Laundress Gumshoe

I highly recommend a little marital aide that is significantly cheaper than counseling: getting your dirty clothes professionally laundered. (What did you think I was going to say?) In Boston, it hasn’t been much more expensive than the crazy prices in our basement--$4.75 to wash and dry a single load--ouch! The professional wash-and-fold is a bit of a splurge from hauling stuff down the street to the cheaper coin laundromat, but like I said, when only one spouse ends up doing this chore, the household suffers. Anyway, I have gotten way off track…

Scott and I love our local laundress. She is quite chatty and gives out Dum Dum lollipops. When we first started going there, she asked Scott what kind of dogs we had. He looked a little surprised and wondered if she recognized him at the dog park or something. Then, of course, she indicated that it was clear from our hairy pile of laundry that we either have dogs or a much bigger problem. Then, this last week (a year and a half of laundry later), when Scott came to pick up the laundry, she gave him a hearty congratulations. She of course had gotten the first batch of dirty laundry that included my new maternity clothes. What a funny thing to piece together information from clothes. (Paranoid Molly hopes her keen senses did not detect any of our figurative dirty laundry to boot--need to check all the pockets next time.) When I finally stopped by to get our last batch before the move, she had all sorts of advice about stretch marks and sleeping--very useful stuff. And she gave me a lollipop. I will miss her, even though I will soon have my very own washer and dryer!!!

[Image from: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Get_lautrec_1889_the_laundress.jpg]

Parasite Makes Its Move

I finally felt the baby move today. It wasn’t what I was expecting. It actually felt like a very small animal moving inside of me. “Molly, but that is in fact what is going on,” you say. Well yes, but for a month I have been concentrating as hard as I can, trying in vain to feel the little dude. I’ll lie very still and think of nothing but my uterus, maybe even stop breathing for a moment, cursing my vigorous belly pulse for its distracting thump-thump, trying to feel all the “fluttering” and “quickening” and “champagne bubbles” and “just like gas” movements that everyone describes. I’ll think, wait, was that it?! Then I’ll fart or something and realize it was in fact “just like gas.” Alas, four weeks of effort with only flatulent near misses to show for it. But it is finally here!! So, I guess I wasn’t sensitive enough to feel that early butterfly stage. Or, terrible thought, maybe my baby is epileptic or spastic or ADD or violently angry or has some sort of problem that prevents it from doing the cute, subtle moments of early pregnancy. Okay, maybe I’m just a worry wart.

[Image from: http://muertoderisa.typepad.com/muerto_de_risa/quito_experiences/index.html]

Mind Your Own Freakin’ Bidness

Last week, I started to show in an obvious way, in such a way that even polite, nervous people would feel confident asking about my pregnancy without fear of finding out that I was just an unusually tubby-tummed lady or the sad victim of some sort of belly cancer. The first real evidence of this fact took place in the post office today. I was mailing myself a box of things that I knew would be confiscated in the airport. Here’s how the conversation went with the busybody postal worker:

“Hi, I’d like to mail this box.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Yes, and I’m just beginning to show.”
“You shouldn’t be carrying that.”
“Yeah, I guess not.”
[Postal carrier weighs parcel.]
“See, it weighs 20 pounds. You definitely should NOT be carrying this.”
[Postal carrier gives me stern look to cause shame.]

It’s a good thing she had that scale right there for the purpose of PROVING that I was an incompetent mother-to-be!

[Image from: http://www.racingunion.org/Data/binary/solved-little-mailman-bayberry.jpg]

I Am a Fruit

There is nothing stranger than experiencing a drastic change in the entire purpose of your body. I am no longer an exercising machine. I am no longer a head-turning knockout. I am no longer a career superwoman. I am no longer a world-traveler extraordinaire.

No, I am a pod. I am a vessel. I am an incubatin’ nutrition dispensing system. I am a frightened brain that waits in fear of the hellish, sleep-depriving atrocities of newborn parenthood. I am a rickety frame that will barely support the weight of a growing organism. I am a bag of invisible hormone ducts that squirt and respond, squirt and respond. And, wherever I am, there are two of me.

Supposedly, I can return to all those more glamorous roles in a year or so. (And, then, and only then, we can hold a spirited debate as to whether or not I indeed held any of those titles, but…whatever! For now, please humor me!)

[Image from: http://www.botos.com/weekly/imgp5048ra_800.jpg]

Tummy

The other day, while showering, I was trying to wash my feet and found it to be much more difficult than usual. Once I discovered the culprit--my growing tummy is making it hard to bend over and reach or see anything below my knees--I had a gush of sweet thoughts about my little round orb, which at the time seemed to be one and the same as the baby it contained. In a moment of silliness, no doubt driven by my crazed pregnancy hormones, I gave my belly a loving hug and told it what a pain it was being. I think this is the first time I have ever snuggled myself so affectionately and also spoken to a body part. Don’t worry; I won’t be doing this in public or anything.

