Anything Said: July 2006

Friday, July 28, 2006

On popping

Apparently, sometime between now and last week, I "popped."

At least that's what one of the circulation desk workers exclaimed at me the other day as I arrived at the library. "Honey," she cooed, "You finally popped!" I didn't know how to react, and I still don't. Suddenly -- and we're talking suddenly, like with no warning and all the time -- people are noticing that I'm knocked up. At the reference desk, elderly patrons who five minutes ago were snarling about their overdue fines will immediately morph back into Nice Grannies when I stand up from behind the computer screen that hides the view of my belly. "Ohhhh," they ask, "when's the baby due, sweetie?" I want to say, "What baby?" and then toss back a few slugs from a 40 oz. MGD, but I hold back.

People on the street stare at my belly instead of looking me in the eye. This wouldn't necessarily bother me if it weren't for the way that they stare. It's like, you know how when you're in a store or a restaurant or at a show or something, and you see somebody with an injury or a disability of some kind? Like maybe it's a dude in a wheelchair, or a woman with some kind of open wound on her face? And you keep saying to yourself: don't look at the wound, don't look at the wheelchair? And then you totally look right at the wound before quickly averting your eyes and pretending that you are completely immersed in the display of hair-ties or Energizer batteries or Swiffer refills that happens to be in front of you? And then you really, really want to look back up and flash a warm smile at the dude or the woman but you don't because you know they totally saw you stare at the wheelchair/wound and now it's just all too awkward and plus, you suck?

Yeah, so that's how people look at my big fat stomach. Like everything I do is something to be watched. Look, the pregnant lady is buying cheese!! Look, the pregnant lady rides the El! Look, the pregnant lady just scratched her ass! Quick, avert your eyes before she burns us with the heat of motherly disdain.

I'm sure I'm supposed to be all glowy about this, but I'm just not. Sorry. I'm not someone who likes to feel conspicuous. It makes me uncomfortable. I'd much rather blend into the scenery, fade into the background... but these days I appear to be coming at you like an image from a pop-up book. Even my friends are alarmed, albeit in a loving way. I spent last weekend in Detroit with a bunch of friends from my Boston days. While sitting on the couch with two of my girls one night, I looked down and noticed that Cletus the Fetus had commenced doing this disturbing thing where she smooshes her entire little body into one side of my belly, making my stomach appear quite hilariously deformed and lopsided. My [very child-less] friends came over to gape and to, in words of the great Jon Bon Jovi, "lay [their] hands on me." We stayed like this for a moment, noting the weirdness and the hardness of what used to be a normal belly, until Cletus gave a little kick. My friends shrieked and leapt back to their seats, spooked by the alien within. If I hadn't gotten used to the constant internal gymnastics routine by now, I would've been doing the same thing. It may be the miracle of life, but if you squint your eyes it sure does look a whole lot like Poltergeist.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

If you want to make the world a better place, you can do the following

1. When you see someone outside leading an adorable dog on a leash, take a moment to assess the situation before going over to fawn and pet and scratch and fondle. Is the dog actively being walked? Or is the dog's owner standing still, holding an empty plastic baggy in one hand, watching her dog walk tight circles around the same patch of grass over and over again, looking at her watch in desperation, and calling her dog a "little bitch"? If the latter: back away from the puppy. In fact, don't even look at the puppy. Please. I, and other problem-dog owners of the world, beseech you. For some very special dogs, taking a dump requires time and intense concentration. It takes flow. Please do not disturb the flow. If you disturb the flow, I will inevitably have to clean dog shit off of my hardwood floors later on in the day. Would you like to come over and help? No? Then admire my adorable puppy from afar.

2. Do not approach your pregnant colleague at work to say, "How have you been feeling? You look tired!" For all you know, your pregnant colleague may be feeling just fine. She may, in fact, be feeling wide awake, alert, somewhat pulled-together, and halfway human for the first time in weeks. So what if she looks tired? Does she really need to hear you say as much? YOU may look like a squinty-faced troll, but did your pregnant colleague feel inclined to tell you so?

