Momnesia

On News Channel 12’s evening news tonight, they were covering the story of a fire that totaled a home: “Investigators say that the fire started in a wood-burning stove.”

Isn’t that like saying the fire started in the fireplace? That’s what a wood-burning stove is for, dumbasses. To burn things. With fire, no less.

I was talking to my brother about some quasi-racist statement that he made. I knew that to contradict him would start an argument.

Me: Well, I don't know that I necessarily agree with you on that.
Bro (defiantly): I think there's more evidence for it than against it.

If you contradict him, he gets pissed off. If you just decide it's not worth it to argue, he takes it as a weakness and comes after you anyway. There's no way to win, but I always try fruitlessly. So, here I go again.
Me: Well, perhaps anecdotal evidence, but the biological research doesn't support it, from what I understand.

See how I'm trying to be respectful? I leave room for his opinion, I take responsibility for the fact that I'm not an expert and may not know everything about the subject, and I acknowledge that there are valid supporting arguments for his perspective. Anecdotal evidence is often a solid foundation upon which reasonable hypotheses are built. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with it.
Bro: I don't trust people who do research. They think they know more than they do.

Jackass.

We took the sonogram video to my parents’ house on Dad’s birthday. Jacob, my seven-year-old nephew, was very excited, even though he really wanted her to be a boy.

We watched the grainy, black-and-white footage of the baby, looking for all the world like a Hollywood representation of a ghost. In other words, it’s really an outline, a shading, of the baby’s general features.

We had to point out feet, toes, fingers, nose, lips, etc. to people, to give them reference points for the image. “Oh!” they exclaimed. “Now we see it!” Jacob was more excited each time he saw a new feature - so I thought. Then I realized he was getting agitated. Suddenly he exclaimed, “She looks like an alien!” He thought that’s what the baby actually looks like!

You should have heard us trying to explain to him what he was actually seeing. I tried, “See, it’s not like a camera picture. It’s done through my skin with a thing that actually is recording sound waves.” He nodded in obviously feigned comprehension.

A scene from previews for the movie “Daredevil” came to mind and I tried to use that to explain it. “But I haven’t see it ‘cause my mommy wouldn’t let me.” Finally, I hit on dolphins. That got a cautious, uncertain nod.

Bats? That did it. “Oh, yeah,” he said authoritatively, clearly relieved to be on familiar ground. “I know all about how bats fly.” He proceedrf to describe it to me in such detail that I knew he knew nothing. But at least he was no longer upset.

Seen on the license plate of a Toyota Highlander registered in Columbia County: “GODZSUV”

I’ve never had the urge to ram my car into the back of another one, but just then...

Barkley, is out of control. He chews. He poops. He pees. I dog-proofed the house, take him outside more frequently... nothing changes.

Mainly, though, he barks at top volumne. We’ve tried telling him “No!” To which he replies “RrrrrUUUUUFF!” We’ve tried putting him in time-out in his kennel, to which he replies, “RRrf! Ruf! RufRuf!!Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf! Ruf!...” you get the idea. We’ve tried popping him on the nose, to which he replies “Ruf!” (chomp on the nearest finger).

I finally got one of those collars that makes a high pitched noise when a dog barks that supposedly they hate and makes them not bark so much. Wrong. He didn’t even hear it, but it sure annoyed the hell out of us. I gave it to my mother for her dog.

Our last resort: a shock collar. I haven’t bought one yet, but I’ve located and priced them. The collar says it’s only a pinprick, which has to hurt less than Scott whacking him on the nose... I really don’t want to do it, but it seems the only way. If there’s anyone who has any suggestions, please let me know!

"If you do that in front of our child, I am going to be so pissed off at you!" he exclaimed as he latched the kennel door and tried to keep from stumbling over Scrabble, who was confused and excited by the spectacle.
"He really thought he had it! I mean, that was some ambition!" I snorted from the couch.
"It was so bad!" he stomped back into the room, Scrabble scrambling in close behind him.
"Honey, he's a dog. You have to admire his determination!"

Boss: I’ll be back shortly. They’re opening a new furniture store downtown, and I’m going to the ceremony.
Me: Are you going to cut the ribbon?
Boss: Uh, sure.
Me: Don’t forget your tiara.

At last Wednesday's doctor visit, the OB detected an irregular heartbeat. Since Scott has a heart murmur, it was cause for concern. So I returned on Monday for three fun-filled hours of things shoved into my body (hey.. that's how I got this way!). What I don't understand is why doctors won't listen to me. I'm not claiming to have some preternatural control over my body, but - I mean, it is MY body.

For example, the doctor was trying to listen to the baby's heartbeat and couldn't find it.
Doctor (smearing jelly on my belly): Sorry about it being cold.
Me: That's cool. (heh. pun.)
Doctor (moving the wand over my belly): Hmmm.... (furrows brow)
She can't find the heart beat.
I wait.
She searches the same small area to the left of my belly button. I'm not one to tell doctors how to do their jobs, but...
Me: She likes to hang out over here.
I point to the right side of my belly, under my ribs.
Doctor (still searching same spot on the left): MmmHmm....
I wait.
Me: Really, I think she's over here.
Doctor (irritated look crossing her face): Well, let's see.
The second she puts the monitor where I pointed, the baby's heartbeat comes over the speaker. Her eyebrows go up.
Doctor: You know your baby!

How can I not know where a 9-pound mass of elbows and knees are smashing against my body?

We're planning a "serenity series" in the gardens, and my intern was calling around asking about yoga and tai chi instructors. She got a lady at an physical rehabilitation clinic who was rude and combative.

