The Cost of Shit

The cost of shit is growing.

I take Fiber Choice, which costs about $0.12 per tablet. I take four tablets per day, which works out to about $0.48 (not including tax).

Zel takes Metamucil, which costs about $0.07 per dose. He Metas twice a day, which works out to about $0.14 (not including tax or water).

Then there’s the toilet paper and the cost of flushing, but I won’t get into that.

Baby Kaos is currently only taking breast milk. But, he poops like 6 times per day. Not kidding. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but he averages about 6 poops a day.

We get his diapers at Costco, so it works out to about $0.16 per diaper, which works out to be about $1.00 per day (again, not including tax). This is way less expensive than buying diapers at the Evil Empire, which would cost about $2.00 per day.

This only includes poopie diapers. It doesn’t include pee-pee diapers. Our cost is increased to about $1.50 per day if we include pee-pee diapers.
We put Baby Kaos’ poopie diapers into the Diaper Genie which helps to control the smell of the poopie diapers (pee-pee diapers go in the main trash in the kitchen cause they don’t smell, you guys). This, too, costs money because we have to buy refills for the Diaper Genie. The refills cost about $6.00 per container, and the container lasts about two weeks.

However, the Diaper Genie is holding fewer diapers now because Baby Kaos is in a bigger diaper. He weighs over 17 pounds, which is big for a 3-1/2 month old baby. Bigger baby = bigger poopie diapers = less space in the Diaper Genie.
And let’s talk for a second about the taxes that we pay on all of the shit we buy in order to shit. The only thing I’ll say about it is: If you think about it, the government is even taxing you to shit.

Honestly. Don’t they have enough of my money? And, isn’t this why we left England in the first place?

Let There Be Light

We have power again. It was off for 37.5 hours.

You read that correctly. Thirty-seven and one-half hours.

The power went out about 2:15 a.m. on Friday, 12/15. It came back on about 3:45 p.m. on Saturday, 12/16.

Melanie said, “That's a whole work week, and you guys didn't even get paid for that shit, you know what I’m sayin’????”

I know what she’s sayin’.

We had a wind storm that hit our area and wreaked havoc all over the place. There were about 25,000 people in my county alone without power. There were trees and power lines down all over the place. It was a fucking disaster.

My boss called me on Friday morning and basically said to not leave the house. But, I’d already left. She spoke with Zel and then he called me on the cell phone, but it was off and so he was upset (“Why the hell do we have a cell phone if you’re not going to turn it on?!?!”).

I couldn’t get into work even if I really wanted to because the road was blocked in both directions: a power pole to the north and a tree to the south. We were trapped. So I went home and Zel and I drank some hot chocolate. I had marshmallows in mine.

The upside is we still had heat because we have propane and have a gas heater for the primary heat source in our house. So, we didn’t freeze, which was good because Baby Kaos doesn’t need to freeze, you guys.

We were also still able to cook because we also have a gas stove. But, Zel didn’t make me cook. He took me out to dinner on Friday night (which is a normal thing for the past 10-1/2 years anyway) and then we went to breakfast on Saturday morning. We were going to go out on Saturday night, too, but the power came back on so we went to the grocery store and bought all the things we had to throw out that were in our fridge.

The checker at the grocery store said I should send the utility company my bill. Yeah. Perhaps Ma Nature will pick up the bill.

Oh well. At least we have light and can eat at home again.

Congratulations!

Congratulations to Mary Cheney and Heather Poe, who are expecting their first baby in late spring!

What They Don’t Teach You About Childbirth

I paid close attention in our Childbirth Education classes when I was pregnant with Baby Kaos.

But, I never knew a couple of things about pregnancy and childbirth. Nobody ever said these things to me; I had to go through it to know.

After the baby is born, and the baby either ripped the vagina or there was an episiotomy, and the doc has to sew mom’s vagina back up, and after everything’s healed, a woman’s vulva will look very different. Shockingly so. I was shocked. I can count the people and instances that have shocked me in my life on one hand and not use all of my fingers.

I spoke with my doc about the fact that my vulva looks different. He said that it’s pretty common, and no, they don’t usually tell women that beforehand. He said that he’s known a lot of women who are very upset about the appearance of their vulvas after childbirth, and said it would be an interesting thing to study, from a psycho-social perspective.

Bladder lift surgery is done when a woman becomes incontinent. Women become incontinent because we carry children.

I spoke with my doc about this one, too. He said they usually don’t tell women before they get pregnant about this one either. He said that if we had to sign up for pregnancy and they told women what they were signing up for we wouldn’t have survived as a species.

But, is being a mom worth the things I've gone through so far?

Absolutely.

Cars

When I pull into my doc’s office, I usually go in through the alley, that way I know whether my doc is there and whether I’ll have to wait. I can tell if he’s there by the cars parked in the alley.

Cadillacs.

Camrys.

Ford Pinto.

My doc drives a Pinto. It’s brown.

He has a license plate frame that says “The Bean”.

I love him.

Comment of the Day, October 26, 2006

I went to the doctor for my six week post-delivery check up.

He said he was impressed on how well and how quickly I’ve healed, considering everything I went through in the delivery of Baby Kaos.

I said, “Did it look like a bomb went off?”

My doctor, who appreciated the humor, said, “No, but you did deliver a pretty big baby, and had a pretty serious tear.”

We also talked about birth control. Not that I’m overly interested in sex, but eventually I expect Zel and I will start having sex again.

When we got home, Zel said, “Well, I don’t really want to pay for birth control if my dick’s not going in your hole.”

Nice.

The Force

I’ve been trying to use The Force for the past several weeks.

Baby Kaos is four weeks old, and he’s a big eater. When he’s nursing, which is a lot of the time, I sit down and remember that I could use my drink of ice water, but I forgot it over on the table. So, I try to use The Force to levitate my drink of ice water over to me, but I haven’t been doing so well.

You’d think I’d just bring my drink of ice water over to the chair where I’m feeding Baby Kaos, but when you have a hungry and fussy infant in your arms, and every fiber of your being wants to sit down and give him some boob, you can’t help but forget your drink of ice water.

I’ve also been trying to use The Force to get us a blanket when Baby Kaos is eating. I thought perhaps the blanket and drink of ice water were too bulky. So, I tried to get smaller items, like cloth diapers, which I use to dry off my nipple and Baby Kaos’ mouth, over to me. No luck.

I’m not trying to lift an X-Wing Fighter out of the swamp. However, I know that size matters not, and I should be able to levitate the blanket, the cloth diaper, and the drink of ice water with the same amount of ease.

I’ll continue to practice using The Force. If anything exciting happens, I’ll let you know.

Pretentious

According to Webster.com, Pretentious is an adjective that means, “expressive of affected, unwarranted, or exaggerated importance, worth….”

There are things that, as a new mom who has to make special arrangements to simply take a shower, are pretentious for me right now.

Here’s my pretentious list, which is in no particular order:

Jewelry.
I had to take my wedding and engagement rings off about 8 months into my pregnancy because I couldn’t get them off one day. Zel said to take them off and leave them off; after all, we didn’t want them to be cut off and then have to pay for them to be repaired. I also don’t wear my necklace, watch, or bracelet any more. I probably will some day, but today it’s not important. Besides, I’m a bit nervous that I’ll scratch Baby Kaos.

Shaving.
This includes my legs and my pussy. I finally did break down and shave before Baby Kaos was born. In spite of the fact that it was a lot of work at the end of my pregnancy, I had to shave it up, yo. I just needed to feel human. I’m going to have to shave at some point, though. I’m starting to not be able to stand it. I’m starting to feel like a bit of a Goonie Goo-Goo.

Waxing my eyebrows.
In college, Mel trained me to pay close attention to my eyebrows. She’s meticulous about her eyebrows. Before I went to DC in February, I made sure my shit was cleaned up and presentable to the Eyebrow Queen. But right now, I just don’t really give a shit. I’ll eventually breakdown and wax them, but I think I’ve a couple more weeks on this one.