3. Do not laugh when I tell you that my dog has pimples. There's a big fat one right on her face. And dudes, I totally googled "pug chin acne" last night, thinking I would find a couple of wacked-out postings on a message board somewhere or something, only to find out that there is an actual condition, common in pugs, called "Chin Acne". There were whole articles on it. Who knew? If it's gettable, my dog will get it.

4. Do not record a rip-off of a classic Madonna tune from the 80s, repackage it as an original single, and then shoot a skanked-out video full of Desperate Housewives on roller-skates. You're gross. Mandy Moore could totally kick your ass.

5. When all else fails, go to Detroit. And that's where I'll be for the next little while, by way of explanation for a forthcoming blog-absence: hanging out with my college peeps along 8-mile for a few days. Don't think we're not going to be rocking the sold-out Def Leppard/Journey concert on Monday night, because we so totally are. If you're jealous, that's totally understandable. I'll think of you all while I'm pouring some sugar on that kee-razy one-armed drummer. Love bites, indeed.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Enjoying the scenery

Last Friday, the husband and I made the eight-hour trek up to the tippy-top northern edge of Wisconsin for a weekend with the fam. The drive was notable for two reasons. First: we got to hear the official Most Hilarious Hour of Programming ever aired on Wisconsin Public Radio. I can remember the name of neither program nor host -- probably because I was too busy snorting bits of potato chip out of my nose from laughing to notice. But I can give you the gist: a simple concept, really. For a full hour, listeners were asked to call the station and share their ideas -- on air -- for future programs they would like to hear. That's it. Doesn't sound like the height of hilarity to you? Oh friends. You have no idea.

There was the woman who called in to say, "Yes, hello, I just heard about a religion called taoism [pronounced tay-oh-ism], spelled t-a-o-i-s-m. Could you maybe do something on that?" The man who called in to ask, "I got this movie out from the library this one time. It was about sewer rats, I think. I don't remember the name. Anyway, it had a real good ending. Could you do a show on that?" The man who wanted to hear a show full of interviews with veterans of World War ONE. The woman who wondered if NPR had heard anything about "that Valerie Plame case," and suggested that maybe they could do a show about her [this, of course, coming after about two straight hours of non-stop Valerie Plame coverage]. There were callers on soapboxes, callers with URLs to hawk, callers who rambled on about nothing for what seemed like days before finally requesting to hear "a show about apples." The husband and I listened with rapt, delighted attention. Occasionally, I would respond to a particularly crazy-sounding fellow with a hearty "See you at the public library!" The husband imagined the host muffling her microphone between calls so no one could hear the sound of her banging her head repeatedly against the wall of her sound booth.

Notable item number two on our drive was much less delightful. As it turns out, Wisconsin highways appear to be dotted with an unnatural amount of pro-life billboards. And I'm talking about capital P, capital L, huge photos of fat smiling babies staring big-eyed from underneath slogans like "My doctor said I have a heartbeat from 18 days after conception!" In the past, pre-Cletus-the-Fetus, when my senses were assaulted by such blights on the landscape, I would simply flip the bird in the general direction of the sign/bumper sticker/sandwich board and be on my merry way. You have your freedom of expression; I have mine. But now -- now, I'm pregnant. I'm growing a baby inside of me, a baby that I planned for and want with every tired, aching, bloated fiber of my being, a baby that will hopefully be as big and fat and smiley as the babies on the billboards we passed again and again on Friday -- and I don't know if it's because of that fact or in spite of that fact, but I have never felt more ferociously, adamantly, furiously pro-choice in my entire life.

