So get this: yesterday at 4:09 pm, I had a baby — a healthy 8 pound, 8 ounce baby boy with a head full of black, black hair. He is sweet, is 21 inches long, looks like his dad, and has a very cute wrinkly baby behind.

The original birth plan was this: ripening, breaking the water, induction, baby. What actually happened: ripening (um, ripening suxxit), then my water broke, then I got to the desired 10 centimeters, then I pushed for awhile, and then it became apparent that the baby wasn’t happy, so then I had a c-section, and then I had a baby. I can now sympathize with the regular deliverers and the c-sectioners of the world. All I can say is, thank god for epidurals.

So! The baby is doing great! And now Lost is on and the baby is sleeping, so I gotta go.

Internet, the next time you hear from me, I will have had a baby. Of course, said baby is getting there through totally artificial means, as that prosthetic cervix I ordered off the internet is apparently defective since I am now officially 39 weeks and uh, not dilated at all. I’m going into the hospital today at 3:30 to begin the ripening. (In related news, The Ripening would be a great name for a horror movie.) In the meantime, read this Rock of Love reunion recap. Also, however much you love Keri Russell (Felicity! Waitress!) do not, I repeat, DO NOT watch August Rush. I heard the warnings and I ignored them. I understand now. It is truly the worst movie I have ever seen. (I told my mother I saw the worst movie of all time yesterday, and she said, “Was Keanu Reeves in it?” Good point, mom.)

Anyway, hospital, baby, Bret Michaels, no August Rush. Got it?

Oh my god I only have one more day of work after today! And then I will be living the life of leisure for exactly one day (next Monday) before I go into the hospital on Tuesday and have a dang baby on Wednesday.

WARNING I MAY TALK ABOUT MY CERVIX IN THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH (more…)

So, here it is, April 10, the day the wizened old lady said I would be having the baby, and…nothing. There’s no way. I was at the doctor yesterday, and let’s just say that I am a great homemaker because the baby is extremely comfortable and has zero plans to leave his home. NONE. Not even a half centimeter’s size plan. Jerkface baby.

However, because of my sweet, darling thyroid (love ya!), I get to have this child at 39 weeks instead of 40 weeks, and since there is NO PROGRESS WHATSOEVER, I’ll be induced sometime around the 22nd or 23rd. Did you hear that, internet?! In approximately twelve days I will be giving someone birth.

My ginormous feet continue to awe and inspire my coworkers, and for the past few weeks I have been excellent about sticking to a low-sodium diet. However, you know what? It’s not helping anything. And yesterday I discovered that I lost a pound. People, 9 months pregnant ladies do not need to lose a pound. Therefore, I am abandoning my flavorless, grilled-chicken-and-baked-potato world and eating whatever the hell I want, just not maybe for every meal. Once you become aware of something, it’s hard to go back — so I won’t be eating any soup for like, at least 15 years. Soup is a killer! Beware!

So last night was the last childbirth class, THANK GOD, and it was the least painful of all of them. We didn’t do any bullshit crafts or breathing on feathers, and instead learned about what kind of junk we’re going to have to buy. Now that is practical knowledge. (There was only one real redneck moment, and that was when Mr. Pipe Cleaner Gun asked where the duct tape was when asked to change a diaper.) What I find hilarious is that in the same breath, our instructor tells us how awesome breastfeeding is and then shoves three different sample packs of formula in our faces as we leave. Do the right thing! Also, here is some nice free stuff. In case you want to use it. Even though we just told you not to.

In other news, what is the appropriate response to this email?

I am sorry for anything I’ve ever said to hurt you or made you feel bad or generally treated you badly as a woman or as A person. I am in a 12 step program and need to make amends with anyone I hurt or treated poorly. I have shared all of the Letters you wrote to me with my wife (yes I kept everything even the postcards). Please accept my sincere apology.

First, I am intrigued by the random capitalization. Second, what the heck did I write in my [L]etters? Third, I have never been apologized to by a person in a 12-step program and it is very exciting. He must be very thorough because the worst thing he ever did to me was fart in my car once in 1993.