Lotion.
Not only do I not have time to moisturize, I don’t give much of a shit. But, I have to put my face lotion on my face. I also have to put lotion on my hands because I wash them frequently (lots of diaper changes = lots of hand washing). I also have to put lotion on my feet, otherwise, someone will get shot.

Curling my hair.
Do I really need to expand on this one?

Comment of the Day, September 26, 2006

We went to get Zel’s hair cut today. The woman who does our hair is simply lovely. Although I didn’t get my hair cut, I decided to tag along, since she called me last week to see if we’d had Baby Kaos yet.

A woman at the hair salon said to Zel and I: “Is it a boy or a girl?”

I’d think the fact that Baby Kaos was dressed in a light blue onesie and dark blue pants would’ve been a clue. Apparently, I was incorrect.

so glad I don't have to do that

I'm sitting at my computer, and a robin out my window caught my eye. She's picking up worms, and will take them back to her baby robins to feed them.

I'm so glad I don't have to do that to feed Baby Kaos. Forage for worms, partially digest them, and then spit them back up into my baby's mouth.

I know it's part of her species. That's how they survive, and that's fine.

But, really, boobs are a great thing.

He’s Finally Here!

Baby Kaos has finally decided to make his entry into the world! Zel and I decided he takes after his mother and his Auntie Melanie, since he was late to his own party. Baby Kaos was born 14 days late, on September 10th at 2:11 p.m. His birth weight was 8 lbs even, and he measured up at 21.5 inches long.

The entire labor lasted about 13 hours. I did everything naturally, and only said, “This fucking hurts, you guys,” one time. I didn’t request drugs and I only said I couldn’t do it once, about 90 minutes into the two hours of pushing I did. I was pretty quiet throughout the entire labor and delivery. Our doula described me as being stoic, which is a nice compliment in this situation.

I have to give credit to the birth team: Our doula; two nurses, one of which is the mother of our doula (and it was very cool!), our doctor, and of course, Zel, who didn’t leave my side during the entire ordeal.

I ended up having to be on oxygen for the last half of pushing, because Baby Kaos’ heart rate was dropping a bit. I also had an episiotomy, because let’s face it, fitting an 8 pound baby through my 5’2” frame was a bit tight. Besides, I’ve been telling Zel I have the tightest pussy around for years, and now I have scientific proof.

The doc ended up vacuuming Baby Kaos at the very end. The doc said I did 99% of the work and just needed a bit of help to get Baby K out.

I also lost about 20 ounces of blood due to hemorrhaging. It makes me thankful and incredibly upset for all the women who have experienced massive blood loss during labor and delivery. It also makes me thankful that I have a great doctor who was able to get the bleeding to stop. I recognize that if I would’ve been picking apples and delivered this kid in the middle of an orchard, I would’ve died. The doc is 2- 0 when it comes to saving lives in our family. If he moves, we're moving to where he moves.

Baby Kaos and I are both healthy. He's great at eating, pooping, and sleeping.

I’m a bit sore, but that’s to be expected. He’s worth every stitch.

No Guarantees

There are no guarantees in life. We all know this. But for me it really hit home this past week.

On Wednesday, Zel, Baby Kaos and I went to The Good Doctor for our weekly prenatal visit. We talked a lot about inducing, and all agreed that I’d check into the hospital that night, and we’d start inducing.

There were several reasons for our decision:

1. There was room at the inn. In our little town, there is one hospital, which has four labor/delivery rooms and four recovery rooms. On Wednesday afternoon, there were two moms and babies recovery rooms, and no moms in labor/delivery rooms. May as well take advantage of that situation.

2. As much as we can, we’d like to avoid Baby Kaos having 9/11 as a birth date. We don’t want him to hear everything from, “You must be the most patriotic kid in the world!” to “What a horrible day to be born!” and everything in between.

3. I’m really tired of being pregnant, and I’d like to be done. Besides, I’m a spoiled brat and I’d like to have my body back to myself. I don’t feel like I’m going to be pregnant forever, I’d just like to be done.

4. I’d been dilated to 1 cm for 2 weeks. I have to get to 10. Let’s get the show on the road, already!

Once in the hospital on Wednesday night, The Good Doctor examined me and basically said, “Well, you’re still at 1 cm, so I’m going to insert this small tea bag full of medication into your vagina. It needs to stay in for 12 hours.” It was a prostaglandin, which is a suppository that causes labor. I had to remain lying down for the first two hours, hooked up to a monitor: one belt measured Baby Kaos’ heart rate; the other belt measured my contractions.

In the morning, about 12 hours later, The Good Doctor removed the tea bag and I was still at 1 cm. What the fuck? The good news was that my cervix was thinner (a thin cervix is required for delivery).

So, they started me on an IV drip of Pitocin, which is a synthetic form of oxytocin. Oxytocin is a hormone that starts contractions. It is also responsible for releasing orgasm in both men and women, and helps with emotional bonding.

I’ve heard horror stories of Pitocin, and it wasn’t something I wanted to experience. But, it wasn’t as bad as I’d heard. They started me at a pretty low dose, and gradually raised the level throughout the day. I was having contractions, but they weren’t major. By Thursday afternoon, I was at the maximum level, and I was sleeping through my contractions. Not a good sign, so they stopped the Pitocin.

The Good Doctor came in and said I was at 2 cm. Woohoo! Progress! And, then I felt some pretty intense pain. Without warning, he stripped my membranes. I’m glad he didn’t warn me; it would’ve sucked more than it did. He basically stuck his fingers inside my cervix and ran his fingers around until the amniotic sac separated from the cervix.

Then came the blood. Lots of blood. A frightening amount, really. But, The Good Doctor, as well as whoever the Wonderful Nurse was at the time, said that it was normal and to not worry. The blood was caused by ruptured blood vessels.

Thursday evening, they started the Pitocin again. The contractions were more intense, but I was still able to doze through them. Of course, it helped that they gave me a sleeping pill. Based on my contraction monitor, they stopped the Pitocin in the middle of the night because I wasn’t contracting frequently and intensely enough.

Friday morning, because I wasn’t going into labor, and the bleeding had largely subsided, I was sent home. No baby. My consolation prize included lots of super-mega pads and a couple pairs of disposable underwear.

Zel and I were under the impression that if a woman goes into be induced, that she goes home with a baby. Apparently that’s not always the case. Being induced into labor isn’t a guarantee that you’ll get a baby. But, they don’t mention that in childbirth education classes. And I’ve never heard of such a thing.

I’m disappointed because I spent 42 stressful hours in the hospital and have no baby to show for it.

I’m frustrated because in the 42 hours I was in the hospital, there were 6 babies born.

I’m worried because I’m at 42 weeks today, and the longer Baby Kaos is in his current home, the more likely it is that placenta will stop nourishing him.

The plan is that if nothing happens between now and Tuesday, we’ll try inducing again.

But, I’m home, and my contractions have increased, which is good.

Hopefully this kid will come into the world naturally and not on 9/11. But there are no guarantees in life.

My Great Aunt Tildie*

My Great Aunt Tildie, who is my Mother’s Dad’s Sister, called on Sunday, August 27, the day Baby Kaos was due.

The last time I spoke with my Great Aunt Tildie, I was 16, and my Parents, My Little Brother, and I took a trip to New York. At the time, she lived on Long Island. Several years ago, she moved to Massachusetts, to be closer to her grandchildren. She’s in her 80’s, and she’s pretty sharp.

Everyone should have a Jewish Aunt named Aunt Tildie who lived on Long Island. She always sends me a birthday card; she sent cards when I graduated high school and college. She sent Zel and me a nice set of metal bowls for our wedding, saying she’s had similar metal bowls for 50 years and doesn’t cook a meal without them. She sent a card as soon as she heard the news about Baby Kaos.

When she called last week, she said, “Is this my favorite Grand Niece who lives in the Pacific Northwest?” I don't know if she has any other Grand Nieces who live in the Pacific Northwest, so I selfishly answered yes.

