgo the crib bumper while thinking nothing of packing up their baby into the car.

And I TOTALLY get how that seems reasonable. But it also kind of isn't. And so there's a point where, again, I put the books down and step away from the internet and breathe and try to figure out what I really need to worry about versus what I don't.

No easy feat.

But so here I am. And despite reading lists and books and sorting through all kinds of "recommendations" I still do not feel like we have everything we need.

I feel like there's still that elusive thing, that one we-could-not-have-lived-without-this item we don't know about, that we must have.

So you know? I thought I'd ask you. You seem to know stuff.

My specific question is: What is your list of things that you had (or wish you'd had) when you returned home from the hospital? What did you wish you'd thought of?

Trying not to go overboard, the basics we have:
- A crib
- A bassinet (for our room, where she'll sleep for the first few months)
- A changing table/dresser for her room upstairs
- A Pack 'n' Play with a changing station for downstairs
- Newborn and size 1 diapers
- Infant car seat and stroller frame for it to pop into
- A bouncer
- Clothes/blankets/swaddlers/sleep sacks

- UPDATED: Sorry, forgot to mention: We did also get a Diaper Champ (recommended over the Genie). We got this because we've already actually had one for over a year. Why? you ask? Because it was a LIFESAVER when we had four cats in a single apartment, and no garbage chute nearby. We kept the Diaper Champ next to the litterboxes, and it totally rocked. It's otherwise nearly impossible to stay on top of the cat-poop smell, and this did wonders. It takes regular kitchen garbage bags, and is so handy for cat litter! Figured if it could handle the stench of four cats' best efforts, it can handle a baby's.

And not to be all ULTRA-controversial or anything, but on the subject of breastfeeding...well, I plan to. At least I will try to. We'll see how it goes. I think if I can, I will. For a while. I do not believe that breastfeeding is the answer to all of life's problems, however, or that you are less of a mother if you do not breastfeed.

**********Sidenote***********

For what it's worth: I know a few moms who were physically unable to breastfeed and who were demeaned, vilified, and made to feel horribly guilty as a result. WTF? These women are some of the best moms I've ever met. Pressure to breastfeed is overwhelming to me, and it's simply my temperament to be skeptical when "everyone" seems to be "shoulding."

Who knows? Maybe I'll LOVE it. But if I don't or can't, I believe that's okay, too.

[I loved this article in The Atlantic about how the "Breast Is Best" philosophy is at least partly refutable. Of course the article has flaws, but at least it pokes holes in many of the arguments people seem to take as law. That breastfed babies are healthier than formula-fed babies isn't incontrovertible, for example.]

UPDATED: Please read the Atlantic article before telling me not to heed it. The point -- of the article and my linking it -- is simply that there is another side to the YOU MUST BREASTFEED OR ELSE position. Most current studies support the theory that breast is best, but the studies aren't without flaws. Am I willing to believe the entire American Pediatric Association? Of course! Just...not blindly. It's not like doctors haven't been wrong before (remember the decade or so during which all moms were instructed to position babies on their stomachs to sleep?), or that new studies don't constantly change our best thinking. I'm just trying to be sensible, and have a hard time believing there is ever only one "right" way.

**********End Sidenote***********

But so, okay. Assuming I will be nursing for "a while," I don't have a good sense of what equipment I NEED to have at home right away, and what stuff I can get eventually: bottles? How many? Pumps? What kinds? Even if I'm not working? How does one store breastmilk most efficiently, anyhow? Should I have formula on hand anyway?

Lastly, what are your thoughts on diaper bags? I'm assuming I need one, but what should I carry with me? What do I REALLY need in the beginning? Is this something else I can wait on, or something I should have prepped?

I promise to take your suggestions VERY VERY seriously, so please share as much as you're willing.

Thanks!!!

KIDNEY STONES!

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Thu, 21 May 2009 22:37:00 +0000

Did you notice that the new Indian spokesman for Fiber One cereal is the same guy who played the busboy who hit on Samantha in that episode of Sex and the City?

We should probably be friends if you did.