Sincronicidades

I had to get a haircut this week because I was looking a little bit shaggy, and it just felt like it couldn’t wait until I moved back to Austin. This didn’t need to be a great haircut and I have pretty much given up on searching for the perfect haircut in Boston--too expensive, too difficult. (It’s not clear that anyone in this town has short hair.) Anyway, I thought I’d gamble and go to the woman who just opened up a salon half a block from our apartment. I went in there, started describing the cut that I wanted and realized that she didn’t speak English very well. I was feeling bold and decided to let her cut my hair even though it was pretty clear she was not comfortable with how short I wanted it--not a good sign. Then, she had a conversation with the other stylist, in Portuguese, not realizing that I could kind of follow what she was saying--something about deciding which one of them should do my hair, even though it was “her first day”--did I get that right? It wasn’t clear which of them was having a first day--was it my stylist? Again, not a good sign. Then she completely doused me during the shampoo. I mean, my entire collar was wet, water went down my chest and into my belly button, and I think she even got water in my ear. More signs pointing to run-the-hell-out-of-the-salon. Anyway, I don’t know why I kept on, but something compelled me to stay.

When she found out that I used to take Portuguese, she was very excited and insisted on making me practice. She pulled in the other stylist and they proceeded to have a conversation about the supermodel Giselle and periodically quizzed me on what I could understand. Then, the subject of her pregnancy came up--she was 5 months along. I told her that I was 4 months along and there was much fussing and showing of ultrasound pictures and comparing of pregnancy guides and condoling about symptoms and guessing about gender. The hilarious part was that it turns out that we have the exact same obstetrician, whom I had chosen randomly off the internet and whom she had gone to on the express recommendation of all of her Brazilian mamma-friends. I hadn’t realized this but my obstetrician is Portuguese and gets a lot of business because of all the Brazilian families that live in my neighborhood. I adore my obstetrician and this just made me love her more. Now I wish I could be around here to have her deliver my baby, and to meet my hairdresser’s baby, and to show off my baby when it is born. How quickly one feels roots plunging down into the ground when pregnant! I mean, I have never really felt like this place is home, and I’m dying to get back to Austin, but suddenly I’m feeling homesick for a life that I never planned to have.

The haircut was decent, turned out to be only $14, and I learned a new word in Portuguese.

[Image from: http://whatidiscover.vox.com/library/posts/tags/%22police+(+band+)%22/]

Meth and Taxes

Big sighs of relief for me and my clueless husband--I finally finished our taxes AND that drat high school drug chapter that I was writing. Both I completed this weekend, but not without much pushing of deadlines and tearing out of hair and gnashing of teeth. What a horrible few days!

The drug chapter involved a lot of discussions/arguments with Scott over our personal views on drug use and the (un)fairness of current drug laws and the (un)importance of drug-law history in America. (It’s hard to put the right amount of sarcasm into typed words.) It seems we completely agree and mostly disagree on the topic depending on which terms you use--the classic semantic argument. (I’ll let you guess who thinks what and how we disagree--not worth explaining because neither of us really use any illegal drugs and have no real plans to...wait, so why do we even bother arguing? Maybe it’s just to distract us from our nasty tax woes.) I did get a lovely, empathetic email from my editor who has two teenage sons who she says she knows that they use drugs but they don’t know that she knows. Great, so now I will have my own child to spy on and fret over and tick off and generally get in his or her business.

I can’t wait to go to the post office tomorrow and wait in a long line of procrastinators like myself to mail off my checks to the Feds and the state of Massachusetts. There is nothing more nightmarish to a Texan than paying state taxes, lemme tell you! But then, Massachusetts at least will protect my rights to buy health insurance for me and my baby…hmm, the jury’s still out over which place is better.

[Image from: http://www.pezcandydispenser.com/human.html]

Dare to Tell It Like It Is

Writing this high school health chapter on drug use is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought. I had this same problem a couple of years ago when I wrote a reproductive health chapter--one in which I was encouraged to write pages and pages about the importance of abstinence, but then they wouldn't let me explain exactly what it was the kids were supposed to be abstaining from. I mean, the editor didn't care that in the previous edition, it wasn't clear exactly how the sperm go into the fallopian tube. The only clear thing was that when that sperm got there, boy was that girl in trouble!

How do you tell kids to be cautious about things that you yourself experimented with at their age? My clients don't want me to write a chapter saying it is okay to try drugs or have sex in a safe, comfortable, risk-free setting. They don't want me to tell the kids how to use good judgment. They want me to empower the kids to say no and abstain from any and all risky and dangerous situations. These are also important skills, but I think they can be applied with caution and still allow for minor drug use and safe teen sexuality. In fact, I feel that your teen years are often the best time to try some of these things in moderation. Now, I don't want my kids to be strung-out junkies or disease ridden perverts before they become legal voters, but I also don't want them to miss out on the fun and the self-defining experiences that they need to become cool and wise adults. Who knows what I'll feel when my own kiddo starts growing up, but for now I'm tortured by the hypocrisy of having to write absolutes about a subject in which there are clearly no absolutes.

[Image from: http://www.bull-bear.de/werbemittel/Hanf-Nudeln_Rasta_Pasta.html]

Oh La La

I've been looking into this applying to college thing some more, and the more I think about it, I'm kind of getting excited about it. Am I crazy? (Or should I say "folle"?) I always did wish I could have finished my French degree, and I was only 6 hours away from doing so. UT has a pretty reasonable readmission policy and I am still a Texas resident...an interesting possibility!