Lady: "So, you're going to have the classes... outside?"
Intern: "Yes."
Lady (scoffing): "Well, I don't think that's going to work."

In fact, one of the tenants of tai chi is that you should attempt to perform the exercises in natural surroundings. I was telling Scott about how rude she was.

"Damn," he said. "Don't mess with the tai chi people. They'll kick your ass."
"But, they're slow," I said. "So I can duck."

I called him at 8:30 to wake him up: "John, we need you to go ahead and come into to work now instead of at noon - oh, and wear shorts and a t-shirt."

It would have been more funny if I hadn't been talking to his voice mail.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I’ve never been cool. I can’t match clothes more complicated than Grrranimals. But why do maternity clothes “designers” get their inspiration from Volvo? I’m wearing this shirt - yes, the same one I bitched about earlier - and I feel like an idiot.
“It’s just a maternity shirt!” Keela said.
Whatever.
I feel like my grandma’s couch.

I bought a maternity shirt that fits well, and is as flattering as a maternity shirt can be. Now think the shirt looks like something polyester that my grandmother might wear. Scott insists that he really likes it. So I'm keeping it, and getting used to it. But this morning, when I put it on to go to work, I just felt so old.

Me: I feel like I'm wearing a carpet.
Scott (laughing): No, you're not.
Me: I look matronly.
Scott: No, you don't. You look motherly.
Me: Same thing!
Scott: No. Matronly is bad. Motherly is good.

I consider this for a minute. Maybe it's an identity thing. I've never really considered myself "mother" material. But I guess I have to get used to it now. Then it hits me...

Me: I don't want to look motherly. I want to look "milfily."
Scott (laughing): You do.

I glare at him because I am not a moron. What I look like is a beach ball with legs.

Scott: You're just too easy. Like that lady at Petsmart that day. I would have turned around and said, "Shut up!"
Me: Yeah, I couldn't believe that (mimicking lady in line, huffy and patronizing): "I can't believe you docked your dog's tail!" (returning to my normal voice): I didn't dock his tail, lady. He came like that.
Scott: I would have knocked that dog food she was buying right out of her hands.
Me: Well, honey, it was her lunch for the next day.
He spits beverage, laughing: That was wrong.
I shrug: Nah.

It’s my first married Thanksgiving and I am thankful for a lot:

• I am thankful for the generosity of my friends and family, who have filled our nursery with clothes enough for our daughter’s entire first year.
• I am thankful for the time I got to spend with my family. It wasn’t enough, but I enjoyed it while it lasted.
• I am thankful for 1/2 price sales on nursing bras and short, organized lines at the day-after sale.
• I am thankful for the lack of need I feel. Not just my raised financial threshhold, but the absence of what my mother called “The Iwannas.”
  
• I am thankful that my husband likes my family, and vice versa. He enjoys spending time with them.
  
• I am thankful that the macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and sweet potato souflee I made for Thanksgiving dinner were good, well-liked, and that there were plenty of leftovers. The creamed collards... well, no one is perfect.
  
• I’m thankful for Smooth Dissolve Tums, Oatmeal Soaking Baths and Anti-Itch Cream for my poison ivy (darn dogs).
• I’m thankful for my darn dogs, Scrabble and Barkley. They are a constant source of comfort, companionship, and laughter.
• I am thankful for a relatively uneventful pregnancy, the sound of the baby’s heartbeat on the monitor, the ability to see her on the sonogram, and that Medicaid that will pay for her without us spending a dime.
• I’m thankful that Scott and I are able to calmly talk about baby names.
• I’m thankful that when I had a meltdown in the driveway as we were pulling out for my parents’ house about leaving the dogs behind for almost three days, Scott got back out of the car, broke down the kennel, and took the dogs with us - and that he didn’t smash in my face, like I deserved.
• I am thankful for light traffic, a short car ride (I’m never bored with Scott), a safe trip, and that the kennel fits in the car in such a way that it creates a “holding pool” for the dogs that allows us to see them, pet them, and that allows them to watch the world go by, but keeps them from jumping around the car like the complete imbecils they are.
• I’m thankful for my degree, for my job, for my apartment, for the space heater that heats my apartment, for the baby’s room that serves as a touchstone when I’m feeling disconnected from the pregnancy (which is sometimes necessary in lieu of frustration, given how uncomfortable it often is), for the love that my husband displays in so many little ways - stopping to kiss the top of my head while walking past me at my parents’ house; telling me that I’m beautiful every day; not murdering me no matter hormonal I get; spending quality time with my family because I really, really want to see them; sitting up in bed in the middle of the night to ask me how I’m doing when he knows I’m not feeling well; bending over to pick things up for me when my pregnant belly gets in the way.

I would like to go on, but my retarded dog, Barkley, is living up to his name and running his big fat mouth to what I’m sure is extreme enjoyment on the part of my neighbors. And I have dinner to cook. It’s been a very good couple days... weeks... months. I’m very lucky and very happy. It’s the best time of my life so far, and I’m looking forward to many more years of happiness with Scott.

I was excited to have dinner with two professors’ families this weekend, becuase I tend to think of professors’ families in terms of Oscar Wilde. This is not true. Some are just boring academics with no personalities. But I forget. I was so bored at the (courtesy edit) that I thought I was going to have to moon someone. If I hadn’t had a great time at DvT's house - which I did - the ass was coming out, I tell you! But, then, I knew more than just one person, and we were talking about PR and journalism and our jobs, not politics in the Honors Department and what contributed to the South’s loss in the Civil War.