She wanted to know if “her baby” had come yet. She said she was so excited that she couldn’t stand it and wanted to know as soon as her little Great-Great Nephew was born.

We spoke for 1 minute and 28 seconds, according to my phone.

My Great Aunt Tildie called again this morning. “Just checking in on my baby,” she said.

I told her he still wasn’t here and we were being as patient as we could be, although it was getting harder to wait. We spoke for 1 minute and 8 seconds.

“I’m sure I’ll hear from you as soon as he arrives,” she said.

“Aunt Tildie, you're at the top of the call list” I said.

“You’ll call? No, you’ll be busy. I’ll probably hear from your mother,” she said.

It’s pretty funny, really: I don’t talk with the woman for 17 years and she calls two consecutive Sundays, and we speak for a total of 2 minutes and 36 seconds.

And, yes, she's at the top of the call list.

*Tildie is a nickname our family calls her. I’m not sure what her real name is.

Comment of the Day, August 31, 2006

I just got off the phone with Zel’s Mom.

She wanted the latest report. She’s excited. She’s also worried, since Baby Kaos is late. Both Zel and his brother were early. I guess having a baby go past term is a new thing for her.

I told her there’s been no change; nothing to report. We’re selective with what we tell the parents because both sets go into panic mode at the slightest change in the weather.

She and Dad and Zel’s Grandmother are coming up on September 14th.

Mom said to me, “Does the doctor think the baby will be here by the 14th?”

I can’t make this shit up.

Mind you, that would be 2 and 1/2 weeks late. We’ve already discussed with the doc that if nothing is happening by the end of next week, he’s going to induce me, which is fine, just fine.

I said, “Oh yeah. The doctor isn’t going to let me go that long.”

Even though she can put it together about being induced, I stayed mute about it. I didn’t want to hear about how Zel’s brother was induced. “They had to bring him,” she’s told me. I don’t need to really hear about this for the 12th time, you know what I’m sayin’?

I didn’t get into the fact that if a baby is in the uterus too long that the amniotic fluid starts to decrease and that can be harmful to the baby.

I know she means well and is excited about the baby. I told her we’d call her when something happens.

She also said, "Do they know how big the baby is?"

Honestly. I can't make this shit up.

Comment of the Day, August 29, 2006

Baby Kaos was due on August 27. We’re down to the last couple of minutes. Or, it could be we’re down to the last week or so. Depends on when the Star of the Show decides to arrive.

My Bulging Baby Belly isn’t huge. But, in my opinion, I’m big enough. It’s not like Zel and I are huge people.

On three separate occasions within the past week, three different women asked me when I was due, and I politely told them.

Then, they each said, “You’re not very big for being due in less than a week/past due.”

I’m not sure if they meant it as a compliment, or as an insult.

I’ve gained about 25 pounds, which is within the norm. Throughout my pregnancy, I’ve walked and practiced yoga several times each week (that’s why I can still put on my socks and shave, thank you very much).

Research shows that if pregnant women exercise, labor and delivery will be easier. I’ve taken pretty good care of myself. I’ve eaten pretty well.

Except between weeks 7 and 17 when I was puking and eating whatever sounded good, including fruity chewy candy and fried zucchini (not at the same time).

So, I’m just not sure how to take what they said.

I think they each picked up on the fact that I was a bit baffled by their comment. So, they quickly said, “You look great!”

Sometimes, you have to punt.

Liar! Liar! Pants on Fire!

Is this a shock to anyone?
Prosecutors Drop Case in Ramsey Slaying

Such a nice distraction from other events in the world.

Let’s Get the Show on the Road

Baby Kaos is late. He was due yesterday.

While I’ve not had the feeling that some of my girlfriends have had, where they felt like they were going to be pregnant forever, it is getting harder to be pregnant.

For example it is becoming a lot of work to drag my ass out of bed three or four times in the night to go pee. Lifting up the extra 25 pounds is hard work. And, if I wait too long in between pees, then it physically hurts to walk to the bathroom.

My friend the Epidemiologist is pregnant with twins. She’s convinced she’ll be on bed rest for the last trimester and she said that she’s going to have a scheduled c-section.

I’m not keen on having a c-section because that means they have to stick a needle in your spine to numb you from the chest down.

Melanie once told me, “Don’t ever let anyone stick anything in your fucking spine.” I’m planning on heeding that advice.

More than anything, I’d like Baby Kaos to get the show on the road because I’m tired of the raging hormones. Let me just say that crying at the drop of a hat sucks. I’m very fortunate that Zel is a very patient man.

Yes, I recognize that there's the possibility of post-partum depression. I've spoken with my doc about it and he said he'll keep an eye on me.

God Bless the Mothers

God Bless the Mothers, for they are about to drive us fucking crazy.

Ever since I’ve told my Mother about my pregnancy, which was back in January, we’ve spoken about once a week. Not a major thing, but she can’t be on the phone for less than thirty minutes. This is probably why she’ll never get on line…she likes to talk too much. She’s a hairdresser, so it’s part of her job to talk.

Because we speak once a week and we’re on the phone for 30 – 60 minutes at a time, she knows a lot about what’s happening with my pregnancy, Baby Kaos, our childbirth ed classes, and the fact that we’ve hired a doula.

The other day, my Mother told me that she was going to get her haircut before she and my Dad come up. But, she said that the baby talked to her and the baby said not to. Not sure what she’s smoking, so I let that one go. But, she’s not coming until the third week of September, so I bet she breaks down and gets a trim beforehand.

We were getting questions from both of our Mothers about what we’re naming the baby. We told them both early on that we would tell them the gender of the baby, but that we were not telling anyone the name of the baby.

We don’t want to hear about Uncle so-and-so who was a total a-hole alcoholic and that he’s better off dead. We don’t want to hear about ex-boyfriend what’s-his-name that left her best girlfriend in high school as soon as he went away to college. We wouldn’t get this from just family. Oh no, we’d get this shit from everyone.

Besides, what if he’s a she? We met a woman who was expecting a little boy, which was confirmed by two ultrasounds, and everything they had was blue. And when baby was born, the doctor announced that he was indeed a she.

I mentioned this to my Mother. She said, “Well, how can the test be wrong?”

Really. She said this. I can’t make this shit up.

Zel’s Mother calls about every other week. Except for the last month, she now calls weekly. Zel spoke with his Mom today. Today, her request was that the child be born before September 1. Because if he’s born after September 1, then he’ll miss the cut-off date for starting kindergarten and have to start a year later. I’m not exactly sure how she knows what the cut-off date is for the school district in Our Little Town, but nonetheless, this is her request.

Never mind the fact that we don’t know if we’re even going to put the kid in public school. Home schooling is an interesting option. Furthermore, since Baby Kaos is going to be so goddamned smart he’ll be doing calculus by the age of 5, he may be able to test out of kindergarten.

Zel told her we don’t want the baby born on Labor Day. We can hear the comments from lots of different people now: “Oh…you went into labor on Labor Day! That’s so funny!” or “You labored on Labor Day weekend! That’s so appropriate!”

We also would prefer Baby Kaos is not born on September 11, for obvious reasons. We did chat with our doc about this one. He said not to worry, because at that point, we’re looking at being 2 weeks over-due and he’ll induce labor by then.

We’re very selective with what we tell either set of parents. We don’t want to have a slew of questions.

Both sets of parents said they want to be called when we’re on the way to the hospital.

Like good children, we said we’d call.

But, because it takes 10 minutes to get to the hospital, we’re not going to call.

We don’t want to deal with questions such as:

“How long have you been in labor?”

“How far apart are the contractions?”

“Did your water break?”

“Why didn’t you call when you started labor/when your water broke?”

“Are you in pain?”

“How much further is it till you get to the hospital?”

“Who’s driving?”

Since neither Mother can be on the phone for less than five minutes, we’re making one phone call. That’ll be to some good friends, who will come over to take care of Flof.