1. Be 8 months pregnant with a bonus feature of sciatica, a pain that starts in your right buttcheek and shoots down your leg, making you walk like Frankenstein, or at least Frankenstein’s pregnant mother, oh, if only the poor thing had a mother.
2. Decide to let the outside cat in for a while since it is 35 degrees out.
3. Have a stupid dog who keeps chasing the outside cat through the yard.
4. After several rounds of calling the cat, only to have the stupid dog chase the cat through the yard again, decide to just go pick up the cat and carry him into the house.
5. Forget that the never-used bottom lock on the back door is locked.
6. Close the door behind you.
7. With cat in arms, discover the door is locked.
8. Say “fuck” loudly.
9. Have a husband who is at the gym.
10. Walk around to the front of the house in your pink pajamas that do not cover your belly to check the front door.
11. Discover that it is locked.
12. Consider going to a neighbor’s house.
13. Decide not to because your husband doesn’t have his cell phone on his person while working out, and besides, your pink pajamas do not cover your belly.
14. Consider crying.
15. Decide not to because it could be worse.
16. It could be raining.
17. You could be in labor.
18. Remember the time you were locked out when you were 8 or so and your grandmother was visiting, and you ended up peeing in the litter box in the garage while she walked to the middle school to get the key from your brother.
19. Check your car doors to see if they’re unlocked. They are not.
20. Manage to lure the outside cat to you, where you sit on the stoop, which is a smallish stoop and can only accommodate approximately one half of your behind, the right side of which is currently experiencing a searing pain.
21. Use the outside cat for warmth, as it is still 35 degrees outside.
22. Contemplate your miserable existence.
23. Consider crying again.
23. Become distracted when the dog suddenly notices you have that outside cat in your lap.
24. Passively watch as the dog picks a fight with the outside cat inches from your face.
25. Have an outside cat who claws you while trying to escape.
26. Watch your dog chase the outside cat through the yard again.
27. Try to beat on your dog, only she is faster than you and you don’t want to get your slippers muddy in the yard.
28. Tell the dog you hate her instead of beating her, which she would probably think was fun anyway.
29. Plot ways to kill your dog later, preferably those methods that allow one to lay on the couch during the killing.
30. When the dog approaches you and her sweet puppy dog eyes are clearly asking what the hell y’all are both doing outside, decide not to kill her.
31. Breathe a sigh of relief when you hear your husband’s car coming down the driveway about 30 minutes after your ordeal began.
32. Finally, burst into tears.

Fin

Last night’s childbirth class was actually marginally okay — there was no dancing, at least — and we basically just watched a couple of non-gory videos (including most of the episode of Mad About You where Jamie gives birth), took a tour of the hospital, and then went home.

But! There was also a craft project.

When we arrived we were given two pipe cleaners each and asked to make something. Most of the girls (uh, including me) made flowers. There were also some hearts, some uninspired necklaces, a turkey (?), and a stick figure person. Larry outdid himself and made this charming bee:

My favorite, however, was the redneck with the huge wad of dip in his mouth who made two things: a car, and this: (more…)

Why, hello there!

I keep meaning to post something, and then I don’t, and then the other night I couldn’t sleep so I started writing something, and then today I read it and it makes no sense, but not in a charmingly sleepy way. It was something about how Larry told me I was a great singer after I sang “Dumb Dog” (you know, from Annie) to Lulu, and then I got mad, and now he is very sad because I have vowed never to sing it again, ever, and has resorted to at least trying to get me to say the words “dumb dog,” which also has not worked.

Last night we went to childbirth class for the first time. We were supposed to go last week, but there was a storm coming that was supposed to have 80 mph winds, and the classes are held in a little trailer behind the hospital, so, no thanks. When I thought about going to class, I concentrated on dreading having to face the fact that a person will be coming out of my body soon, which fills me with terror if I think about it too much. What I did not consider was that the other people in the class would be rednecks.