A sample conversation from Friday:
Pompous ass 1: “No, the bolt-action rifle had nothing to do with the end of the war!”
Pompous ass 2: “Well, (so-and-so historian) would beg to differ! The North’s manufacturing of the weapon turned the tide of later battles.”
PA1: “But the North already had more soldiers, better equipped and trained! It was just a matter of time.”
PA2: “But the South had better military minds, and the North sustained much greater casualties because of it. The outcome of the war wasn’t certain until the bolt-action rifle was introduced.”
Me: zzzzZZZZZzzzzzzz

Sample conversation from Saturday night (Disclaimer: DvT is a church representative. When a congregation has problems, they call her in to mediate. Any former student of hers knows that should strike fear into their souls.):

DVT: “So the deacons at this one church, instead of saying, ‘We’re a congregation; let’s act like one, sit down, and discuss this with the pastor,’ instead decided to fire him. He was not in violation of his contract; they were. So now, they have to come up with $186,000 a year more to cover both the former pastor’s salary and the new pastor’s salary. AND, they think the interim minister is only there for 6 months, but we’re not going to let them hire another permanent minister for four years because they don’t know how to behave as a congregation. They just aren’t listening, and we’re expecting them to fire the interim pastor, too.”
Me: “That’s hysterical.”
Jody: “Well, that’s what happened at First Baptist, too. A couple of the really big guys – the ones who donate millions of dollars a year – didn’t like the pastor and got him fired. The deacons actually got into a fistfight over it.”
Dawn: “What?!”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. The police were called and everything. It was in the Chronicle.”
Me: “And now they’re in the same boat as the Presbyterian church?”
Jody: “Oh, yeah. But his salary is even higher than that because the church has 5,000 members.”
DVT: “See, I have no sympathy. No, you can’t hire another minister! You screwed up. Suffer! Suffer! Suffer!”
(laughter)

I am glad I went to both parties. I’ve been kind of homebound, not feeling well, etc. But if you’re going to have people over for a meal, you shouldn’t beat them into unconsciousness with your boorish personalities. It makes us want to hurt you, like with a bolt-action rifle, whatever that is.

Sunday, I met with a potential bride at 2 p.m. I had been working at my computer at home, and I raced down there at about 1:45. The meeting went fine, but when I got back home, I was crazy thirsty. Diet Coke? No. Water? Boring. Milk? Blech. Ooh, wait... I have some Diet Sprite left over from earlier. I toddle into the living room and swig from the 20 oz. bottle.

Something. Is. Not. Right. What is that disgusting taste?! As my stomach starts its irrevocable turn, I look inside the bottle. There are cigarette butts floating in it!

I don't even make it to the hallway before the liquid resurfaces. Most of it hits the toilet, but there is a trail of Diet Sprite from the living room doorway to the bathroom.

"What happened?!" Scott exclaims from the bathroom door. I am intent on my vomit, thank you very much, and I don't have time for this conversation. When I don't respond, he asks again, and waits a few moments. He doesn't want to watch me vomit, but he doesn't want to ignore my plight, either.

"You put out[retch] your fucking cigarettes[retch] in my Sprite!" (you asshole!)

I probably could have gotten some new jewelry out of him after that, but I tried to laugh it off. It worked for a little while, but about 20 minutes later I got really pissed off, and had to go sit on the porch and read the paper while I calmed down. That was the most disgusting thing that has happened to me in a long time.

Joe tells some racist-ass jokes that he insists aren’t racist “because they’re funny.” What’s long and hard on a black man? Answer: The third grade.

That’s a racist joke and it's not funny because it is a racist joke.

It extremely difficult for me to enjoy being around him. Also because I don’t want him around my daughter. But we go to the Fair with him anyway because - well, because Scott invited him without consulting me first. Two days in one week with Joe is 1 and 1/2 days too many.

We’re munching a funnel cake before we leave - Scott’s been craving one for weeks - and I make some comment like, “Goddamn, I can’t eat another bite.” Joe freezes, puts his hands up in front of him like: “Hey, now, watch the language. Did you just say G.D.?” I look up, confused. “Yeah...” He shakes his head. “So you can take the Lord’s name in vain, but I can’t tell a joke?”

I glare up at him. “Well, I don’t believe the Lord exists. But I do believe black people exist. So I guess that’s about right.”

The doctor listened to the baby’s heartbeat today.
“Is she moving around?” she asked.
“All the time. She almost knocked me off the couch last night.”
(she laughs) “That’s good. She was very active the last time you were here.” (listening)
The baby’s heartbeat pulsates in the air around us. It is strong, rapid. She smiles and nods.
“That’s a healthy baby. Good, strong heartbeat.”
I grin and look down at my belly. She don’t know the half of it.
“She is. She responds to my husband’s voice, and to the dogs.”
“Really?!” she smiles.
She acts just as though no pregnant woman has ever said this to her before. Of course they have, but I don’t care. It’s my baby, and everything is new. She takes out a tape measure and stretches it over my belly, from pelvic bone to just under my ribs. Her eybrows raise.
“That’s a big baby!” she exclaims.
I glare down at my belly. I knew it! I’m a heifer!
“Am I gaining too much weight? I mean, I do eat like a maniac, but I’m always hungry! I try to be reasonable, and my husband -”
She’s shaking her head.
“No,” she laughs. “That’s all baby. You’ve only gained 19 pounds. Most women gain 45 pounds.”
Wait, I think. I still have 12 weeks to go.
“So, how big is the baby?”
“You’re 4 cm bigger than is normal at this stage, so I’d say about 4 pounds.”

Dios Mio. I’m going to have a Tyrannosaurus.