Because these are the kinds of things I notice, and it doesn't do me any good. I kind of think it's a skill, sort of, but with no actual tangible benefit or use. So conversations around our home go something like:

Me, for seemingly no reason: KIDNEY STONES!

Ish, startled: Huh?

Me, nodding at the television: Kidney STONES!

Ish, looking from the tv to me and back again: Huh? Oh! Good call.

This was my way of telling Ish that the principal on Glee (because of COURSE we were watching) was the guy who played the doctor who diagnosed Joey with kidney stones on Friends.

Ish gets points for catching on so quickly.

I think I inherited this "skill" from my mother. I can't help but wonder if this is the sort of thing I will be passing to my daughter, or how old she'll have to be before I know. I sort of sickly daydream of her toddling over to me to announce that the lady on Sesame Street is the lady from mommy's show. Because that's how it starts.

Wait, so did I really write about midget clown porn? I did, huh? Well, let me just say that I don't have any idea what the name of the movie is/was, but I'll try and get it from the ex. Also, to answer your burningest question, GOOD LORD NO. The rhyming little person did not get naked or have sex with anyone in the movie. I don't think even I could blog about that.

This post seems not to have a point. Crap.

To be fair, I started TWO different blog posts about Dooce that I gave up. They seemed weirdly Dooce-focused, and I don't need to seem any crazier than I am. But the point I was trying to get at is maybe worth making. And that is: Wow. For a woman who's in such good shape and so thin, her baby and baby bump seem to be causing her a LOT of distress. Whereas I started off like, twice her size, and seem to be functioning a lot easier. I don't exactly look forward to running up and down the stairs several times a day, but I do it. And still cook and clean and go grocery shopping and drive to the city (well, sit in the car as Ish drives) once a week.

But yeah. I gave up those blog posts because basically the subtext was "Neener, neener. You may be more prolific and rich and skilled and WAY thinner than I will ever be, but my pregnancy seems to be causing me less distress than you! HA! Take that, famous blogger!"

And that's not very healthy.

So what have we learned? I have a good eye for remembering actors in B- and C-level roles, perhaps as a genetic predisposition. I am 100% unjustifiably feeling superior to Dooce. I watched Glee. And at least my top-level post isn't about midget clown porn.

As a final final note, I was perfectly happy with the American Idol results and don't think Adam's losing is a failing on America's part. I understand the sadness and anger some of you may be feeling, but honestly. Aren't the majority of AI voters 9-year-old girls? Also, remember that time that guy Ruben beat Clay? Right then.

I cannot WAIT for So You Think You Can Dance.

The Post About Porn And Not My Sister

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Wed, 20 May 2009 23:20:00 +0000

Here's the thing I wrote before my sister joined me for a long weekend.

In the spirit of short, funny(?) posts, I'm going to skip the preamble. I started this post one way, and after a full hour, maybe more, I was bored of myself and that is a REALLY bad sign since the post is about porn.

Again, I blame The Bloggess, who delved into writing about clown-porn and that reminded me of a movie I saw once. So I did what you're supposed to do -- I left a comment over there. But after I (just now) re-read my comment, I realized I sounded kind of manic, about porn no less, and so I thought I'd share a little more of my experience here for your benefit. I don't know that I'll end up sounding any less crazy here, but at least you're not all who IS that crazy commenter lady, instead you're probably just rolling with the usual crazy, la la la.

So okay. I once went out with a guy who

Wait, wait.

I know this isn't the point, but do you have any idea how many different ways I could finish that sentence? Between the number of guys I've "gone out with" and my natural-thus-unintentional tendency toward male diversification, that sentence has almost endless possibilities. Off the very top of my head:

I once went out with a guy who*...

...was afraid of sharing food.
...liked to try to convince people he was from the future.
...was a recovering paraplegic.
...showed up in sweatpants for our first date.
...didn't tell me he was married.
...did tell me he was married.
...lied about having a girlfriend (which I discovered when she found my name and number and decided to call me to discuss the situation).
...tried to impress me by taking me to his fancy apartment, despite that it was the apartment he lived in with his parents.
...was obsessed with The Lion King.
...was a Republican.