I wanted to jump out of the car and rip every one of those billboards to shreds with my bare hands. I wanted to birth my daughter three months early so she could help. Being pregnant has been one of the most remarkable experiences of my life: it takes over your entire body, your entire sense of who you are. It ravages your physical abilities, it makes you sick in weird, alien kind of ways, it sends you on an emotional tailspin you couldn't control if you tried. There is a person growing inside of you. I mean, come on. That is NOT normal. I am one of the lucky ones. I chose to get pregnant, was successful at conceiving when I wanted to conceive, am financially secure and supported by a network of family and friends, and have a responsible and committed partner to co-parent my child. I decided to stretch out my body and crazify my mind of my own accord.

What about the woman who didn't choose it? Didn't plan for it? Doesn't want it for her own body, her own mind? And some crazy fools with access to a billboard and a can of paint are going to tell her she's got no say, that she can be forced to grow a baby in her womb, to feel it kicking and moving inside of her, to nurture a being that is - until birth anyway - essentially a part of her body, and to do it all against her will? Yes, I know, she chose to have sex -- but we're not talking about sex, we're talking about pregnancy. The two are not necessarily intrinsically linked, and besides - last time I checked, it took both sperm AND egg to make a baby. If unprotected sex is the crime and a nine-month term of enforced pregnancy is the sentence, what's the dude's price to pay? Isn't he equally to blame? And yet the only people whose bodies are being regulated are women. Go figure.

I'm sorry, I know I'm ranting, but work with me here. People and their billboards and their "culture of life." Where are they and their 1-800 numbers when those babies are born to parents who don't want them, or can't care for them, or can't afford to give them happy lives? If life "starts at conception," then why does the concern for it seem to stop at birth?

Cletus the Fetus kicked and prodded around in my belly that whole drive to Wisconsin. Sometimes I would poke her back, my way of starting the give-and-take of loving mutual abuse that will assuredly mark our entire relationship after she's born. It brings tears to my eyes that anyone, ANYONE, would dare to tell her or me - on a billboard, no less -- what we can and cannot do with our bodies. I would chew up that billboard and swallow it down with a side of fries if that was what it took to protect her from that kind of force; I'd do it in a heartbeat.

And that's what I call a culture of life.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Stick it to me

This morning I had to endure my 1-hour glucose screen. This is a test wherein the Already Bitchy and Angsty Pregnant Woman must consume an entire bottle of disgusting fizzy sugar-drink within five minutes, then wait an hour before getting stabbed mercilessly with a needle and drained of her blood. It is supposed to measure one's ability to break down sugar. If I flunk the test, I have to go back for the dreaded 3-hour "tolerance test," which entails carbo-loading for 3 days, fasting for 12 hours, drinking some more of the same fizzy crap, then getting poked (yeah, I said poked) three times over the course of three hours. Apparently lots of women wig out and faint and hurl during the 3-hour test. If I am called to perform, I may add to their number.

Being a Big Fat Baby around needles is one of my most shameful stereotypical girl-traits. (The others include my unnatural attachment to my engagement ring and my inability to kill multi-legged insects by squishing them. Cause they crunch and that's just gross.) I don't care how tiny the needle, I don't care how skilled the nurse -- I can't deal with being pricked, and I *really* can't deal with watching the blood get sucked out into that little tube. I get light-headed, I feel all crazy, I try to distract myself by spewing babble at the nurse ("How much blood do you pull out of people in a day? Yeah? How about a month?") who has so clearly seen it all before and is so clearly over me and my kind. And then when it's all over I always have to lie down. Like a Big Fat Baby.

When I was in college, my senior-year roommate ran the campus blood drive. She had a hard time recruiting enough student volunteers to staff the operation, so she somehow guilted me into helping out. I was assigned to sit at the snacks table and hand out cookies and juice to the blood-drained masses. When I agreed to do it, I had imagined that the snacks table would be placed somewhere out of the way, off in a corner somewhere, away from all the bloody action. Friends, oh no. I assure you that the snacks table was prominently featured, front and center, in full view of blood, guts, and glory. Everywhere I looked, I saw needles: needles, attached to tubes, attached to people stretched out on gurneys. I could barely lift my head; the only way for me to keep from losing my shit was to stare intently down at the snacks table with its delectable array of Oreos. I just stared and stared. Whenever I thought I sensed someone standing in front of me, I would grab a handful of cookies and blindly thrust them forward in an outstretched arm. Sometimes there was an actual person there to receive them; sometimes my aim was a little off; sometimes there was no one there at all and I was just the crazy person sitting there with her hand full of cookies, staring at her own feet.