Comment of the Day, August 22, 2006

Zel was on the phone with his Mom. Since we’ve told them we’re pregnant, we speak with his folks about every other week.

She asked, “Is everything still on schedule?”

God love her. We’re gonna deliver a baby, not a pizza.

Babies show up when they feel like it. If I call up and order a pizza, that thing better be here in 30 minutes or so.

Picture

We just picked up our pictures. Here's me in all my glory.

God Bless This Lube

Glad the Christians are playing with their toys. "It stands to reason that some Christians already know all about adult products while others secretly long to know more but don't know who to ask. Those are the customers that Book22 seeks to attract. Book22, named for the twenty-second book in the Bible, "Song of Solomon," is a new adult novelty store positioning itself as a Christian source of intimacy products for married couples."

I'm not gonna comment on the "married couples" thing. I'm just glad some of them are admitting that they like to fuck.

Maternity Photos

Zel and I just had our photos professionally taken. The last time we had our photos professionally taken was at our wedding, over seven years ago.

The photographer shot both of us, which took about an hour.

Then Zel left and she shot me for about 2 hours.

I was naked. Or, as the in-laws from the south say, nekked.

The photographer did strategically place some gauze across my breasts and my hairy pussy.

Baby Kaos is due in less than 30 days. So, I have quite the Bulging Baby Belly.

The photographer did tell us that when we’re in our 50’s, we would be really glad that we had these images taken.

Demi Moore had maternity photos taken in 1991. She was so unashamed of being pregnant she appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair.

Good for her. She was beautiful. She still is. I mean, she’s Demi Fucking Moore, yo.

I’m actually surprised that maternity photos didn’t take off 15 years ago, when Demi was nekked on VF.

Maybe it’s because having your pictures taken is a lot of work. I’m F-ing exhausted, you guys.

When I got home, I told Zel it is goddamned hard being Cindy Crawford for an afternoon. No wonder that woman demands millions of dollars to have her picture taken.

The Doulo

A doula is a trained woman who provides support to a woman in labor. She also supports and encourages her partner to support a woman in labor. She acts as an advocate for the laboring woman and her partner to the medical staff.

Doulas have been employed in different cultures for millennia, and they’re starting to be popular in the States.

Zel and I are interviewing a couple of doulas this week. My friend the epidemiologist, who just found out she’s pregnant with twins, said she doesn’t want a doula sitting around knitting during the birth of her babies. Funny how a highly educated woman doesn’t bother to educate herself on some issues. But, I digress.

In our childbirth education class, there’s a man there who is an EMT, and he’s acting as this one woman’s doula. Or doulo, if you will.(I didn’t do well in Spanish. I was one of those students who thought is was ok to just add an O. Sorry Luis!)

The doulo’s not gay; he just likes being around birth.

That’s cool.

He doesn’t charge. And that’s cool, too. Free is a very good price.

When he introduced himself, he said that the doulas don’t talk to him. As class progressed, we found out why.

He was goddamned annoying. And it wasn’t just me and my pregnant hormones. Zel thought the dude was goddamned annoying, too.

The childbirth educator would be teaching, and he would jump in and give his perception, experience, etc. Sometimes the teacher asked him for his experience, but mostly she didn’t…mostly.

He came off as an authority. I’m not saying he doesn’t have knowledge, but tone it down a notch, dude. Either that, or go learn to be a childbirth educator. This class isn’t about you. This class is about all the preggies who are about to squeeze a baby out of their pussy.

Comment of the Day, August 8, 2006

My assistant’s sister-in-law stopped by today.

My assistant is lovely.

Her sister-in-law, who I’d never met before, and I were chatting…she asked when the baby’s due, then she said that she really wants to have a baby…she has endometriosis…if she doesn’t have a baby by the end of the year the doctor wants to do a complete hysterectomy and she’s just about to turn 25.

I truly felt bad for her.

Then she said, “You know, when you sit down, you don’t look pregnant.”

Second Florida Woman Sues Bacardi Over Alleged 'Flaming Rum Shot' Injuries

“A bartender, who was not identified in either lawsuit, was pouring shots of Bacardi 151 when a customer lit a menu on fire and placed it in the stream of alcohol. The bottle that was being used to pour the shots turned into a flame thrower and sent flaming rum all over [the women], the lawsuit said.”

I’m sorry for the women, because the lawsuit states they suffered second and third degree burns. I’m empathetic, because I suffered a second degree burn, and I know what’s involved in treatment. It is horrific.

I’m also sorry because they feel it is better to sue Bacardi than the idiot who lit the menu on fire. Bacardi has deeper pockets than the idiot, so I suppose that’s the logic.

But, what I’m really sorry for is they are alleging “that Bacardi 151 proof rum ‘emits a high volume of combustible and explosive vapor’ which makes it ‘unreasonably dangerous’ and a ‘defective product.’”

Um…hello? Alcohol is flammable. It's been quite some years since I've had a drink, but don't people know to NOT LIGHT FLAMMABLE MATERIALS ON FIRE?!?! Maybe I'm naive.

Banning Cleavage

There's a school district in Texas (of course) that's banning cleavage.

“It's gotten bad enough that, unfortunately, our young males are looking at more than their English book, their speech book, their science book,” says school board president Sherri Wade. “And it's kind of nice to have something left to the imagination.”

I'm thinking it 's not to protect the young males, or even the young lesbians, from looking at cleavage, but to prevent the male teachers from having gigantic erections while they're teaching, which would lead to multi-million dollar lawsuits.

But, spin it that "we gotta protect the children" and you can do just about anything.

Hairy

I’m sick of shaving. It’s getting harder and harder for me to shave my legs and my pussy.

My Bulging Baby Belly is getting in the way.

I can’t reach my pussy to shave it. I’m not shaving my legs as much, either. I’ve reached the “I don’t give a crap how I look” stage of pregnancy that my girlfriends said would hit towards the end.

But, I still am a cute pregnant woman. I hear it from the people I work with. These comments are always welcome. Telling me your birth horror story isn’t welcome.

It’s become a challenge to put lotion on my legs.

But, I can still polish my toes. I don’t have to balance on one leg, while I’m wet, running a razor up my legs when I polish my toes.

It’s hard on me to have a hairy pussy. I feel like I’m living in the 70’s. I’m used to having my pussy look similar to the pussy of a 5-year-old—nekked pussy.

I used to do a moustache, but it became a little to Hitleresque, and as a Jew, I couldn’t promote that. So a few years ago, I shaved it all off.

Zel said that right now, my hair pussy looks like the Great Pit of Carkoon, where the Sarlacc lives. You know: that thing that Boba Fett fell into in Jedi and is spending a thousand years being digested in.

Nice.

Comment of the Day, July 31, 2006

Zel and I are at his work, and I’m heading down the hall to go use the ladies’ room and I see someone I know. We don’t know each other well, but we say hi to each other when we see each other. She’s one of the secretaries.

Be nice to the secretaries and janitors; they have hard jobs. And, they hear EVERYTHING, so they can fill you in on information when you need it.

I had the main door to the ladies’ room open.

She said, “You still haven’t had that baby yet?”

“Nope; about another month or so,” I said.

My friends who have been pregnant said they’d get comments like this towards the end of their pregnancies, too.

This was the first time anyone had said anything like this to me.

She started to say something else, but I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to use the ladies’ room.”

I’m learning to be assertive about my bladder.

Besides, I didn’t want to hear about how she knew someone who delivered their uterus.

New Favorite Radio Station

KFYE-FM, out of Fresno, is my new favorite radio station.

California radio station changes format from God to sex

"Now it calls itself "Porn Radio" — "all sex radio, all the time," with a suggestion that people under 21 not listen."

I'm glad they have the warning. But, the kids are listening to much worse than "Sexual Healing".

Comment of the Day, July 24, 2006

I went into the ladies’ room today. Not that the act of using the ladies’ room is different from any other day.