But right. Porn.

I once went out with a guy who collected porn from the 70s and 80s. Naturally, I was curious about this -- I'd never seen any of the "classics" such as Deep Throat or Debbie Does Dallas, and figured watching such titles could only further my pop-cultural well-roundedness. Or something.

In a nutshell, here's what I thought: Oh, hey. People didn't used to shave ANYTHING.

Anyway. Somehow (gin), we ended up watching a few other movies from this bygone era together, and that's how I came to watch the porn with the midget clown.

(I know I should not use the word "midget" and that I should say "little person" except I don't think ANYONE in ANY demographic wants to be associated with what I saw in this movie. So please do not think I'm being un-PC when in fact, I'm actually being hyper-sensitive. Also, I'm writing about clown porn and if your main issue with this post is the fact that I'm using the word "midget" I don't even know what to say.)

It was a bad movie from the start. Right away, you could tell the movie was making a full-blown attempt at plot -- some guy getting angry at his wife/girlfriend and going for a drive in his truck -- and next thing you know the story has taken a turn and you're suddenly watching a very hairy man getting lost in a magical mansion where there's weird sex stuff happening in every room. (The sex acts themselves, mind you, were not particularly weird. Just the whole magical mansion plot.)

But so you have this guy, and he runs around a mansion and finds himself in a strange room with women wanting to have sex with him. And he's all, Okay, I guess I will, and then immediately after has a moral/ethical/directional crisis and remembers he doesn't know where he is or how to get out.

And that is when the midget clown appears.

Once upon a time, there was a group of writers, and they decided to "craft" a script. For this porno flick. And they got to the part where the man having pretend-reluctant sex in the mansion doesn't know what to do next...so they decided the only thing that made sense was to have a tiny, gruff clown appear. To help him.

Of course!

Except.

EXCEPT.

Except not only that! No!

The midget clown spoke IN VERSE.

And THAT is when, as a couple, you have to pause the DVD and stare at each other because you can't believe what is happening on the television screen.

Did...? Is that...? Did he...? And with the...? IS HE RHYMING?

And also you realize you have to know how the movie ends.

Because yes. Every time the man journeyed from room to room, or felt particularly lost and helpless (such as when he went from the room with the two cowgirls to the room with the amazon woman in a cheetah-print camisole who seemed to be protecting "treasure" -- understandably confusing for any man), the midget clown would appear and say something rhyme-y. So as to give the man a "clue" for how to leave the mansion.

When all was said and done, the man got back to his truck and on the road and I think he decided to return to his angry girlfriend/wife. He may have been influenced by the poetic midget clown, it's hard to say.

Also, there is no point to this entry, except I guess maybe to say that -- as far as I know -- they just don't make midget clown porn movies like they used to.

*Notice (hi, Em!) that I write "a guy WHO" and not "a guy THAT." Because even posts about hairy midget clown porn can use proper grammar.

I've Decided To Forgo Writing About Porn In Order To Write About My Sister

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Thu, 14 May 2009 01:13:00 +0000

Isn't that so nice of me?

(DAMN DAMN DAMN! I originally tried to post this yesterday and it didn't take. Then I REPOSTED this morning and it wasn't the full, edited post but something I'd rewritten and blogger ate. I found it again, as below!)

Even though she doesn't even regularly read my blog, she just checks in once in a while and reads archives. That's why it took her three weeks to yell at me a couple years ago, when, on her son's birthday, instead of writing about my nephew I wrote a post called "Burrito Head" likening the aluminum foil they use to wrap burritos to the kinds they use at hair salons to do highlights. Oops.

So I didn't want to repeat my mistake and have her read my blog in a month and get mad that instead of writing about her visit to California, I wrote about porn. And not just regular porn, but midget clown porn. And then years from now when we're wrinkled and gray and talking to our grandchildren, she'd turn to me and say, "OH! And why don't you tell them about that time I stopped talking to you because you wrote about CLOWN PORNOGRAPHY instead of your FAMILY" and I'd have to defend myself against that accusation and what can you even say? To grandchildren?