There was lots of camo up in that trailer (naturally, I should’ve known!) and a lot of loud and swaggering men who thought they were hilarious. Here is a sampling of what occured:

–Our instructor asked us to tell her something about ourselves that would make her remember us. Most people just said what their jobs were (uh, including us) but one girl said, “Well, his last name is Pickle and pickles are my favorite food.” [Note: she didn't say that exactly, but it was something similarly dumb.] Another girl completely made my day by turning around and saying, “Well, as you can see, I am very beautiful.” She said that, out loud and everything. It was awesome.

–The men had to get in groups and make lists of things they can do to help their ladyfriends while in labor. Most were sweet, like “get her ice chips” or “rub her back,” but one group included “Don’t get mad.” The instructor asked what that meant. The guy said, “You know, don’t get mad if she goes into labor during a ballgame or something.” Another group put “light candles.” You know, in the hospital. With all of that nice oxygen around.

Larry and I did a pretty good job of keeping it together until we had to watch the video of the placenta coming out. We laughed like little children, little children who were recently told that right after they were born, their mothers also gave birth to large red hams. However, we did keep it together when we had to position our arms in classic middle school dance formation and sway back and forth while James Taylor sang “How Sweet It Is to Be Loved By You.” Seriously! We managed not to burst into flames and/or die. We are looking forward to next week, when apparently we get to sit in chairs like big boys and girls and not sit on the floor and breathe onto some feathers.

In totally unrelated news, you should know that Starburst now makes jellybeans, and for a limited time, you can purchase the Red Fruits mix, which is just cherry, strawberry, and watermelon. Watermelon sucks, but a whole huge bag of just cherry and strawberry? I have been ill all day from the handfuls I ate this morning.

Speaking of eating, this really sad thing has happened where if I eat one Dorito, or smell bacon cooking, or even think of a cheeseburger, my ankles get really big. Like, oh, you must have sprained…both of your ankles big. So I am trying to cut down on the sodium intake. I am coping by eating more sugar. I am sure my healthcare professional would approve.

Oh, man, I am falling behind on this whole website thing. The past few weeks have been very busy (if I were the type to say “hella busy,” I would say that, but I’m not, so “really busy” will suffice) what with traveling around the state bringing the good word of emporiumism to the masses (masses = 20 people in each location) and rearranging our house to make room for our new roommate who is scheduled to move in at the end of April.

I so envy Liz and her almost empty baby-to-be room. Our baby’s room used to be the guest room, and we really need to keep a guest room, so that was a problem. To solve this equation, we used the following formula.

1. Larry will build a shed.
2. That will be the baby’s room.
3. Not really.
4. All of Larry’s many, many, MANY tools will move into said shed and leave the laundry room.
5. The laundry room can then house other household things that are currently jammed in other places, such as the guest room.
6. Contents of the back room will be dispersed throughout the house.
7. Larry’s office will move to the back room.
8. The new guest room will move to Larry’s old office.
9. The old guest room will become the baby’s room.

It’s so simple, really! I used to scoff at people who add additional rooms to their houses in the last months of pregnancy; now I see that it doesn’t matter what your plan is: your house is still going to suck for awhile as you prepare for baby (unless you are LIZ and move into a new house; no, I’m not bitter). The problem with shifting all the furniture around is that there is mess everywhere. At least when you move in a new place, you have a blank slate. You don’t have to work your desk around the previous owner’s theremin (AHEM, LARRY) or collection of Every Tiny Notebook She Has Ever Carried Around in Her Purse, Ever. So our house has looked like the equivalent of a clown car, except with furniture and stacks of books and random computer equipment and cords that no one knows the function of. In other words, it is awesome.

This weekend we got a lot of stuff done; while there’s still a pile of stuff for Goodwill or the attic in the hallway, most everything is at least in the room where it will eventually live. It still sucks, though. It might continue to suck for awhile. I actually think it might eternally suck, in which case, I will go live in the shed.

Also: this weekend a wizened old lady took one look at my belly and said, April 10. I said, No, my due date is April 29. She said, I’M TELLING YOU, APRIL 10. I tend to believe the wizened, so now I am afraid I only have 6 more weeks.