But today, there was a different conversation. I don’t want to engage in conversation with everyone I meet along the way to the bathroom or with all the ladies in the ladies’ room. I’m trying to work at work; my boss gave me the deadline of being done with all of my shit by August 1. During the last month, she wants me to be able to go home and take a nap in the middle of the day if I feel like going home and taking a nap.

But for some reason, everyone wants to talk to me.

Sometimes I get lucky and don’t bump into anyone in the hall or in the ladies’ room. Today, I didn’t get lucky.

Picture this: I’m heading into the stall, turning around to shut the door so that I can pee my brains out. I hear, “How are you feeling?” Apparently she and I are on the same schedule today.

It’s the woman who saw me earlier, when I was pale and needed to get something to eat, which I had planned to do as soon as I made a used water deposit. But, because I was pale, she insisted that I go down to where all the nurses work and have them check on me…take my blood pressure, which was fine, just fine.

“Oh, hi,” I say in a polite manner. “I’m fine, thanks, just fine.”

“Well, you were so pale earlier. I remember how it was when I was pregnant with my daughter. I needed to eat every couple of hours,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m finding I need to do that, too.”

“Well, how far along are you?”

“Baby’s due at the end of August”, I said.

“Oh. Well, I was your size when I was 5 months pregnant. My labor and delivery were really bad, too.”

This was where I should’ve said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need to go,” and simply shut the door. I had the opportunity, but I let it pass me right by.

Fortunately, I was able to tune out most of what she said. Zel is the Master of Tuning Out. He does it to me all the time, and that’s ok. Our relationship works.

She went on, and this is what I heard: “Blah blah blah…ended up going into the Big City by helicopter…blah blah blah…and I delivered my uterus.”

I thought she meant her placenta. Nope. She said uterus. She said it more than once, so that’s when I decided that she knew the difference between a placenta and a uterus. She said it was so rare that they wrote about her in medical journals.

“But don’t worry, the chances of that happening are only like 1 in 200,000. But, because you know me, it’ll probably happen to you,” she jokingly said.

Nice. Don’t joke about that shit, ‘cause it’s not funny. It’s mean.

My Parents and Computers

The thing that frightens me about My Parents and computers and the Internet is that they don’t know how to use either one.

It frightens me because my entire life, they pushed education, and, they’re unwilling to educate themselves how to use the computers and the Web.

They’re Baby Boomers.

Isn’t this the generation that took the world by storm?

Isn’t this the generation that protested Vietnam?

Isn’t this the generation that had the great musicians?

The Beatles. The Stones. The Who. Zeppelin. Springsteen.

Some of whom inspired people to get up off their lazy asses and do something?

Dylan. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.

Isn’t this the generation where the sexual revolution started? Aren’t they the last generation to fuck anything it wanted to without fear of contracting HIV?

The other thing that frightens me about My Parents and computers is that by not being willing to learn, I think they’re making themselves functionally illiterate. There are senior citizens in my community (and throughout the world) that have not only learned to use computers and the Web, but embraced the technology.

Zel and I can’t function without our computer or access to the Web.

All of our music is on the computer, and the music is on from the time we get out of bed until we go to bed late in the night.

We get our news from the Web.

We stay in touch with our friends, who live all over the place, via email.

And, don’t get me started with the shopping I can do on-line. The closest mall is a 90 minute car ride away. I love the fact that I can shop without having to travel...or be presentable to the rest of humanity. I’m able to maintain the Baby Kaos registries on-line. Because we didn’t purchase the stock when it was a brand new company, I kick myself every time we purchase something from Amazon.com.

When our ISP is down, Zel and I get crabby. We start to shake. We’re mean to each other. We’re Web Addicts. We consider going to a Web Anonymous meeting, but we’re not down with the 12 steps. We can’t get past the first one: “We admitted we were powerless over our addiction - that our lives had become unmanageable,” because we can still manage our lives. We can function.

Then there’s the business end of it. I cannot comprehend how offices were run before computers and email. I submit my monthly reports to the State on the Web. I’m able to email colleagues and not have to waste money playing phone tag.

Zel is teaching summer school right now, and the courses are on-line. He’ll teach most of his classes on-line after Baby Kaos is born (nice for lots of reasons!).

I do want my parents to be on-line, but when they were, if I didn’t email my Mom back within 5 minutes, she’d freak out and call me.

It happened when they were on-line before. "Amelia!" she would scream into the answering machine, because I would be at work. "Why haven't you emailed me back yet? I emailed you a few minutes ago and I haven't heard back from you! Are you ok? What if you slipped in the shower and you hit your head? Should I call the LVPD?!"

I guess you pick your poison.

My Mom and the Internet

My Mom called, letting me know they were looking at specific dates to come up and see Baby Kaos after he’s born. He’s due at the end of August. They’re looking at coming up the third week of September.

In booking flights for her and my Dad, she did it the old fashioned way: she spent her day calling the airlines.

It isn’t very easy to get to Our Little Town; not like when we lived in Vegas. In order to get here, you need to fly into the Big City, then switch airports (there’s a free shuttle) and fly about 30 minutes to Our Little Town on a little single-engine plane; or you rent a car and drive for 2-1/2 to 3 hours. It takes some work to get here, and that’s something we were conscience of when we moved; we didn’t want to have to run the hotel for a house we had when we lived in Vegas (no disrespect to the friends who came to visit!). So, she needed to contact several different airlines for the flight to the Big City; then she needed to contact the one airline that flies from the Big City to Our Little Town.

But I digress.

After she called the airlines, she called me, because she’s always looking for an excuse to call me.

She told me her flight plans, but that she hadn’t booked anything yet because she wanted to double-check that the dates would work for us. The airline was holding tickets for her and My Dad for 24 hours. The dates were fine, just fine.

We hung up so she could book the tickets. Then she called me right back, letting me know the cost of the flights, and that they were going to drive from the Big City to Our Little Town (she doesn’t want to get on a single-engine plane, which is understandable). She wanted to know if I thought she could’ve booked cheaper flights if she had booked it on the Internet.

“Probably,” I said.

“Well,” she said, “we don’t have the Internet, so I guess we’ll just have to live with what we paid for.” My Mother is very gifted at being passive-aggressive. I’ve learned to ignore most of it.

In May, the night before they left for their trip to Hawaii, she called and said, “I tried calling the airline because they said you could check in for your flight before arriving at the airport, but then when I called, they said you can only do that over the Internet. But, we don’t have the Internet, so I guess we’ll just have to live with checking in at the airport.”

I didn’t volunteer to check her in. Partly because of the passive-aggressive thing. Partly because I wasn't comfortable doing such a thing. And, fortunately, she didn’t ask.

“You may want to think about getting on-line, Mom. Zel is planning on doing a web page for the baby and we may even get a camera and you could watch video of him,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know. Your Dad didn’t really like having the Internet before.”

When My Parents had the Internet before, my brother was in middle and high school. He’ll be a college senior this fall.

Every time they would get on the web, they would get pissed off. Then my Mom would say, “Let’s call Amelia! She’ll know what to do!” as if I were a superhero. But, she’s always looking for an excuse to call me.

And I would tell her every time, “Mom, you have a slow connection and you need to upgrade your computer.” Really I was telling her in a nice way: “Mom, you own a piece of shit.”

But, she didn’t think she needed a new computer. Why spend the money on a new computer when this one works fine, just fine?

So, she put it off, figuring if you ignore the problem, it’ll just go away. Kind of like if your brakes squeak and you turn the radio up (which is not something I do, but I know some people who do).

“As for pictures of the baby,” she said, “you can just print them off and mail them to us. Or, can you email them to your Little Brother and then he can print them off? Is that even possible? I don’t know.”

“We’ll figure something out, Ma,” I said out loud. “Breathe,” I said inside my head.

My Dad and the Internet

My Parents are not on-line. They were for a while. But they were using a Mac they purchased when My Little Brother was in Kindergarten. He’ll be a senior in college this fall. Fortunately for him on many levels, our parents decided when he graduated from high school that he needed a new computer.