My sister is coming to visit me!

As you know, I have two younger sisters, Healy and Sam. Both of them are terrified of flying -- debilitatingly so. Which, right -- has been a problem when trying to get them to visit me across the country.

Now, to be fair, I always knew this would be an issue when I moved to California. But back when I first left, I figured we'd work around it. So far that's meant I fly back East when I can.

I never expected to live in California so long. But here it is, seven years and seven months later, and I haven't moved back. And I'm married and have a house (with a guest room!) and am having a child and suddenly the circumstances are way different. I'm not quite the rootless, freewheeling single gal I was when I left.

You know what I mean.

So they're working on their nerves (via prescription drugs and booze and whatever else they need) and finally, my sisters are visiting me in California. Samantha is coming later this summer, Healy arrives today!

I can't really express how excited I am to see her out here. To have her meet the people who've shaped the last several years of my life, see where I lived, visit a few wineries and a LOT of SF bars.

Yep, I spent three-and-a-half years in that building. Yes, the hideously blue one. Next to the pizza place. Yep, with Encore Karaoke three doors down. Oh, look! It's our favorite tranny hooker!...

I wish I could add some poetics or special poignancy to this post, but I think that would require opening an emotional can of worms I'm not ready (or willing) to. My sisters and I have always been so close, and losing our parents so early only strengthened our bond. We still make each other crazy in a "I'm hanging up on you now" kind of way, but our core is strong. I recognize that I'm extremely lucky for this, and if I think about just how lucky I am, I'll start openly weeping.

Perhaps it's best just to post embarrassing pictures of them instead. (Coming soon!)

Anyway.

Just to bring this post back to anything of pseudo-relevance to your life, places I'll be taking my sister this weekend:

- Polk Street in general, where I lived the longest. Favorite bars ever ever? Lush Lounge and Vertigo.

- Dinner at Foreign Cinema. Folks who've been reading this blog forEVER know that I once tripped and fell flat on my face at a corporate party in front of an entire dining room. This took place at the Foreign Cinema. Now you know.

- If we can fit it in, we'll grab crepes at Ti Couz in the Mission. Nothing compares. It's charming, authentic, and unique.

- Zeitgeist. I wouldn't take my sister (and her poor, unsuspecting friend, who gets extra credit for agreeing to come to SF last-minute so she could accompany a terrified Healy on the plane) to just ANY motorcycle/hard rock/dive/beer garden. Only the best.

- Martuni's. This piano bar holds a special place in my heart because it was the first bar I ever went to in San Francisco. (Thanks, El_G!) The first couple times I went I was too scared to sing for anyone -- I hadn't performed in years. But one night I was pretty well loaded, and it was between Christmas and New Year's and I was feeling celebratory, and I finally went for it. By the end of the night, the piano player had me standing on my chair, acting out the Innkeeper's Wife part from Les Miz (specifically the part in Master Of The House). When the song (and complete Les Miz medley) was over, people equally as drunk as I asked if I had been on Broadway. It was a ridiculous question, but the best one I've ever been asked.

These days, my a cappella group will occassionally venture to the bar on otherwise quiet evenings to sing our hearts out.

A Humorous Work-Related, Hive-Memory

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Thu, 07 May 2009 00:16:00 +0000

I've written maybe 5 entries specifically about work, which is kind of mind-boggling when I think about how many hours I've actually spent at work. Because so many.

So, for no reason other than my current "I should blog more, maybe with shorter posts" jag (and by "jag" I mean this is post #2) (woo), I just thought I'd share this one moment I had at work that still makes me laugh. But also maybe I'm just weird and it's not funny to anyone else. In which case, I apologize and will think twice before using the term "jag" again.

Right, then.

A long time ago, I worked for a boutique consulting firm. Every project was assigned a Senior Consultant and a Project Coordinator. In some cases, a project would be big enough to warrant more than one consultant, even though there'd still be only one Project Coordinator.