During the 10-11 hour on Sunday, a WJBF NewsChannel 6 commercial came on. A helicopter hovered low over a grassy field. A woman's voice announces over the video:

"A body is found in Columbia County, and police are calling it a death investigation. News at 11!"

A death investigation. Into a body. You don't say...

Baby: 7 1/2 - 8 1/2
Placenta: 1 - 3
Amniotic Fluid: 2
Uterus: 2 - 2 1/2
Increased Body Fluid, Blood: 3 1/2 - 7
Increased Body Fat, Breast Tissue: 10 - 12
For a total of: 25-35 pounds

I was proud of the relatively low weight gain, until Halloween. Scott bought white chocolate Reese’s cups and miniature Kit-Kats. There were about 40 of the little packages left.

If you’ve never been pregnant, you don’t know what a temptation food is. First, there’s the inhuman, famine-like hunger. Second, there’s the fact that everyone - and I mean everyone - becomes either a Food Nazi, or a Food Fairie. Third, there’s the mental justification. It’s real easy. Let's play!

They’re MINI Kit-Kats. So you think, “It’s only a little bit. I can have one.” And then, a couple of hours later, the munch bug hits again. So you have another. I mean, it’s been hours since you had the little bite of chocolate. The problem is that there are 24 hours in a day. And for 18 of them, pregnant women are hungry. I mean it wakes you up in the middle of the night with a hurting, growly stomach. You try to ignore it. You have a big glass of water. You crawl back in bed and try to go to sleep.

But before long, there are only 20 of the little devils left in the freezer, and your pants are a little tighter. What happened, you ask. Well, I’m pregnant, you answer. Hell, no. You had 20 Kit-Kats in 4 days. That’s what happened, you moron.

We’re having a Halloween party, and costumes are preferred. I hear Scott on the telephone: “My wife and I are both dressing up.”
I look at him incredulously.
“Oh, really? What am I going to be, honey? A beach ball?”

Later, as I’m lounging half naked on the couch, a vision of myself materializes in my mind.
“Hey, honey, I figured out what we could do for Halloween costumes.”
“Oh, what?”
“I can be Jabba the Hut, and you can be Princess Leia.”
He spits smoke out the door, laughing.
“No, I don’t think so.”

I hear Alicia walk in the house. The last time she wandered in I was taking a nap, naked, in the bedroom.
“Are you home? Are you naked?” she calls.
“No, I’m not naked!” I reply from my computer chair.
“Damn!” she says. I laugh.
“I’m very pregnant. You don’t want to see that naked.”
Scott walks in behind her.
“The most beautiful thing in the world is a pregnant woman.”

Yeah, he’s a keeper.

I think everyone should have a theme song. It makes life more enjoyable. You can be tromping along, having a bad day, hating life and all the people in it. But if you write a really excellent theme song for yourself, and you remember to sing it at your challenging times, the whole day seems better.

One of my most challenging times is when I have to clean up yet another steaming pile of "I-Gotcher-Housebroken-Right-Here" Barkley's or "Hey-Barkley-Did-It-First" Scrabble's dog poop. He's catching on, but verrrrrrryy slooooooowly. So I wrote a theme song for the moments when I want to rename one of them Jimmy Dean and send him to the sausage factory.

Scrabble's is sung to the tune of "Modern Major General" from "Pirates of Penzance"

I am the very model of a modern doggie scrabbler
I chew and then I poo I tell you I am not a dabbler
I run and hide and jump and scratch
And then I try to smell your snatch
I am the very model of a modern doggie scrabbler
And when it rains I refuse to become a doggie drabbler
And happily eschew the potty training of my handler
And I will not learn to play catch
For tricks and such I am mismatched
I am the very model of a modern doggie Scrabbler

Barkley's is sung to the tune of "Old Man River" from "Showboat," because he has sad eyes and whiskers like an old man.

There's an ol' man called Barkley
That's the ol' man I'd like to be
What does he care if the world's got troubles?
He only cares if his food bowl's empty
Ol' Man Barkley
That Ol' Man Barkley
He don't know nuthin
But keeps on barkin
He just keeps rompin'
He keeps on stompin' along
He don't chase squirrels
He don't catch mouses
And them that gets 'em
Don't have dog houses
But Ol' Man Barkley
He just keeps rompin' along

I was reading the "Expectant Fathers" book I gave to Scott for his birthday. Men think facts, figures, and stats are crucial, so it's chock-full of how bigs, how longs, what volumes, and how much time kinds of information. Anyway, the book told me that, right now, the baby is a foot long.

Made me want a hot dog.

Scott is all excited about his new band. They've written a few songs, and are practicing. I haven't heard them all play together, but I've heard one of their new songs with just Scott and Riley, and it's pretty. He came up with a name for the band and pitched it to me: "Triple Screw." He said it was something about early 20th century maritime boat speed rankings. I said it sounded like porn, a cocktail, or a Lynard Skynard cover band. He said it did not, that it had several meanings, and that people would think about it. But when he pitched it to the band, Riley said, "Like porn." Ha. Why does anyone even bother to question me?

Actually, the band liked it.

“I’ll get him!” Scott calls as he dashes out after him - and suddenly I find myself struggling to keep my balance.

I let out a yelp as I almost fall down. I try to get up again, only to realize that my belt loop had somehow gotten entangled in the scrollwork on the metal chairback. I tried to free myself, but I couldn’t see or feel how it was tangled. I was trapped in the chair, and it was too heavy to stand up.