In addition to an antiquated computer, they were on a 56K. Not sure why when they have cable television. So, Dad would get really pissed off because the pages would take forever to load. And then Mom would say, “Well, I don’t know why it’s so slow. Let’s call Amelia!” because she’s always looking for an excuse to call me.

Then My Little Brother moved out to attend college, taking his new computer with him. That’s when they disconnected their ISP.

My Little Brother is on-line, and I send him pics of my Bulging Baby Belly and he thinks it’s cool that we can communicate for free. Being Jews, that’s important, yo.

The other day, I had an Internet Lessons from my Dad.

My Dad was telling me about a girl that my Little Brother went to elementary, middle, and part of high school with. She was hiking in the Andes and she and her brother fell into a crevasse and were killed. They were both experienced hikers; they had hiked to the top of McKinley. She was majoring in something to do with the outdoors or environmental issues from my alma matter.

“Not sure if you saw it. It made national news,” Dad said. Zel and I don’t watch much television; we get our news from the web. And, no abc.com and cnn.com aren’t on the list of news sources (and just for the record, neither is fox.com).

“What a horrible thing. I didn’t read about it. Maybe I’ll go to your local newspaper’s web site and check it out,” I said.

“Well, it’s on the Internet. You can go look up Peru and it’ll come up,” he said. “Don’t you guys get a lot of your news on the Web? Well, you go look up Peru and you can read all about it.”

Just what an expecting mom wants to read about: someone’s children who were hiking in the Andes and died.

My Dad continued: “That’s what this guy at work did. He got on the Internet and then he said to me, ‘Well, what do I look up?’ and I said, ‘I don’t know. Try Peru.’ And he typed in Peru and we read all about it,” said my Dad.

Bless his heart. He truly has no concept of how to use the Web. Just for kicks, and because I’m a good kid, I Googled Peru. There were 446,000,000 hits, and the first one was from cia.gov.

And, then I remember that I have the luxury of talking to My Dad. And I remember that I have no idea what she feels. And I remind myself to be patient with him.

I Have No Idea

I have no idea what you’re dealing with.

Or what you’ve dealt with everyday for the last 6 weeks.

Or what you had to handle when you went home to visit. And you went to see your new niece, who is simply lovely.

And you had to leave her earlier than you wanted because you received word that he was sick.

So, you go to the hospital for 16 hours a day. Making sure the nurses are doing their jobs, even though you’re not a nurse, but you could be after the 16-hour shifts you pulled.

I can relate to being at the hospital for 16 hours a day. And being a pseudo-nurse. And how time seemed to stand still.

And the being afraid part; I can relate to that, too. Afraid that the person you love more than anyone else in the world, the person you’ve depended on for forever, is sick and you’re afraid he’s going to die.

And you’re pissed off because you feel helpless. And you question why this is happening; he’s a good person. Why is he so goddamned sick?

I had that experience with my husband. He recovered.

But your Dad died.

And I’m sorry.

I have no idea what it feels like to loose a parent. And the child in me hopes to never know. But the adult in me knows I will eventually.

And I think about how we are at two completely different places in our lives: one of us dealing with death and the other dealing with creating a life.

And I know we’re both afraid of the future.

I send you positive energy all the time. Sometimes, I dedicate my yoga practices to you. I did when your Dad was sick, too.

Sometimes, when I speak to my Dad on the phone, and he goes off on a tangent, and then a tangent, and he keeps tangenting on and on, and it takes him about 10 minutes to get back to the original point, I get frustrated and roll my eyes. I think, How in the goddamn does Princess Diana relate to Hemingway? Where is he going with this one?

And, then I remember that I have the luxury of talking to my Dad. And I remember that I truly have no idea what you’re feeling. And I tell myself to be patient with my Dad. I remind myself that I need to be thankful for the time I have with him; because it may be the last time I talk to him.

I didn’t know your Dad that well; I only met him a couple of times. But he was hott. He was tall, and had grey hair, and a handle-bar moustache, and a beard, and he wore glasses. And he walked with a cane, but it was this cane that was distinguished. It wasn’t one of those canes that you buy at Walgreen’s. It was cool.

I know he would’ve taken me in if I needed a place to sleep. Unless I was on crack. He may have taken me in, but then he would’ve said, “Amelia, you really need to put down the crack.” And I would’ve done it, because I respected him.

And I so appreciate your Dad. Because he created you. And you are truly amazing.

I love you, Mel.

Childbirth Education Class

We started our Child Birth Education Class. It’s actually a series of classes. There are 8 of them. The first four discuss what to expect during labor and delivery, and provides us with some helpful tips.

Yes, there’s that whole “breathing thing”. But, Stephanie the Childbirth Educator said the important thing is to breathe because if you don’t breathe then it takes oxygen rich blood away from the baby and sends oxygen rich blood to your extremities, which is part of the fight or flight response to stress. If blood goes to your extremities and away from you uterus, you have a more difficult labor.

There are 14 couples in the class (Mel, that’s 28 people). That’s a goddamned lot of babies on the way.

A few babies are due in a couple of weeks. There are several babies that aren’t due until the end of August or beginning of September. There’s one baby that’s not due until October. Take it down a notch, Mom. You could’ve started a bit later. Really. Don’t be so goddamned over zealous about squeezing that baby out’cha pussy.

Zel and I are one of two “older” couples in the class. The other “older” couple is…well, she’s probably close to 40, and he looks like he’s about 30. Not sure, but whatever works for them is fine, just fine.

All of the other couples are in their mid-twenties. There don’t seem to be any expecting moms that are in their teens, which is a good thing! (Does that mean our prevention programs are working? Because we know abstinence only programs aren't working. The kids are a-fuckin'!).

There was one dude who had on a General Lee shirt. You heard me. General. Lee.

He clearly didn’t want to be there. I’m not making this statement because he was wearing a General Lee shirt. I’m making this statement because he sat there with his arms a crossed his chest with a scowl on his face for most of the class. His wife seemed kind of into class. But he was forced to be there. Bless her heart. I hope she’s up for the challenge.

"Leaky"

The latest nickname Zel has come up with for me is Leaky.

Because my boobs are starting to leak.

Love and feathers,
Leaky

Deli Counter Girl

“Hiiii!” I heard a female voice say.

It was one of those hi’s that was sung. And made into at least two syllables, maybe three.

“Hi. How are you?” I heard Zel say.

“I’m gooood,” she sang again. Two syllables.

I turned around, because I was curious to see who Zel was chatting with. We already had our freshly cut smoked turkey breast from the deli (which I can’t eat), and I knew we were in a bit of a rush because the England/Portugal game had started about minutes ago. I thought perhaps it was a student. It was Deli Counter Girl.

She was leaning on the counter, and when she saw me, she didn’t lean quite so hard. Her energy changed a bit. We said hello to each other, and smiled at each other. Then I took the cart and walked away.

It was apparent to me that she wanted to try and be a student of Zel’s. Perhaps get an A for anal sex. B for blow job at the very least.

We didn’t say hello to each other like dogs pissing a circle around their territory. We were cordial to each other. But, it was pretty obvious to me that I didn’t need to be in the conversation, so I left.

Zel caught up with me a few minutes later, and I was smiling at him.

“What?” he said. He was a bit concerned as to why I walked away.

I laughed. “Dude, she wants to fuck you so bad it’s sad. You should just bend her over that deli counter and F her in the A,” I said.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But, I don’t think she could handle you. She’s a child.”

We left the store and continued our conversation in the truck on the way home.

Zel said, “A child? She’s gotta be at least 21, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, she’s probably 21. But, just because she’s 21 doesn’t mean she knows how to give a good B for blow job.”

“I could teach her,” he said.

“Yup, you could teach her.”

We drove a long for a few minutes in a comfortable silence.

Then Zel said, “Think she licks pussy?”

“Nope. I think she is a pussy and has never been with another woman. She’s not comfortable sexually around other women. Did you pick up on her energy change when she saw me? She wasn’t quite so gushy once she knew I was there, listening to her sing to you” I said.