After lunch I stopped into a store I’ve never been in before, and the minute I walked in I wanted to turn around and leave, but the lady had already greeted me so I thought I would walk around and pretend to like their merchandise.

THEN I heard the grating sound of a familiar voice. It was the voice of Crazy Betty.

I tried to hide behind some purses but she spotted me. And here is our conversation:

Crazy Betty: Hey girl!
Me: Hey, Betty.
Crazy Betty (spying pregnant belly): Well, what did we do?
Me: (confused)
Crazy Betty: What did we do?
Me: Uh well, you know what we did.
Crazy Betty: No, I said, “When are you due?”
Me: Oh. April.
Random Woman Looking at Shirts: “You know what we did!” Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! That is the funniest thing I have ever heard! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha (escalating in intensity) HAHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.
Me: Ok, Betty, see you later.

Last week I was searching for information on Indian companies that use cow manure as an energy source — as you do — and I kept seeing this word, biogas. Here is a representation of what went on in my head:

–What the heck is this bee-AH-gas?
–What the heck does bee-AH-gas mean?
–Is bee-AH-gas a Spanish word?
–Is it plural?
–If so, what is a bee-AH-ga and how does it relate to cow manure?

It took me a really long time to realize that it was, you know, bio-gas. My brain, she is not working lately.

I just went to CVS and bought some lipgloss and a bunch of candy. I got some Dove milk chocolate squares with caramel filling, and while they are delicious, when you unwrap them there is a little saying printed on the wrapper. Here are the sayings for the last four squares I’ve eaten:

–Love without rules.
–Decorate your life.
–Naughty can be nice.
–Hey, why not?

That last one kills me. It literally makes me want to kill. Hey, why not? said the candy. I am very devil-may-care, and even though I contain 11 grams of fat per 5 pieces, I will give you advice. And I say, go for it, man.

My friend Heidi had a baby girl last Thursday, and I should have known that I could rely on her for gory and detailed reporting from the front. So far I have learned these two vital things, put into terms that I can understand:

–When you are about to push the baby out, it feels like there is a bowling ball in your butt.
–When you breastfeed, you should hold your boob like a hamburger, not a taco.

Not a taco! Remember that.

Hello, and welcome! It is the middle of the night. I went to bed somewhere in the early part of the 9:00 hour and woke up at midnight, when I heard Lulu get up, sneeze, walk into the kitchen, sneeze, walk into the living room, sneeze, walk into our bedroom, sneeze, and then go back to her bed in the back room. I finally got up about 30 minutes ago and came into the guest room to send emails to all the people I owe emails to but never end up emailing because during the day I can find 800 other things to do. Apparently, if you’re not sleeping, you can get a lot of stuff done. Edited to add: OH MY GOD LIKE WRITE THE LONGEST POST OF ALL TIME. (more…)

Hello there, and welcome to 2008!

I hope you all had good holidays free from the burden of holiday mucus. I was not so lucky, but the mucus and I, we are slowly coming to an understanding. Don’t you just love the word “mucus”? It says it all. MUCUS.

Larry and I spent Christmas in Memphis with his parents, then spent New Year’s watching tv and drinking bourbon and Cokes (one of us did that — the other drank some weird French sparkling blueberry lemonade that smelled utterly unlike blueberries or lemonade or even anything that sparkled). Then we went to bed at 10:30. Party on, Larry! Party on, Sally.

The only news I have would be interesting to you if you happened to live in my house — Larry finished the shed! And now all his tools have moved out of the laundry room! Yeah! — so basically I have nothing to report…

…except that we found out a while ago that we’re having a boy! I really wanted it to be a boy so I could avoid all that princess stuff. And man: is he ever a boy. Do you know what boy babies do in utero? They play with their little fetal penises all day long. I have seen it with my own eyes. Spike (as we are calling him) was very busy in there playing with his toy. I have a new understanding of why men are obsessed with their weiners now — it starts very, very early.