I sat there, alone and feeling pretty goddamn retarded, until Scott came trotting back in with Scrabble.
“Here we are! Bad dog!” he said, and put the dog down on the linoleum floor. He smiled at me. I struggled to get up.

“Um, honey... I’m stuck,” I said. He burst into laughter, and untangled the belt loop as we both laughed.

“That’s going in my journal!” He crowed. “That’s too hysterical.”

“I was afraid you were going to hop in the car and go to the store,” I said. That made him laugh harder.

“I heard you yelp, but I thought you were just saying ‘thank you,’” he said.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

Nevermind. I know it doesn't.

and decide not to send it, based on the grounds that Scott gave the wrong city of birth for his father.

Hell, I probably gave the wrong city of birth for dad. I didn't know they were going to ask, and I blanked out, and the lady at the Probate Court said, "It's not important. Just guess." So I said "Well, it's either San Antonio or Tulsa. Maybe. I guess just put San Antonio, since he's a Texan at heart," at which she laughed.

Scott's father was adopted, and he didn't know where he was born, so he guessed Portland, where he had been raised. Apparently, he was born in Troy, Alabama. Well, who wants to be from Troy, Alabama, anyway?

So Patsy called yesterday and said she was going to photocopy the document, white out the incorrect information, write in the correct information, and then send it in. I was incredulous. It's a legal document, notorized and stamped. What is she thinking? Besides, it's none of her business what our legal documents say. But apparently Scott defiled the memory of his dead father, or something.

After about 15 minutes of Scott saying, "Mother, it doesn't matter. They just told us to guess. I didn't know where he was born, and I didn't know they were going to ask that... No, I couldn't call you, we were at the Probate Court... No, mother, we don't need a cell phone..." and so on. I finally said, "Tell Patsy that I'd like to be legally married before the end of the week, and if she can't put the damn thing in the mail, I'll be there in 15 minutes to get it." And Scott said, "Stacey said to tell you to stop being a butthead and send it in." Gee, thanks, Scott. That helped. Scott finally got Jim on the phone and made him promise to send it in today.

Scott: I just can’t believe all of the stuff you have for the nursery!
Me: Yeah?
Scott: Yeah! It’s like you’ve been just waiting to have a kid.
Me (confused): What stuff are you talking about?
Scott: You know, the Pez, the Powerpuff Girls stuff, the action figures...
I stare at him.
Scott: What?
Me: Um, honey, those are my toys.

I’m in the nursery on the phone with Penny. Scrabble has followed me in, and all of the toys, etc., for the nursery are in boxes and piles. I hear a rustling sound and turn to see Scrabble’s teeth firmly embedded in Buttercup’s head. Thank God it’s just a pillow.

“No, Scrabble!”
The dog stops chewing and looks at me, tail wagging, teeth still gripping the pillow.
“No! Bad dog!”
He gives a little growl of frustration and lets go. I go back to my conversation. Seconds later, the sound comes again. I turn to see him dragging a coconut headed something, twice his size, out of a box.
“No, Scrabble! Scrabble!”
He turns to look at me.
“No! We don’t chew on toys!”
He bounces around the room for a minute, and stops, wagging his tail.
“Good boy!”
I go back to trying to find the file I want to send Penny. Shortly, I hear a crackling noise. This time, he has the head of my Jesus action figure in his mouth.
“Scrabble, no! We don’t chew on the son of god!”

Scrabble will chew anything. He chews socks, shoes, books, LOVES the telephone book, and has taken to chewing my hand when I let him. I try to distract him, but he also likes chewing my hair for example, when I do yoga. While I’m doing something that requires ALL of my attention, patience, breathing, and physical diligence, he’s doing everything he can to distract me by leaping up and down and yomping at my ponytail.

I’m doing this to release tension, to find some levity, to explore myself spiritually, and to get myself physically ready for childbirth. It doesn’t seem like I’m accomplishing much when you hear me hollering, “Stop it, Scrabble, I’m trying to center my chi!” and “Goddammit, I’m being zen, you little bastard!”

As I walk in the 15th Street Kroger, a highly aromatic older gentleman trots towards me.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am. You got a dollar? Ma’am?”
He’s clearly going to buy beer - no, seriously, you had to smell him - and, anyway, I don’t have a dollar. I go thruogh the store, decide on three bottles of wine, and start towards for the registers. As I pass through the deli, he reappears and leers at my boobs.
“Ooooh, I KNOW we ‘bout to have a good time.”
I half-yell at him. I’m so tired of this bullshit, and I seem to attract it where ever I go.
“Eh-heh! Heh! Heh!” He laughs, delightedly. I suppose I’m the only woman who’s spoken to him all day.
“Lawd, look at those titties,” he exclaims, staring at the front of my dress.
“Fuck off, jackass!” I begin to stomp away but he steps partially in front of me.
"Hey, uh, you got a dollar?"
"Fuck. Off." I enunciate clearly. I'm not giving someone this rude a single penny. Besides, the way it work is this: If you're looking at my boobs, you give ME the dollar.

I stomp to the registers, with his laugher trailing humiliatingly behind me. I show my ID to the cashier, and inform her - and the manager, who happens to be standing beside her - that a man is panhandling in the store, and that he verbally harrassed me.

“What? In here?!” The manager cries in surprise.
“Yep. He’s right there (in another line, beer in hand). Red plaid shirt, Green Bay Packers hat.”
They crane their necks to see, watch him for a minute as he checks out, shake their heads, and go back to their conversation.

Oh. Great. Thanks. ‘Preciate the support, ladies.