(Isn't this so fascinating?)

Once I'd been at the company a few months, I was assigned to my first real client. I, as competent rookie, was put on a ginormous project (a series of projects, really) involving a multi-million dollar Chinese holding company. The project directly involved the company CEO -- a billionaire himself, I learned, yes, billionaire, with a "b" -- and his senior strategic staff. Big, scary stuff.

(Even as I write this, a hive has formed on my chin. I'm not even kidding. That's what happens when I feel acute stress. And you can bet that I was a hivey wreck throughout that first project. If I can conjure memory-hives ten years later from the safety of my livingroom in Napa, you can imagine what kind of shape I was in by the end of that project.)

So okay. You have this major project and me as a first-time lone Project Coordinator. That sets the stage.

Next, add that our project team included a non-senior-level consultant. In fact, Marie was the only non-senior-level consultant on any project, because she was the only non-senior-level consultant in the company. They'd promoted her from the position of Project Coordinator for the first time in the company's history.

So sure, if you want to look on the one hand, the two of us were kind of hot-shots.

On the other hand, OH HEY. Kind of neither of us knows what the hell we're doing!

The project progressed okay for the most part, but the week before the first major client meeting, it was not smooth sailing. The weekend before the huge Monday meeting, Marie and I had to come into the office to get a lot more stuff done.

And this is what made me laugh, and love Marie, and think, Ah-ha! So THAT is what professionalism looks like when everything is falling apart!

I got into the office on Saturday morning and Marie was already there. She was at her desk in her office. She was focused, calm, and typing away at her computer.

Her mouse, however, was on the floor. Of the hallway. Outside her office door.

I approached her with trepidation.

"Is um? Hi? Is everything okay?" I asked.

"Yep, just working on my stuff," she replied.

"Is ah...your mouse--?"

"It was annoying me," she said, in a perfectly measured tone of voice, and she offered no further explanation.

Still, I found it gratifying. She wass clearly as stressed out as I was, she just expressed it by throwing her mouse into the hallway and continuing with her day.

And I think there's a lesson in there for all of us.

Do I know what that lesson is? No. But I DO know that coming upon your completely cool, calm, and collected colleague who's hurtled a piece of office equipment out of her office and into the hallway is damned funny, lesson or no.

Now Might Be When I Start Posting Every Day

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Tue, 05 May 2009 22:35:00 +0000

Hey, you never know, right?

I mean, The Bloggess is so completely crazy and awesome, and yet she manages to get her crazy awesomeness across in really short entries. (Well, short except for the post about the how she "accidentally" doused herself in giraffe urine so she could get felt up by the hot male giraffe.) (I might be editorializing.) (What? Who's jealous? Just because she's all hilarious AND openly drunk doesn't mean I'm jealous enough to go making up stories about her sexual zoo peccadilloes.) (Well, not EXACTLY.) And that works for her. (Not the zoo sex. The short entries thing.)

Whatever. This is all just to point out that the iPhone auto-corrector has always annoyed the crap out of me, until recently, when it made me laugh out loud TWICE. I don't know what it is about potatoes.

The other day, I texted Ish about how he didn't have to pick up any take-out on his way home from work. Because I decided that I would make dinner due to my sudden, inexplicable craving for mashed potatoes. Except I don't know what letters I actually used for "potatoes" because the next thing I knew, I was telling Ish I really had a craving for "mashed orators."

In fact, on second reading -- God bless him for not rushing home or calling the cops on his insane pregnant wife -- I didn't send him anywhere near a coherent message. I intended to convey that I was going to go to the store and pick up groceries and fix dinner and thus he didn't need to pick anything up. But what I actually sent him was the following message, in its entirety, which not even a code breaker could have possibly deciphered:

You may be in luck. I just hot craving for mashed orators.

"Hot" was supposed to be "got." And there's no way Ish could have realized that "orators" meant "potatoes." Further still, why on earth would a hot craving for mashed orators mean he's "in luck." In luck how? From what?