Best breakfast ever:

Cream cheese Toaster Strudel brand frozen pastry (1)
Bowl of macaroni and cheese (1)
Pineapple (3 bites)

In other news, that dress you made? Looks like a coffee filter. Or a maxi pad. That’s what I hear, anyway. (Dudes: best Project Runway challenge ever!)

Last Friday after we left the throng of Gorjuslovers at his art show,* Larry and I had dinner with some friends. We went to one of the few downtown restaurants, a newish place that shall remain nameless. However, there were some of the problems we encountered:

1. “Oh, there are four of you. We only have three menus left. There’s a party of 9 over there and they have all the menus.” I scanned the room and no one else had menus. This means that this place only had 12 menus total.

2. “Our beer selections? Um, we have one Bud Light, a couple of Budweisers, and some Michelob Ultra.” I wanted so much for Larry to say, “I’ll go with THE Bud Light.”

3. “No, there’s no merlot. It went gone gone.”

4. “Ohmygod I totally blanked and forgot to come check on you guys! I usually have a list in my head of things to do, like take the order, check on the customer, you know, fill water glasses, that kind of stuff, you know how it is, y’all have probably done this before, and, like, then I realized that I hadn’t been by in awhile!” This stream of narcotic-inspired conversation went on for several more minutes while I pretended to study my shoes.

In other news, I officially had a pregnancy craving this morning. Many of you know my aversion to all things egg-related.** I don’t like the way they smell, I don’t like their consistency, I don’t like the way they stick to the pan and then flake off after Larry makes scrambled eggs…I’m shuddering here. Anyway, this morning I made myself an omelet. AND I ATE IT. I fear what’s next: pickles, olives, mustard, wing sauce, and chili cheese Fritos, if the baby is following the Banned for Life food list.

*Which was packed, by the way. Gorjus thought six people were going to show up; I think it was more like 600.
**French toast = the meanest thing you can do to a piece of bread.

1. Apparently you people are not that interested in bizarre holiday duets, or else you’re playing coy with me. While I wish with all my heart that Celine Dion and Elvis Costello would sing any kind of carol together, or heck, even a toilet paper commercial, it was actually the indigestion-inspiring combo meal of Chris Isaak and Stevie Nicks Santa Clausing it that I heard. Her part was pretty small; she mostly kept her Parkinson’s to herself except for a few moments of harmony. BUT STILL.

2. Has anyone read The Emperor’s Children by Claire Messud? I’m about a hundred pages into it and like it so far, but Claire Messud? You need to reassess your use of commas. Had I gotten the book from the library, I would’ve shut it and never returned from these, sentences numbers five and six of the entire book:

Her dangling fan earrings clanked at her neck as she leaned in to kiss each of them, Danielle too, and although she held her cigarette, in its mother-of-pearl holder, at arm’s length, its smoke wafted between them and brought tears to Danielle’s eyes. Danielle didn’t wipe them, for fear of disturbing her makeup.

Sure, I guess technically these commas aren’t incorrect, but jeezum crow, Knopf editors. You’re killing me here!

3. I would like to write a treatise on maternity clothes, specifically why in the HELL maternity clothes designers think that when a woman is pregnant, the #1 clothing detail she wants is ruching. Dudes. Everything has fucking ruching! And if it’s not ruched, it’s v-neck. And if by some miracle it’s ruch- and v-neck-free, then it has flowy Stevie Nicks sleeves (just a note: Stevie Nicks insults me on many levels, ears and eyes). I may just go the Christina Aguilera route if the ruche trend continues.

4. Top Model: I could not be happier that stanky Bianker is gone. I think the girls left are pretty slim pickins, but my guess is that Chantal will win, even if she has a wonky eye. Or it might be Saleisha, although that Tootiecut has got to go. Jenah will not win, although she should be commended for making it this far with that nasty weave. Next week: season finale!

5. Project Runway: My love for Christian deepens each week. I think I giggle every time he’s on screen. I just love his carefully sculpted hair and the way I keep thinking he’s a girl at first. I also, despite my better judgment, like Sweet P (not SWT PEE). Also, I hope that all of you able-to-drink-alcohol types have seen Liz’s Project Runway drinking game. It’s hilariously spot-on.