I hate going to the ATM at night, alone. But I owed Natalya $182 for my wedding dress, she needed it by tomorrow morning, and I had to take it to her. I got stuck on the phone with Scott’s mom for TWO AND A HALF HOURS, so it was 11:30 before I could get on my way. I loaded up the puppy and took off.

I blew right past the bank branch and had to cut over to another location. I always check out the surrounding area before I go to the ATM, and everything was fine. As the machine spit out my money, I heard the screech of tires on pavement. Headlights momentarily blinded me, but I could see the huge grill of an SUV bearing down on me. I gasped. The puppy cowered in my lap. The SUV stopped inches from the front of my car and four men jumped out of the side doors.

I did not think as they started in my direction. Faster than I ever thought I could move, I grabbed the money and the card, and slammed the car into reverse. The tires bounced over the lane separater. I felt the bottom of the car scrape against the concrete, but I’ll leave the muffler for these guys if they really want it.

I threw the car into drive, slammed the pedal to the floor, and took off for 10th Street, right up over the curb, through the grass, over the sidewalk, down the streetcurb, and fishtailing into the street. I ran two stop signs and a red light before I looked behind me. No one. I’ve been holding my breathe. Scrabble cowered in the passenger floorboard, whining softly.

I don't know if maybe they were just driving like idiots - young, reckless, unaware of their effect on others - or if I was in some kind of danger. But I wasn't waiting around to find out.

Whatever possessed us to get a dog in the midst of an already chaotic time? Could it have been... Satan?

The good news: little Scrabble is almost completely housebroken after just two very tiring days. The bad news: I said “almost.” I didn’t think anything this small could pee more than a pregnant woman, but I’ll admit when I’m wrong.

I’m going to be a terrible mother, I can see from the way I treat the dog. Every time I he does something - anything - out of the ordinary, I think, “Oh, god! He’s going to die!” Or, when the more terrifying things happen: “Oh, god! He’s dead!” Just the first night we had Scrabble home, I thought he was dead. He’s kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Okay, I’M kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Anyway, he was snuggled up against me in the bed, fast asleep, when I woke up. I felt his little furry body next to me, and patted him. No response.

I patted him again and whispered, “Hey, buddy, are you asleep?” Which is utterly ridiculous of me.
I poked him. Nothing.
I patted Scrabble again. Nothing.
I scratched his belly. Nothing.

And then, I knew: In the middle of the night, I had rolled over on him and crushed the life out of him. I killed the best puppy in the world. I was a monster, and I was going to hell. With a strangled cry, I picked up his cold, limp puppy body. He raised his head and licked my face.

Oh. I’m an idiot.

I spent 10 minutes in the bathroom, sobbing, so that I wouldn’t wake Scott.

Is this normal for pregnancy? And when do I recover? I don’t think my mother ever has. Am I going to spend the rest of my life in perpetual recovery from the hourly heart attacks I give myself? No wonder I’m so tired! I’m on 10 all day long!

Scott: I just can’t wait to meet our child!
Me (laughing): I can.
Scott: Why?!
Me: ‘Cause I’m not ready to have it yet. I’m happy to wait the six more months.
Scott: But, still. I can’t wait to meet him. Or her.

He’ll see. We joke that we’re having a demon child, but I’m telling you: with Scott’s demon seed and my deviled eggs, that’s just a recipe for hellmonkeys.

I watched the movie “Big Fish” last night - or, rather, I tried to watch it. But the movie takes place during the fight by the father, played by Albert Finney, to live his life even though he has incurable cancer. There was a scene where he was comforting his wife. I thought, “Oh, how terrible it must be to have to watch the man you’ve loved for 30 years, the father or your children, die a slow and painful death.” And then I thought: “Soon, I’ll have a husband. Oh, god. One day he’ll die!” And the floodgates opened. I don’t want Scott to die. I realize that it won’t be anytime soon. Or, at least, one can only hope. I guess you never know for sure.

After about an hour, I got myself under control. I restarted the movie. Within five minutes, Albert Finney’s character had a stroke. I thought: “My father is about the same age as Albert Finney’s character. Oh, god. One day my father will die!” And then the floodgates reopened, and they wouldn’t stop. For three hours.

When Scott got home, he was... confused. And comforted me very poorly. I finally cried myself to sleep. Scott thinks I’ve gone insane. And, to be honest, I rarely cry like that. Not when I broke my ankle. Not when my grandfather died. Only once or twice in my life have I cried like that, and certainly never over something like a movie.

Scott called me when I was at work to inform me that I’d better enjoy the remaining seven months "because after the baby is born I’m getting my nuts chopped.”

We close at 7, but I’ve agreed to stay until 8:30 for a bride's father and their photographer. They’re late. I suspect they won’t show – typical – and I begin closing procedures. As I’m putting up a golf cart, I see him: Eeyore. He’s sitting in his minivan.

This man has been here 312 times preparing for his daughter’s wedding. I’ve nicknamed him Eeyore after the perpetually depressed donkey in Winnie the Pooh. The nickname captures his perpetual complaining, but it doesn’t begin to describe his severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder that is becoming increasingly obvious. He’s measured the seating area twice, the pergola towers once, the – let’s just say that any draftsman could take his measurements and produce a NASA-worthy, topographically correct map of the entire 8-and-1/2-acre gardens to scale with only a slight margin of error.

I’m not in the mood to hear about the special lights heconstructed (using bubble gum and chickenwire, powered entirely by potatoes) to hang from the pergola. I’ve already heard that his daughter’s wedding dress was stolen by the lady who was supposed to complete the alterations, along with 10 other brides’ dresses, and about the ensuing court battle. I do not care that the wedding is just a giant fiasco spinning rapidly out of control and out of money. Don't get me wrong: I cared, at first. Five months later, I want them to elope. Eeyore comes inside. I smile and say, "Hello!" He does not smile back.