About five years ago, when I was working for the Evil Women's Anti-Violence Nonprofit of Doom and living with constant debilitating stress and angst, I wound up in the ER with what my doctor feared was a pulmonary embolism. It wasn't, of course: it was panic attacks. But at the time, we didn't know that, so I found myself in a little ER cube, hooked up to a bunch of beeping machines, my heart rate racing way faster than it should've been, the mean ER doctors frowning and scribbling things on charts. At one point, some wee resident came in and said to me: "I think we may have to give you an IV." And with that, my heart rate jumped to stratospheric levels. The machines couldn't beep fast enough to keep up. The resident glared at me and snapped, "Now, why did you get yourself so excited like that?" And I was all: look, Doogie. You're standing in front of a woman who is already having heart palpitations, who is in the ER, and who is afraid of needles. You are telling her that you are going to give her an IV: that means sticking her with a needle, inserting a tube, and Leaving. It. There. And you expect her to what? Whistle a little tune?

This morning I was so proud of myself: I sat quietly and obediently while the nurse drew two vials of blood from my arm for the glucose screen. I tried very hard to be calm and polite and to squeeze the little red rubber ball like a good girl. Then I retreated to an exam room to wait for my midwife to deliver my monthly exam. Except that when my midwife came in, she was all "Hi Melinda! I see you had your antibodies screen drawn today!" And I was all: um, no, that was the glucose test. And she was all: oh, oops, back you go then. And I was all: jigga-wha?? People, they poked me twice, in the same arm, on the same day. I was less than enthused. These, the sacrifices we make for the babies-to-be who spend their days blissfully grinding their heads into the walls of our internal organs.

Tomorrow I am off for a long weekend with The Lake People at my husband's family's cabin in northern Wisconsin. It will be nice to get to talk about the pregnancy with relatives, and to have my little niece and nephew hang out with their cousin-to-be. Also, the cabin's in a pretty remote spot, so I can be fairly sure that if someone is approaching me with a needle during the next four days, they are of the criminal ilk. Somehow, that's oddly comforting.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Party animals

Word up. Frodo the Pug here, guest-blogging atcha for the first time evah. Have you heard of a pug blogging before? No? That's right, I'm the first, bitches. I bust up the boundaries, yo. Now give me a treat and call me "good dog" and let's get this shizow on the road.

Yesterday, my people took me to my first Pug Party. When we first got in the car to go, I just figured we were going to the vet or to another lame "village pet carnival" like the one we went to a couple weeks ago (I was promised fun and games but all I got was to sniff, like, three bichons' butts), so I was all "whine whine whine snort snort meep whine." But my people were all "Shut up, you'll like this place, I swear," so I figured I would at least give it a chance.

And am I glad I did. People, you just have no IDEA how AWESOME a Pug Party is.

Ok, so first off: there were these huge picnic tables full of food, right? And if you sat around underneath them for long enough? Dude, somebody would totally drop something on the ground, like a potato chip or a pickle or some bean dip, and then it was down the hatch, suckers. Or sometimes, if you hung out around the coolers of soda and beer for awhile, a man with a pixelated face would come by and kneel down to pet you, and then some sweat from his beer bottle would drip on you and it was like "awwwww yeah, fifty more drips just like that and I'll show YOU a 'good dog'".

