Monday, August 17, 2009


Today I called a service that I like to call StupidCast to set up a new phone and internet line at our new house. It was a typical conversation with them, involving lots of emphatic NOs from me, lots of uncertain math by them, and a general desire to poke out my brains with a blunt object through my right eyeball by the end of it all.

Somewhere in the middle of that gawdawful conversation we had to come up with an installation date, and it just so turned out to be the same day as the birthday of the daughter of the lady I was talking with.
Her daughter is turning 13.


She still acts like a little girl.

Fine. Can we talk about what eight-hour time span I can expect a technician to show up and butcher our wiring?

She still has kittens on her walls.

FINE, did you remember to include my precious DVR in that order?

She just got her first period.


It’s about time to have THAT talk with her. You know, the one where…

YES, I KNOW. The things we don’t think about when we decide to have a baby, ha ha. (Except for now I am thinking about it. Thinking about talking to my unborn child about bleeding and mood swings and teenage pregnancy and OMG I really need a fucking rock to crawl under about now.)

In less-traumatic news, I have been hearing about people who play their kids classical music. Early start learning and all that. There is much controversy over volume levels, are earphones on the stomach effective, and the advantages of Mozart over Beethoven. I have chosen to eschew all of the above, and instead, when I rediscovered my iPod the other day, had myself and my engorged belly a little dance party to “Put a Ring on It” by the classic artist, Beyonce. Tonight, when Beyonce’s song “Halo” came on, the kiddo started kicking. Possibly coincidence, possibly my influence condemning her to a lifetime of poppy hip-hop. Here’s hoping she’ll have a little more rhythm than her mom.

Also, if you are looking for a very awesome baby gift, look no further: Sushi Booties. You’re welcome.

Thursday, August 06, 2009

Down the Rabbit Hole

We have started attending baby classes at the hospital. There’s a special kind of birth control! So far we’ve learned about the many, many things that can go wrong, and this is all well-before the kid’s old enough to start lighting up in the bathroom shrouded in an ever-subltle cloud of incense and patchoulli.

In one exercise the instructor had all the expectant mothers get together and write a list of the best and worst parts about being pregnant. We made a valiant effort to come up with a few things for the “Best” side, so that the paper wouldn’t be completely uneven. Our “Worst” side was definitively longer. Although one smug woman looked up over her perfectly round little belly and finally admitted, “Gee, I just haven’t experienced any of that. I was never sick, I still sleep through the night, and I haven’t had any heartburn at all.” I thought the fact that the rest of our little group managed to not attack her for that little comment like a pack of savage heartburned dogs shows just how civil our society has become. There’s hope for our children.

Then we got back with our partners and the instructor read off their list of “Best Things About Pregnancy.” It began with “Huge boobs.” Hope may have faded just a little.

I have also started having yet another completely new symptom of pregnancy. It feels almost like…longing. For…





So I know I am officially crazy. I have jogged, off and on, for about 15 years. Never once have I really felt a sense of enjoyment from it. I was not built to run, I never got endorphins or whatever that good stuff is that you atheletic-y types speak of. It was shit the whole time. Jogging was convenient, free, and something I could force myself to do before I had completely woken up, and therefore it stuck. Not for any sense of feeling good about it. And now, all of a sudden, seven months into pregnancy and lumpy and bloated and waddle-y, I am like, Hey. Remember when I used to be thin and could move quickly? That was kind of…nice.


I am chalking it up to Restless Leg Syndrome. We now have two body pillows in between me and The Funasaurus to help keep his shins intact through the night. This’ll all be easier when the baby comes, right?

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Le Cinema

It’s Friday already—hooray! Too bad I still have a lot of work to do. But! If you don’t have anything else going on this weekend, I highly suggest going to see 500 Days of Summer. The Funasaurus and I saw it last weekend, and we both really enjoyed it. For some reason it was only playing in the indie movie theater around here. I didn’t really understand that, there are previews for it all over regular television channels. And it had a very similar feel to Juno and Nick & Nora’s Infinite Playlist, which were both very hipster and whatnot, but still major motion pictures. In any case, I am not complaining. I love a chance to go to a slightly gothic theater that serves alcohol (even if I cannot partake in said alcohol) and stand in line with people who are obviously much cooler than I am.

There was a torrential downpour coming down when we came out of the theater last weekend, which would have been very romantic had I not been feeling so pregnant and cranky and cold. But we made it home, soggy but pleased with ourselves for having ventured outside the neighborhood for the first time in what felt like a very long time.

This weekend I was kind of hoping to see another movie. I heard Up was good but sad. I am not sure my very pregnant nerves can take intentionally sad. Any other recommendations?