I do paperwork while he’s talking, and pray the photographer will arrive soon. I want to distract him – throw my shoe across the room and watch him chase it, like Scrabble, maybe. I’m considering just jamming the shoe down his throat when the photographer arrives. Or, rather, makes her entrance.

She’s on her cell phone, and walks breezily in, even though she is now 35 minutes late. She is dressed head-to-toe in the kind of batik-print, ethnic-inspired, flowing dress/robe/gown kind of thing they sell at department stores, which is to say that the inspiration is far from ethnic. Her hair is swept to the side in a deep part that forces her to cock her head to keep it out of her eyes. She doesn’t acknowledge either of us before she ends her conversation: “No, you called me. No, you called me. No! You called me!" Then she snaps shut her cell phone and slips it into her bag with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, but I got a phone call at 5:30 from someone asking me if I could teach a class from 6 to 7. I said, ‘I can teach from 6 to 6:45, dahling, but I couldn’t possibly teach until 7.’ Then there was so much creativity flowing that I couldn’t cut it short."

She’s like a cartoon – like mad scientists smashed together Cruella DeVil, Marlene Dietrich, and Natasha Karloff. It's like listening to a community theatre production of “A Streetcar Named Desire” in Wichita. No one on the planet is born with a voice like that. It has to be cultivated.

Eeyore introduces us, and I hold out my hand to shake hers. Slowly, she extends hers towards mine, palm down, in such a way that I am unsure whether she intends to shake in return, or if she expects me to kiss hers. I opt for a brief, perfunctory shake and ask if they have any questions. When they say no, I explain that I’ll need to lock up and run to the post office for a few minutes, but that I’ll be right back. I have to get this mail out today, and it’s 7:27. I’m only a block away, so I can make it before they pick up.

“Ooh?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You will not be escorting us?”

Escorting you? Are you kidding me? Your virtue is safe, your majesty.

“My goodness!” I exclaim to Eeyore. "I’d have thought you’d know every blade of grass by name, by now! I’ve never seen such a dedicated father.”

He beams. Yes! I’m out! It’s now 7:32. I rush out the door and get there just as the mail carrier is pulling away. Damn! I mail all 50 pieces and return to the gardens. It’s 7:45 and they’re still placing items in the golf cart. They only have two bags! I watch, discreetly, as they move the bags from one place to another on the cart...

After another minute, I shake my head and run inside to work on a spreadsheet. I finish at 8:20, and shut everything off. I clean the counter, straighten up the kitchen, check the bathroom, and file my daily paperwork. I hear the golf cart, and peek out the open door. They’re returning, right on time. Then, they turn around. I sigh as they circle the quad and reenter the gardens. Shit.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on the steps, reading a book. I peek towards the gardens, and see them creeping towards the gate… and right past it. Finally, at 9:10, they return. I meet them, keys in hand.

“What did you think? Do we have any questions?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” her majesty places the back of her hand against her forehead. “I didn’t even think of you still being here.”

Obviously.

Eeyore pulls out a schematic map of the gardens. “This light, this light, this light, this light, this light, this light, and this light are all off. Do you know why?”

I glance at the map. I really don't know - probably because the bulbs are burned out, you fuckhead? I raise my hands.

“Those kinds of mechanical and any logistical problems are Beda’s domain. I wish I knew the answer.”

“Yeah, but…” he goes on to ask questions I can’t answer. I spend the next 10 minutes smiling, nodding, and giving the same answer: “You’ll have to discuss that with Beda. I simply don't know.”

Fiinally, he rolls up his map. The photographer hasn’t moved from her perch on the golf cart. She’s checking her cell phone messages, scrolling through her contacts, and is generally unconcerned with anything but herself. He begins to place things into his bag, meticulously arranging and rearranging them. They’re maps. Fold them, and let’s go, you mental patient.

At 10 p.m., I’m on the road home. Scott is pissed. "Why didn't you tell the to leave?"
I look at him. Is he serious?
"It's just not done, honey. This guy paid $2,000 to rent the place."
"Why do you always have to be the one to stay?"
"'Cause I'm the one on duty."

It's just as simple as that.

zzzz.... zzzzz.... zzzz....
I am blissfully asleep after yet another grueling 16-hour work day. I’ve had some insomnia since I got pregnant, and while I’m trying not to complain, I am pretty tired. But not today. I’ve slipped into the sleep of wonderland. I am floating, weightless.

zzzz...
zzzz....
zzzzz....
zzzzz....
...

A light explodes over my head and the bedroom door explodes inward!
“My god! I overslept!” shouts Scott from the doorway. I half sit up.
“What?”
I squint at him through sleep-crusted eyes. Then I groan and flop back down on the pillow. He’s sleepwalking again. I’d gone to bed and left him to read on the couch. He must have fallen asleep.
“Honey,” I ask rhetorically. “What time is it?”
“The clock says 8:15!” He nearly shouts.
Startled, I look over at the clock. I sigh. I flip the switch from the “alarm” setting to the “time” setting. It now reads 3:30. In the morning.
“It’s 3:30 a.m. You aren’t late for work.”
I cover my head with the blanket. The light is burning a hole in my skull.
There is a moment of silence, then I hear him rush through the bathroom, to the living room, and open the front door. Why?! Is there a Magic Time Man in the front yard? Why do we have 17 clocks in a 300-square-foot apartment if he doesn’t believe any of them? He sprints back into the bedroom, frantic and confused.
“It’s dark outside! I can’t tell what time it is!”
“How about 3:30 a.m.?” I mumble from under the blanket.
“I don’t know!”
I sit back up, blinking against the light of the giant fireball suspended over my head.
“You need to calm down and sober up.”
He stops at this, composes himself, and glares at me.
“I am perfectly sober,” he carefully enunciates.
Sure. I’m pregnant, not stupid.
“Baby, check the clock in the bathroom. That one is always right.”
He looks.
“It says 3:30.”
“Well, there you go. Come to bed. You have about 13 hours before you’re late to work. Again.”
He pauses, still uncertain.
“Honey, you’re okay. Turn off the light, and come to bed.”
“Okay,” he resigns. “But I’m going to smoke a cigarette first.”
Great.