The thing about pugs is -- we're all a bunch of greedy bitches. Even those of us who aren't actually bitches? Totally still greedy bitches. We know that about ourselves; we're cool with it. So at the Pug Party, we could beg and forage and fight for treats without having to worry about stuff like "Man, that chocolate lab must really think I'm desperate" or, "I wish those seeing-eye dogs would stop looking at me like that!" We could grind our noses right smack into the grass without giving a second thought to pride or dignity. Speaking of pride and dignity, though: check out that dog in the dress. Man. That's rough.

A lot of the other pugs were around the same age as me, but TOTALLY fatter than me by like 20 pounds. See? Look -- this dog is a year old, too, but he's twice my size. Can we finally agree that my vet is a quack-job, that I'm NOT overweight but am instead petite and small-framed and, as such, deserve three square meals a day including bits of people food, specifically cheese and noodles? Just think on it. I'm not looking for an answer right now.

Anyway, we stayed at the Pug Party for a couple of hours, and by the end of it I was exhausted and thirsty. But how did anyone expect me to get any drinking done when there were treats floating in the freaking water?? I mean, seriously. So my people finally had to pick me up and cool me off in the car air conditioning and give me water from a little dish with no food in it anywhere. And then we went home. And people, no joke: I slept the whole rest of the day, just like I did so many months ago, back when my people told me we were going for a little drive except that we went to the vet instead and when we got there they drugged me and robbed me of my womanhood and my ability to bear an heir. Yeah, you heard me: I know what you did, mom and dad. And if I were you, I'd keep a real close eye on that bun in your oven, that's all I'm saying.

Woof, Frodo

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Early intervention

Recently, Mrs. Fortune posted an entry on her hilarious blog about the phenomenon of the human jukebox, this idea that parents should sing to their children. On the same day that I read this post, I received my weekly e-newsletter from the Baby Center, updating me on the Status Of My Womb. Usually, these newsletters are relatively useless, giving me bit of "information" that are hardly news to me. "You are probably experiencing heartburn," the update informs me as I eat my fifth handful of Tums tablets for the day. "The baby is getting bigger every day," the update helpfully shares as I ram my gargantuan gut into the corner of the desk yet again.

But this week's e-newsletter mentioned something interesting: it said that Cletus the Fetus' ability to hear outside sounds is becoming much more advanced. She can now detect not just my voice but other familiar voices as well, and she can begin to notice and respond to music. Now, so far I've been pretty self-conscious about talking to the baby in utero. It's like, I know there's someone in there, I can feel her kicking and poking around, and yet I still can't shake the feeling that I'm having a one-sided conversation with my own stomach. Where I come from, that kind of behavior is strictly reserved for crazies and church folk.

But music? That's another story. That I think I can do. No child of mine will have her musical aptitude stunted due to lack of pre-birth exposure, doomed to end up listening to Nickleback and Ashlee Simpson because her parents failed to start her off on the right foot. As soon as I read that e-newsletter, I filled up my I-pod with the basics in my singalong repertoire and hustled out to the car for the first of many educational commutes with Cletus:

"Ok, so these are the Dixie Chicks. We like them because they remain cute and stylish while very efficiently fighting The Man. They are also twangy. Remember, in general: twangy = good."

"This here is Johnny Cash. If anyone asks, emphasize that you liked him before 'Walk The Line.' This adds cred."

"This is a Gillian Welch bootleg, because that's the way we roll. Also, because mommy's friend K's boyfriend knows a guy..."

"This is Bon Jovi. It's ok if you pretend not to like them when you are around Cool People. Mommy does it too. At home, though, the words 'Livin' on a Prayer' are only to be spoken with respect. Now check out this key change..."

"These are the Indigo Girls. Don't ever sing along with 'Closer to Fine' on a road trip with your girlfriends; it's trite. Unless you're taking back the night or something, in which case, well, we'll get into that later."

The idea of being able to shape the soundtrack of someone's childhood is a little overwhelming. I wonder if I could give Cletus' early pop-culture aptitude a similar prenatal boost by, I don't know, reading aloud to her from People Magazine before bedtime, or sitting real close to the television during Felicity. "See, Felicity is in college, right? And she's choosing between these two 40-year-old men pretending to be college students too, ok? One of them is the hot one and the other one is the sensitive one. Child, always go for the hot one. The sensitive one has waaay too many issues. Plus, bad hair."