Pregnancy + iPhone = hahahahahaha.

And then last night, I was using my phone to IM (which is really stupid because my thumbing skills are sad as it is, even before auto-correct gets into the act), and somehow we got on the topic of potatoes. Again. And I was suggesting that no, we didn't have to run to the grocery store because we had plenty of potato salad left over, we could just have that with the pork roast. Except that's not how it came out, either.

The entire line was:

Piptato salad!

And then I stared at my phone and laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. (This is not an exaggeration. Pregnancy does odd things to a woman's bladder.)

Had iPhone corrected me? No, obviously it couldn't have, since last I checked "piptato" is not a word. But then did *I* type "piptato"? And if I did, why DIDN'T auto-correct do its job?

PIPTATO!

So okay, piptato may not make YOU laugh, but one of the songs we performed last Saturday was Midnight Train to Georgia and we do indeed have three singers who do their best Pips impression and I can't help it. The imagery of Piptato Salad makes me giggle.

Maybe It's Not Even Funny Anymore

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Mon, 04 May 2009 17:45:00 +0000

So our show was on Saturday night and it went very well. Probably there will be some horrifying video out, but I won't post it here (or even look at it) because in my head and my bathroom mirrors I swear am an adorable-looking pregnant woman, but then photos and -- really? has it come to this? -- videos seem to miss the glowy-pregnant nuances of me, and instead portray me as a pasty, doughy, sort-of-red-haired-with-sort-of-dark-blond-roots, double-chinned round person, who might be pregnant or who might just be full of doughnuts. (Although Ha ha! Joke's on them! I'm BOTH!)

The point is, I'm actually really very smart. (I know, you're like, "Huh? How is THAT the point? What has that got to do with doughnuts?" but I'm all, "See? I know what you're thinking." That's how smart I am.)

Once, not long ago, I used to manage all this data in my head. I could think of more than one thing at a time, and remember pretty much everything I was supposed to remember. I could do things like think, "Hey, I should blog about that," and then the next time I sat down at the computer? I would, actually, blog about that.

True story: I never use bookmarks because I can always remember what page I've ended on.

So please, allow me this. Allow me to momentarily reminisce about mental aptitude.

When I was in grade school, I was a good student. I was in those gifted classes and advanced groups and even asked to skip a grade. (I didn't, though; my parents ultimately left the decision up to my 11-year-old self, and I turned down the opportunity because I didn't want that kind of interruption in my "social life." And that right there should tell you everything you'd ever want to know about how I was raised and how I've always prioritized my life.)

(Also, it should be noted that any advantage I'd had in middle school I completely ignored by high school. Sure, if we adjusted grades to account for amount of time studying/paying attention in class, I would have been Valedictorian. Unfortunately, high school is not graded on an effort-to-output ratio, and so I was a solid B student.)

I regained some energy and motivation and got my shit together by my second year of non-Ivy, non-private college, though. And did lots of things and took hard classes and honors-y things and interned and did I ever tell you I was Phi Beta Kappa? Well, I was. And in all honesty, I find this fact less impressive than that time I drew images of the giant hole I got in the butt of my pantyhose at a conference. Because the former is fancy and all, but the latter required a creativity (and an embracing of breezy elegance) that I really had to work hard to tap into.

So, right. I have always tripped and spilled and yes, been a constant mess of breezy elegance, but at least I had some control of my mental faculties.

But now that I'm older and pregnant -- and, by the way? NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT DRUNK -- I don't know what has happened. The light switched off. I've been hit by a Stupid Dart.

I wrote about "pregnancy brain" and I guess it could be that I'm just particularly susceptible, but this is ridiculous. I feel like I have butter pecan ice cream for brains (mmm, ice cream!), and that at any moment I will just become a slobbering, drooling mass.

Which brings me back to the concert.

My a cappella group had a concert last Saturday night. This meant I had to remember a lot of things at once, and never -- never, in my many years of performing -- has it been so taxing. I've never had to work SO HARD to remember my parts and how to conduct and how to, you know, count and how to SMILE and STAND and NOT FALL OVER in my life.