“You’re imagining things,” Zel said. “It’s gotta be your raging pregnancy hormones.”

“No, dude. I’m intuitive. Deli Counter Girl totally wants to be your girlfriend.”

"She's cute," he said.

"She's cute," I agreed.

Maybe...

...Just maybe, he was flipping off his mom and dad for making him enter the stupid contest in the first place.

Little Mr. Apricot Flips Off Crowd, Loses Title

Freak accident?

How in the hell does something like this happen??

David Hasselhoff was shaving at a gym in the Sanderson Hotel on Thursday when he hit his head on a chandelier, showering his arm with broken glass.

Was he jumping on a goddamned trampoline?

Turkey Sandwich

I can't eat turkey sandwiches anymore. I haven't had one since I found out I was pregnant.

The problem is that deli meat and unprocessed cheeses sometimes carry a bacterium called listeria. Listeria can cause fetal death, which is something I'd like to avoid.

Last night, I had a dream about a turkey sandwich on wheat bread with mayo and mustard and provolone cheese and lettuce and tomato.

One of the first things I'm gonna do after the baby is born is eat a turkey sandwich.

Stupid Bitch

Does it say “Stupid Bitch” on my forehead?

No.

Funny, because I was treated like a Stupid Bitch today when I went to have another key made for my truck. I have one of those fancy-pants keys that has the plastic above the teeth, but the plastic part broke and I can only super glue that shit so many times before I decide to break down and spend the money.

I went to the dealership where I purchased my truck, and went up to the counter. Nobody was there, so I rang the bell. Waited. Nobody came. Rang the bell again. Finally, Schmoe showed up. I’d never seen him before. Where’s the cute guy who sold me my tires? The one who could sell me a used lollipop stick?

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need to have another key made for my truck, please,” I said.

“We can probably do that,” said Schmoe.

Probably. Nice.

“How much does it cost?” I asked.

“Well, if you get the same type of key you have now, only it’s all metal and it has the plastic around it, it’s $7.00,” he said.

“That’s fine,” I’m not loosing sleep. After all, it’s not like I’m drinking lattes right now. But, for seven goddamned dollars, I better get more than "Probably."

I gave him my key and he starts to go to the back, but he stopped, held up my key and said, “Don’t get rid of this key, now.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to.”

I’m standing there waiting for Schmoe to come back up with my both keys, and I’m starting to think, “Does this clown think I’m a Stupid Bitch? Honestly.”

He comes back up and says, “Now, is your car here?”

“Yes.”

“Because we should really check this before you leave. Why don’t you tell me which car is yours and I’ll go check it for you,” he said.

I said, “No thanks, I can do that.” I take both keys and head out to my truck thinking, “What the fuck? Does he treat all women this way? Or just the pregnant ones? And, since you work with the public, you may want to get that fungus on your fingernails taken care of, A-hole.”

The key worked. On my way back in I was thinking, “I should’ve let him do it because the alarm was set and he would’ve looked like an A-hole.”

I go back in and he gives me my receipt, I thank him. I then take my receipt to the lovely woman behind the cashier’s counter. I tend to give her lots and lots of money and she’s always pleasant. Imagine that.

I wanted to ask her, “Does he treat all women like they’re Stupid Bitches? Or just the pregnant ones?”

But, I refrained.

Then, when I got home, I made sure to wash my hands. I'll probably take another goddamned shower. Don’t want a goddamned fungus.

Comment of the Day June 23, 2006

Subtitle: Circumcision

Bumped into a colleague earlier today. She was very excited to see my now bulging baby belly.

She asked the usual questions:
“When’s the baby due?”
“Do you know the baby’s gender?”
“Do you have a name picked out?”

I replied politely to all of her questions.

Then she said, “Are you going to circumcise him?”

I was a bit taken aback by this. The only other people I’ve had this conversation with are Zel and Our Good Doctor.

Not even my Jewish Mother has broached the subject with me. She probably presumes I’m just going to be a wee-wee choppin’ parent.

My colleague said she didn’t circumcise her son and she thinks it’s important that parents don’t make that decision for the child.

I told her we haven’t made a formal decision yet, but as a Jew, I feel the need to uphold some of my people’s practices.

She looked at me over the rim of her glasses and said, “I’m a Jew and I didn’t do it.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s quite a personal decision and Zel and I are confident no matter what we decide, it will be the right decision.”

A great point that Our Good Doctor brought up: we can’t choose our child’s religion. If the kid decides to be a Muslim or a Jew, he’ll need to be circumcised.

Our Good Doctor also told us that the older the baby gets, the harder it is to circumcise him. And, as he gets older, the more involved the procedure is…like in a hospital…with a urologist…considerable time under general anesthesia...and lots more pain…increased chance of complications...increased recovery time...and thousands of dollars.

If we do it pretty soon after Baby Kaos is born, it will be an in-office procedure that Our Good Doctor can do…won’t cost a foreskin load of money (if you will)…a local anesthesia will be used…he’ll have a decreased chance of contracting a UTI during the first year of life…he’ll have a decreased chance of contracting STD’s and developing penile cancer as an adult.

Regardless of our decision, I think she has ovaries the size of coconuts to ask me something so personal.

Comment of the Day, June 21, 2006

Last night, we were driving to our first Childbirth Education class.

Suddenly Zel said to me, “Oh shit!”

“What?” I ask.

“I forgot something,” he said.

I’m thinking to myself, “we have the yoga mat and two pillows and the checkbook and the water bottle, what else do we need?”

“What did you forget?” I ask.

Zel said, “My book.”

Soccer Players

Soccer players are the toughest dudes in the world.

An Ecuadorian player just got kicked in the head.

The docs came out to carry him off on a stretcher.

The Ecuadorian player was like, "Screw you guys. I'm not gettin' on that goddamn stretcher." And walked off the field.

Kicked in the head. Walked off the field.

Comment of the Day June 19, 2006

Since I'm starting to make this a regular thing, I thought I'd better put a date up there in the title.

I was headed in to the office this morning and bumped into the caterer we work with. She talks incessantly. Diarrhea of the mouth, if you will.

And she said, “When’s that baby due?”

“End of August,” I said.

I was being polite, but I kept walking a bit. I was thinking, “I can always say I have a meeting.” What did people do before the spontaneous meeting was invented? What do people who don’t have meetings do to get out of conversations? Do they say, “Well, I’ve gotta go plumb”?

She said, “Well, you’re bigger than the last time I saw you. Pretty soon you won’t be able to drive.”

“Well,” I said, “I guess I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it.”

Funny, really, since just last week I was told I wasn’t big enough.

Travel Agent: Update

The travel agent I’ve been making an effort to work with replied to my email. She said, “I think I finally figured out your email and I emailed you the information on your brother’s flight. Did you get it?”

I replied, “I did not receive any information from you via email regarding my brother's trip. Will you please resend it to this email address? Thank you for your time.” This was on Wednesday.

On Friday, she forwarded me the email she had sent to some other Amelia Kaos. When I originally gave her my email address, I spelled both my first and last names for her; she misspelled my first name. Also, I specifically said “underscore” and not “hyphen”.

What should scare us is that she's a trained professional.

From her email, the cost of the roundtrip ticket for my Little Brother to come up is $615. Ouch. Especially considering that on the phone on Monday, she said $500, which was high but doable. Not sure where the extra $115 is coming in.

And that’s for one of the lower-end airlines. For that price, the ride better be direct from his town to my town, and come with strippers and blow jobs.

I've decided that travel agents are a special breed. I considered calling travel agents “Timmy Agents”. But then I decided it would be an insult to Timmy.

Travel Agents

My Little Brother and I are trying to arrange for him to come up here at the end of July.

Our Mother insists on working with a travel agent. “They can get you the best fares. Much better than the internet.”

The web scares the hell out of Our Mother. Computers scare the hell out of Our Mother. (Blog for another time.)