There should be some reprieve between finding out that you’re pregnant, and experiencing the effects of pregnancy (of course, I am eight weeks along). But I guess my body going insane was the first indicator, anyway.

• My boobs are huge. I’m renaming myself Mt. Boobamunjaro. I can’t imagine what they’ll be like at 9 months. They’re going to have their own weather systems before the pregnancy is over.
• Dear God, the cramps. I might as well be having the baby now. I’m told that it’s my uterus expanding. Great. Like any part of my body needs to get bigger. Apparently, labor is an estimated 4 billion times worse. That’s okay. In my “emergency labor oh-my-god-we’re-having-the-baby-NOW bag,” I’m packing a rubber mallet. I hope Scott has the balls to knock me unconscious.
• My stomach is trying to escape. I think the plan is that I will get so frustrated by the indigestion that I will rip it out of my body. It’s a plan that just might work. “Oh,” said Jessica, a girl I work with. “That means the baby will have hair!” The “baby” is the size of a grain of rice. It has cilia, right now, not hair.
• I have to pee every three minutes, but the rest of my body can’t seem to clear itself out. I’m carrying around 23.7 tons of water weight. When I walk I can hear myself slosh.
  
• I’m sure it sounds like I’m complaining, and I am, but because this whole thing amuses me. It’s like I’m wearing someone else’s body. It’s a process from which I’m detached.

“But, you’re glowing!” Scott said, and God love him for thinking it.
“Honey, I’m not glowing. That’s the ever-present sheen of sweat I’ve gathered from dragging my pregnant ass around this hot-ass town.”

Everything seems so overwhelming. Yesterday, someone at work asked me how I felt. I said, “I feel pregnant. I want to beat everyone up and take all their food!”

Big laugh from the other mommies.

My mother has already sent me an email of directives. So I sent her this email:

We’ve decided on a theme for the wedding: Spingtime picnic. We’ve going to cover the tables with Astroturf and plastic flowers and bugs. The chairs will be covered with red and white gingham fabric, and we’ll all eat ham sandwiches and potato salad off of paper plates.

All of the party favors will be little boxes of chocolate covered ants. Remember the story Dad used to tell about eating the ants? That’s where I got the idea. Scott’s family comes from the McDow’s of the McDow peninsula of Ireland. It’s a farming community, and agriculture has always been a big part of their lives so we're bringing in some of old farming equipment as decoration: a plow, rakes, pitchforks, etc.

I may ask Kelli to break out her clogging shoes from middle school because Scott’s sister, Vivian, is going to do a caeli, which is Irish stepdancing, and it would nice if someone from our family could join in. Scott is thinking of having all the groomsmen wear bolo ties. I thought that it would be funny, since we have a country picnic theme, to come barefoot and with a pillow stuffed in my dress, and Dad could carry a shotgun. But I thought that might be too much.

Scott panicked. He sent this email to my mother:

Mrs. McGowen -

Your daughter has been smoking crack. The proof: her most recent email. However, we are going to have a very dignified wedding. You and I are going to see to that. There will be no Astroturf, no bare feet, no black bridal gown, or other crazy shit. I am glad to have an ally in this mess. Please help me make this wedding something your daughter will be proud of 20 years from now, since I plan to be looking at those photographs with her at that time. I am so happy to have you as a mother-in-law.

Let's synchronize our watches! Good luck!

Love, Scott

I got my first table 15 minutes after I got to work today. Just as they were sat, my contact popped out of my left eye. Then, one of the hostesses told me that I left on my headlights. I ran out into the pouring rain to turn them off. As I reached into the car, my left bra strap snapped. What the hell?

I stood for a moment, in the rain, making a silent apology for offending the universe. Then I went back inside. As I passed a girl in the kitchen - the new girl who made a mean comment about my very beautiful ring - she fell on her ass. Hmmm...

Shit like that happened all night long. Frankly, I'm surprised we all survived.

"That's cheap!" said Stephanie. "Geez, are you having your mom make it, or something? That is so ghetto."

Um, I'm not having my mother make it, but wouldn't that be nice - not ghetto - of her?

"So, what are your colors?" some new girl at work asked me. "Colors?" I said, completely confused. "Yeah, you know: the color scheme of your wedding. What color are the bridesmaids going to wear, the groomsmen, the decorations, the cake, the flowers, the -"

My head began spinning while I tried to take all of this in.

"I don't need a color scheme for the wedding. I'm going to wear a white dress - because my fiancee actually cares about that, not my first choice - and I'm just hoping that he shows up and says yes." The girl looked and me and then rolled her eyes. "Your wedding is going to look stupid." I grinned and said: "How would you know? You're not invited."

My manager grabbed my ass last night. Could've killed her. I've worked on the "Don't Grab Stacey's Ass" ad campaign for a year, now, but apparently I'm not reaching my target audience.