Falafel to go

If I've learned anything about life, its that one can never really be fully prepared for every curveball thrown one's way. I read my ass off when I first found out I was with child. Seriously, I probably could be licensed as some sort of official know-it-all when it comes to what to expect...when you're expecting (ugh, couldn't resist). However no matter how well-researched my cloth diapering plans are, there will come a time when the crap is real and it won't exactly work out the way it did in my head. No matter how prepared I think I am, something always happens to throw me off guard and remind me just how life's unpredictability really can be summed up on a bumper sticker: shit happens.

Never has this been more evident to me than recently, when faced with a situation I hadn't even considered in the innumerable new situations one finds oneself in when pregnant: the ex-boyfriend run-in.

I'm showing now. No longer looks like I might just have a muffin top, thank god. You can actually tell I'm pregnant (my yardstick for that is I've had my first crazy old lady encounter. Apparently it is inevitable that a doddering 70+ woman sporting mismatched clothes and an unfocused gleam in her eye will approach a pregnant woman, hand outstretched to touch the belly, and start rattling off semi-linear thoughts. This particular grand dame's kids, you'll be excited to know, were "all rats save one, who lives over on the next block and have you had any cravings yet dear?" Cripes.)

So yes, when I ran into the Rasta (every guy I dated whom I didn't take seriously was given a snarky nickname. What? I was in my twenties. Now that I'm a serene and mature 30, that's all behind me) while fulfilling a mid-afternoon falafel craving, I was wholly unprepared. We made brief eye contact, he made eye-to-belly contact, back up, back down and then we pretended we didn't know each other. I could handle that. What I was unprepared for was how I felt; simultaneously smug and vulnerable. Like, "ha, check out my Fruit of the Womb, look who's glowing, nyah nyah nyah" combined with "oh shit did he notice I'm not wearing a ring and do I look totally fat and gross?" I don't particularly like smugness or vulnerability and had never fathomed a combo. It didn't feel good. It felt distinctly uncomfortable.

I'm curious how other women have felt in this situation. I suppose it depends on the breakup, ie: still friends vs. barely acknowledging one another's existence. Please share.

T'aint Right

Apparently not only am I now wearing a sign that says "give me whack job advice" and "tell me horror stories involving dozens of stitches and neonatal intensive care units", but also "while you're at it, why don't you ask me if I'm getting an episiotomy, especially if you're male and not on intimate terms with my anatomy?". I've had three men in as many weeks bring up this comfortable and appealing topic to me.

Since we're already toeing the perineal area, lets dive right in, shall we? (Be warned, the following paragraphs address a vulnerable, personal issue. I reserve the right to look askance at anyone who doesn't understand the line between blog-appropriate and face-to-face-discussion-appropriate. Meaning: don't ask me about my rear end at brunch.)

Thank god I read Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy. Besides being damn funny, she's the only pregnancy book author I've encountered (and there have been MANY...I'm an over-informer) who mentions the excessive hair growth. Back there. That's right- were it winter I wouldn't have to worry about my buttcrack catching cold. If I hadn't been prepared for such a phenomenon, I'd be frantically googling the possibility that I possess some sort of latent monkey gene.

I am only sharing this because a. its too funny not to, b. I feel like I need to spread the warning, and c. I want to find out if this is common or if its just me and Jenny with the new place to put braids.

A friend who's blog I love recently posted about her experience at her Brazilian wax appointment, wherein the aesthetician referred to her butt hair as "intricate" (weekendatdaddys.blogspot.com). I'll be addressing my problem in similar fashion soon and can't WAIT to hear what my practitioner says.

Pornstar In My Mind

Let me set the scene: Its about a week ago. I'm leaving Milwaukee to go to Washington Island (my future home in 3 short months) for the weekend and I'm feeling pretty hot. I still haven't gained any weight, my hair is longer and thicker and shinier than its been since I was 16, my skin is clear and, so I've been told, glowing, my boobs actually BOUNCE (a feeling this barely B-cup girl has never felt until now)...pregnancy is great! I'm practically a Victoria's Secret model. I decide to wear matching leopard print bra and underwear to enhance the Heidi Klum aura. I'm feeling confident. Sexy. Healthy. Even...THIN!

That is, until 6 hours later when I encounter a full-length mirror in Dave's bedroom clad only in aforementioned sexy separates. Lack of full-length mirror in my bedroom at home (my roommate has one but I don't exactly stroll into her bedroom in my underwear. Although I'm pretty sure thats what a fair percentage of the male population would like to think female roommates do in our spare time. That and hit each other with pillows in our communal shower) has precluded me from actually seeing the full monty in roughly two weeks. Let me tell you, two weeks is a looooong time in pregnant town. Long enough for my body to have completely morphed into SOMEONE ELSE'S BODY. Someone with hips (and an ass!) several inches wider than mine. Someone with a potbelly that doesn't suck in. And the jiggle. Oh god, the jiggle. Where did all this cellulite come from? I never had this much before. I may not have gained any weight, but the weight I already had packed its bags (with COTTAGE CHEESE) and relocated to new places.

Now I'm not under some misguided impression that it'll only be my abdomen that will change during pregnancy. I know I'll get stretch marks, more cellulite, hips will spread, blah blah blah. Nor do I hate the new body (completely). I just wasn't prepared for such a radical change in 2 weeks. And for everyone who says "just wait", I know that too. I realize the butt and hips will only get bigger, the cellulite jigglier, the potbelly enormous, and this great rack? Deflated and drooping. I know. But seeing it incrementally, each day's little change, makes it a lot easier to accept than all at once, okay?

Lesson learned: go into my roommate's bedroom in my underwear once in awhile.

Watch This Space

I've been wanting to write a blog for YEARS, but like a lot of things I've wanted to do, it wasn't until I fell pregnant and bars stopped being fun that I actually found the motivation to do them. Things like: eating healthy meals at home, taking long walks, waking up before 11 on days I don't have to work, doing my laundry on a semi-regular basis, making art, using the public library...so this is what people mean when they say becoming a parent makes you a better person. I always thought they were just being smug.

Speaking of smug, I promise not to become one of those parents who says things like, "You can't understand until you have a child." I may think it, but I'll keep it to myself. This might be as futile as when I was a teenager and swore I'd be a cool adult who understood what its like to be a teenager. For the most part I now think teenagers are annoying (especially in packs), with stupid hair. And their music all sounds the same. Get off my lawn kid.

Alterra is my favorite hangout now. Rose melange and minty green tea, what more could you want? Its also a good environment for writing. At least it WAS, until the woman a few tables away started snorting and coughing and expelling her rosemary turkey wrap THROUGH HER NOSE. Or the guy who thinks he's Robert Pattinson walked by and gave me what I'm sure he thought were "twilight eyes". Hey guy, you're NOT ROBERT PATTINSON. Also, stop looking at my dog.

People love my chihuahua. Everywhere we go he gets pointed at and whispered about, strangers want to come over and touch him and talk to him. I wonder if thats how it feels to be a celebrity. I wonder if thats how people are going to act when I have the baby out in public too. I can't wait to take them out together (maybe even dressed in tiny matching outfits!) and see who gets more attention. My money's on the chihuahua.

Some pregnancy bonuses: I can be as crabby as I want and blame it on hormones, apparently I'm "glowing" (although I attribute that more to not drinking and eating healthily) and I no longer feel compelled to suck in my stomach (even though I have yet to gain a pound).