I’ve been surfing the web pretty extensively to get him a decent priced flight from the Desert Southwest to the Pacific Northwest. I’m happy to pay for half his ticket. He’s a starving college student and on a bit of a fixed income. Well, not so much starving because he still lives in the same town as Mom and Dad. And, he works like a dog waiting tables at one of the nicer restaurants in town, and they feed him pretty well at work. And, he makes decent money. But, still, you do that kind of thing when you make more money than him and he’s your only Little Brother. Your only sibling, in fact.

When we lived in Vegas, it was easy for folks to come, so they came.

Getting to our little town is a bit of a pain in the ass. Now, the closest major airport is about 3 hours away by car, including a ferry trip (when you grow up in the desert, taking a ferry is a novelty, so you take it). Riding in the car for 6 – 7 hours isn’t something I’m really going to want to do when I’m about 4 weeks away from delivering Baby Kaos. You hearin’ me?

He can fly here, but here’s how it would work:
Fly from the Desert Southwest to the Pacific Northwest.
Take the shuttle from Airport A to Airport B.
Fly from Airport B, which is in the same city as Airport A, to our little town.

Sounds easy enough.

But then you take into consideration that you’ve got to coordinate times of the flights at Airport A and Airport B. This could result in a major layover…like three hours or so. He’s a damn good-looking 21-year-old, about to be senior in college, so he could probably nail 2 or 3 chicks in Airport A before he catches the shuttle to Airport B. He’s a Creative Writing major, so he could actually nail like 6 chicks if he felt like it.

But, it’s a pain in the ass to coordinate the times and the flights and all that jazz. Especially when you’re trying to keep the cost under $10,000,000.

So, we each called a travel agent in our respective cities.

He called his about three weeks ago. He still hasn’t heard from her. Three weeks.

Hello? I need to put in for vacation sometime soon! Can you pick it up a bit?

So, I called her on Monday. She was out until Wednesday. I spoke with another travel agent at the same office. She was about as friendly as a rabid raccoon.

He’s also trying to book some mega-trip to Vegas and stay in a mega-resort with his girlfriend. They want to go all out, and that’s cool. Our Mother is worried they’re going to get married while they’re there. I’m not worried. The dude has a good head on his shoulders.

She hasn’t called him back on the Vegas trip either.

I called my travel agent on Monday, gave her my email address, no email from her yet.

She did call me on Tuesday, left a message, said she couldn’t get anything to go through to my email address.

So, I went on the web and tracked down her email and emailed her asking her to please email me. She replied back saying she think she figured out my email address and she sent me information on Tuesday. I replied to that and said I hadn’t received anything from her, would she mind resending me the info when she has some time?

My question is: what goddamned school did these travel agents go to? Is it the University of Stupid Bitch? Or is it the School for the Overly Incompetent?

Sweet Jesus, you guys. If I did business like this, nobody would every be educated about their health. The world would be full of smoking, overweight, drug-addicted, alcoholics, that were illeterate. Oh, wait. That's America.

In the words of Eric Cartman, "I...am...so...pissed...off...right...NOW!!!"

Comment of the Day

One of my homegirls, who lives in the Desert Southwest, called.

Wanted to see how the pregnancy was coming; she said felt horrible for not being in contact, blah blah blah.

I told her to not even worry about it…we’re all busy with life…life happens…blah blah blah.

She asked if we’d come up with a name yet.

“No, not yet,” I said. Which is the God’s honest truth. (Does saying “God’s honest truth” make it more truthful as opposed to simply, “the honest truth”? But I digress).

“Why not?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “picking a name is pretty challenging. And, because we have a common last name, we want to name the baby something that’s not quite so common.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I understand. I mean, I’ve had a hard time picking a name for a puppy.”

Comment of the Day

I'm starting a new thing called Comment of the Day. Because everyone has a comment for the pregnant woman. Not sure how many times I'll post a new post called Comment of the Day...we'll see how it goes.

I have a colleague who's baby is due about two weeks before Not John (that's what Zel and I call the baby, because we're not naming him John [no offense to the Johns out there, but there are a hell of a lot of you]).

I was chatting with another colleague, and she said (and I quote):

"Well, for only being two of weeks behind her, you're not nearly as big as her."

Nice.

The “Heat” of Summer

Several times each day, people ask me when Baby Kaos is due to make his entrance into the world.

“End of August”, is my typical response.

To which they say a variation of the following:

• “Oh, you’re going to love the heat!” (in a sarcastic tone)
  
• “What a horrible time to be pregnant. What about the heat?”
• “Why did you choose to get pregnant during this time and suffer through the heat of the summer?”
  

And, my typical answer is: “I grew up in the Southern Arizona, and I’ve also spent several years in Las Vegas, so, I’m not overly concerned about ‘the heat’ of the Pacific Northwest. After all, we live on the coast. And one’s definition of heat is relative.”

This usually causes them to stifle.

Sometimes, when I know the person, I’m feeling particularly surly, or they feel they need to push the issue I'll say: “Well, the timing for my husband and I is actually perfect. He’ll be done teaching summer school, and then he doesn’t report back to school until the end of September, so we’ll have about three or four weeks of the two of us being at home with Baby Kaos.”

What I’d like to say to people is: “Well, the baby’s like his Daddy in that he comes when he comes.”

Other times, especially when I’m super crabby, I’d like to say: “Fuck you for judging me. You don’t really have the right to do that. Are you a conservative?”

But I don’t. I refrain.

Not Making This Up

The following is an excerpt from my local news station's web site. Don't forget that I live in a small town, where a single vehicle accident is big news.

"The truck came to rest less than 20-feet from a small beauty salon. Women in that building two deputies they thought the pickup was coming right into the building."

Perhaps they should consider hiring a proof reader. I'm happy to do that for them if they'll pay me.

Forgot My Panties

This week, I traveled into the Big City for a one-day meeting. I went into the Big City the day before the meeting, because the meeting started at 9:30, and it generally takes about 3 hours to drive to the Big City. No way am I getting out of bed at 5:30, leaving by 6:30, dealing with Big City traffic, sitting all goddamned day in a meeting, and driving home all in the same day. I could fly, but I took my own rig because I needed to do some shopping and I didn't want to deal with getting the playard on the plane.

I was unpacking in my hotel room, and ironing my pants and shirt for the next day. It was around this time that I realized that I forgot a clean pair of panties.

"Sweet Jesus," I thought. Well, I guess that's what I get for talking on the phone and packing at the same time. I'm learning in my pregnancy that I'm not really able to multi-task, which is frustrating on many different levels.

I heard my Jewish Mother say, “Amelia, I have always told you to make sure you pack one extra pair of panties. So, if you go somewhere for one night, you take two pairs of clean panties. And, if you go someplace for a week, you pack eight pairs, that way you always have one extra pair, because you never know what's going to happen. You always want to have on clean underware. And you didn’t, so you won't. Way to go, honey.”

I’m not sure where the idea of packing more than you need came from. Probably from my Jewish Mother’s Jewish Mother.

So, I punted.

I washed my black panties in the sink of the hotel room and hung them out to dry.

I had packed cream pants for the meeting the next day.

Fortunately, I had a long shirt to cover my expanding Baby Belly. So, one couldn’t see my black panties through my cream pants. I tried this before I washed my panties. Otherwise, I would’ve gone without underwear, which really isn’t an option because pregnant women have an increase in the amount of vaginal fluid they excrete. Not cool if you're free-balling, if you will.

When I got up in the morning, my panties weren’t quite dry. So, I blew them dry with the hairdryer that the hotel was kind enough to provide. I stood naked in the bathroom with the hairdryer on high and my panties blowing in the wind. I couldn't help but think of Bob Dylan. I had to laugh at the entire situation, because it really was pretty funny.

I dried them, finished getting ready, and went to my meeting.

In my head, I said to my Jewish Mother and my Jewish Mother's Jewish Mother, “See, I’m not too dumb.”