The good news is that I didn't fall apart. I did most of the things I set out to do. For instance, only once or twice did I just NOT SING because I forgot that I was supposed to.

(Note: that's always an alarming feeling. Looking across the stage at the other person on your part, and watching her sing, and thinking, "Oh, that's so great that she's singing that part right when she's supposed to!" and smiling because everyone sounds so good, and then having your brain catch up with itself and realize, "HEY, DOOFUS. ISN'T THAT YOUR PART? AREN'T YOU ALSO SUPPOSED TO BE SINGING?")

The whole thing was just so overwhelming.

Right before the first set, I went to the bathroom to pee (because these days I am doing that more than I ever thought possible) and to catch my breath. I wanted desperately to wade through my ice-cream-for-brains to ensure I'd remembered everything. Is the stage set? Are we on time? Is everyone here? Do I know where my water is? Did I remember to change my shoes?

Except those weren't really the thoughts I was thinking. Ice-cream brains makes me think more mushily, like, "Is the stage -- hey, the cold air in this bathroom feels really nice. I like the weather in San Francisco a lot. I always did. I feel kind of...thirsty. Do I know where my water--oh! Water! I should wash my hands extra long because of the Swine Flu! Is there a soap dispenser? How old IS this bathroom, anyway? It's kind of a historic building, isn't it? Wait, how long have I been in here?"

And then, when I made it back to the group and we were about to head on stage, I discovered (because it was pointed out to me) that I had a HUGE splotch of water on the front of my shirt. Obviously this happened when I was in the bathroom leaning over the sink thinking about Swine Flu and historic soap dispensers while having no idea how much larger my belly is now than usual. Because usually (see: Coaster post, below) stuff collects and gets on my boobs, not my belly.

My belly has NEVER been bigger than my chest, so stuff -- food, crumbs, water, wine, coasters -- never reaches it. I can't possibly be expected to stop things from getting in my cleavage AND on my stomach, can I? No. No, I can't. ISN'T PREGNANCY GLORIOUS?

Anyway. What can you do about a water splotch on your shirt 3 seconds before you're supposed to go on stage? Nothing.

And whatever. The splotch dried and the group was great and the first set went great and I didn't even fall off the stage even though I came close at least three times.

But you know what? Guess.

No really. Guess.

Look at that! You're right! I DID go to the bathroom to pee during our quick intermission, and I DID do the same thing AGAIN.

Of course my head was even more fuzzy and buzzy and mushy half-way through the show, and thus, when I came out of the bathroom to head into our second set, the NEW splotch was TWICE the size of the one I had to go on stage the first time.

And now that I've told you all of this, I have zero idea what the real post was supposed to be. I'm looking at the title and trying to remember. Ummm....I did think of a very funny, quick story over the weekend that was similar to the coaster-boob post, and was very excited to write about it today. But I didn't write it down and have no idea what I was thinking of.

OH! Baby names!! THAT'S where this post started. "It's not funny anymore" was about how we still do not have any baby names selected and our list isn't getting shorter. Hmm. How did that turn into my writing about school and water splotches? Fascinating.

Oh, well. Pretend that this paragraph is where I wittily tie everything together and it makes sense. Butter pecan!

Reminder: A Cappella Concert Tonight

noreply@blogger.com (kristy) — Sat, 02 May 2009 18:21:00 +0000

Hi All,

Just a reminder that our all-female a cappella group, The Loose Interpretations, is performing a concert tonight in SF. I make zero promises as to our professionalism or musicality, or that we'll remember ALL the words and/or notes, but! The theatre has a bring-your-own-booze policy and there's no admission fee. Plus free wine.

Time: 7 p.m. SHARP (there's a show before and after us, so we need to be prompt)

Location: San Francisco Comedy College Theatre, 414 Mason (@Geary), 5th Floor

Strategy: Get people to drink as much as possible. The more the audience drinks, the more we sound like angels.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the meantime, Ish is putting together the crib. I'm going to go take pictures of him now.