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Someone to watch over me

I'm not a particularly spiritual person. I believe in God, but I don't walk around looking for signs and prophesies and burning bushes; if I were swimming around in 40 days' worth of floodwaters, I don't think I'd be holding out hope of getting picked up by the ark. Every once in awhile, though, the universe -- God, Mother Nature, what have you -- calls in a favor and sends you such a pick-me-up that you just have to believe that someone or something's out there pulling for you, holding up a foam finger and cheering you on.

Consider the following: I spend a full day sitting on the couch, gazing mournfully out the window, wondering "where are all the other pregnant feminist pug-owning librarians who like to read pop-culture blogs and watch cable tv inside in the air conditioning on a lovely summer day, and why haven't we found each other during one of the three attempts I've made to meet new people since moving to Chicago eight months ago?" I consider becoming a joiner and search the internet for local activities, finding only some book groups and a "newcomers club," whose website features photos of many, many white people making scrapbooks. I am two steps from ordering a mail-order bride for companionship when my former neighbor J. invites me over to watch Bridezillas and make fun of strangers. A perfectly-timed divine intervention? I think so.

Last Tuesday: I am having a terrible day. My right leg is cramped beyond anything I've ever felt before; the dog had puked up leaves and twigs all over her bed and crate; and I am late to work as a result of both. My hormones are out of control and I feel huge, ugly, depressed, like this pregnancy will last for the rest of my life. Library patrons are rude and I snap at one of them accidentally, and then feel awful and guilty immediately afterwards. Cletus the Fetus barely moves all day and I am convinced she is dead. I cry the entire drive home. But when I get to my apartment, the door to the kitchen is closed and I hear the husband yell out "Don't come in here!" It smells crazy-good. Twenty minutes later he emerges with steak, shrimp, potatoes, and frozen yogurt with raspberry sauce for dessert. For no reason, and with no prompting. My husband does many, many things well, but coming out of nowhere to surprise me is not usually his forte. Another perfectly-timed gift from the universe? I'm checking the "yes" box.

Yesterday: It is hot, and the husband and I are lethargic. We have been having serious conversations for the past two days about childcare, dividing up baby responsibilities, breastfeeding, when to buy things like car seats and cribs, etc. We are feeling nervous, unprepared, and distinctly uncomfortable with the fact that our most loving and supporting community -- the people who would, under normal circumstances, be offering up babysitting services and showering us with frozen casseroles after the baby's birth -- are scattered all over the country, some in Boston, some in Minneapolis, some in Maryland or Indiana, few of them here. We are lame and pathetic and feeling sorry for ourselves. We drive into the city to go to a second-hand baby clothing store I read about online. We balk when we arrive and see the sign touting the store as "upscale," and we breathe fire when we go inside and find nothing but $25 Tommy Hilfinger onesies. We go get ice cream and seethe at the world.

Ice cream helps. We go home and my sister-in-law calls. This helps more. She is calling to ask if we would like a baby shower when we are up in northern Wisconsin visiting with the husband's family in two weeks. She asks this so kindly, with so much consideration ("would you like it to be big or small? is there a particular cake or pie you would like?") that it almost makes me cry. She listens to my big sorry sob story of the day. She offers to bring us hand-me-down newborn clothes that her own children no longer need. She tells me I should hire someone to clean my house once a week after the baby's born, an option I had been silently considering but about which I was too weirded-out to voice. She reminds me that community is community, no matter who, where, or how far away.

If I were Oprah, I might have to chalk all this up to visits from the angels and then go write about it in my gratitude journal or something. I don't know about that. But I do know that I'm I'm pretty damn lucky that some force out there is keeping a watch out over me, every so often rolling their eyes lovingly and groaning "Girl, please" before swooping down to save my from myself. Again.