I always do this. The minute I'm through with a major project, instead of reveling in my new-found leisure time, I start scheming to try something more ambitious. Now the scary prospect is, what if I don't get accepted? Dieu merci! It has been a while since I have conjugated anything en francais.

[Image from: http://stores.thehautehound.com/-strse-1319/Black-French-Beret/Detail.bok]

Nice Man Gives Awful News

The nicest man in the world just gave me the worst news I have heard in a long time: Because I am already pregnant, the state of Texas refuses to sell me health insurance at any cost until a month after my baby is born. I could go into the reasons why, but they are complicated, and what it comes down to is insurance companies won't cover me or Scott.

My husband and I are self-employed. We have lovely health insurance in Boston leftover from my student plan. It ends on Sept 1st. My due date is October 8th. Without insurance, it costs about $5,000 to have an epidural and a baby--if nothing goes wrong. If something goes wrong, the reason you get health insurance, the sky is the limit for what it can cost. The insurance companies know this. They don't want any part of it. In Texas, those fun-loving, family-promoting, big-business kiss asses in the state legislature feel they have to protect only people who are employed by larger companies. They don't make laws protecting the self employed.

So, here are my options:

* My Boston student health insurance company kindly extends my coverage past my end date so that I can get emergency services in Texas. (Fingers are crossed that this is possible.)
* We go insurance-free and pray nothing goes wrong.
* One of us gets a job asap and then quits it a month after junior arrives.
* I apply to a cheap college, enroll in classes, and pretend to get a degree.
* We see if there are any self employment groups that have tackled this problem--surely there must be!
* We divorce and I marry someone else who has health insurance and then divorce him and then remarry my true love.
* We take a little trip to Mexico and give birth there.

What kind of butthead would set up this situation?! When they pull this shit on gay people, they say it is to protect the institution of marriage and having babies--what's their lame-ass excuse this time? And, what kind of value system is it that screws over all my friends and me in the name of bigotry and corporate greed? Do I really want to move to this state?

[Image from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Gustave_Dore_Inferno34.jpg]

Please Get My Good Side

The ultrasound was a success! And by success, I mean that the baby has two arms, two legs, an assortment of digits, a healthy heartbeat, and only one head. (I’ve been worried about two-headed babies lately and am relieved I don’t have to make any ethical decisions regarding the quality of life of conjoined offspring.) For those of you hungry for data: below are the blobby printouts. They really don’t do junior justice, so don’t worry, you can save the polite comments for when you meet the little meatloaf in person. Right now, he is about 4 cm from crown to rump, and he kicks and twists and flails his arms and does all sorts of crazy acrobatics. We are thinking of naming him Twitchy McSquirmison. Oh yeah, and he’s maybe a boy, but no one was willing to say that officially, so don’t get your heart set on it.

Full-length portrait:

Arm (with fingers!) reaching out:

Profile of face with giant nose:

Ultrasuspense

So tomorrow is the day we go for the ultrasound. This means we get assessment of any possibility of mental retardation or deformities, confirmation we’re not having twins (not really a concern, but the seal of approval is nice), potentially a sneak peak of gender, and--the real kicker--concrete evidence that we are in fact pregnant. This afternoon, I tried to convince Scott that I made the whole thing up. He had a lot of trouble coming up with concrete evidence to support his fantasy that I am in fact pregnant. Missed periods, crazy emotional meltdowns, minor tummy pooch, and tale of a heartbeat--all hearsay, and I doubt any of it would have held up in a court of law. Tomorrow’s appointment will give him the data he needs. I can’t wait!

[Image from: http://web.archive.org/web/20060129173242/http:/www.armamentarium.net/SitoNuovo/1-+Museo+Modena.htm]

Craving Raving

Wow, I had my first case of what I think must be pregnancy craving--and it was tangled up in a quagmire of miss-crankipants-tantrumming, so it was a little hard to spot. It was quite embarrassing actually, and thank goodness Scott figured it out in time before I crossed a line. Okay, maybe I did cross a line, but fortunately for our unborn child he’ll forgive me and not leave us for a sweeter woman. Anyway, I won’t incriminate myself with the details of the tantrum part.

After a good 20 minutes of aimless shopping at the grocery store, I suddenly decided I wanted a salad, but only because it would be the perfect vehicle for ****light Italian salad dressing****[fade in light coming from heaven and angels singing music]. I spent a good six minutes (possibly more because Scott, who was actually working to provide for us, had time to go down two and half grocery aisles in the time it took me) picking out the perfect one. I went with Newman’s Own. This stuff isn’t bad, but it’s not nearly as nice as the stuff I make myself with fancy vinegar and gourmet mustard and fresh garlic, etc, but no, that crap wouldn’t do! I was like a robot or a zombie or someone possessed. I didn’t even realize how crazy I was acting until a mile walk from the store. Once I figured out what a troll I had been, I apologized profusely.

Wow, those hormones are some powerful stuff! I’ve had about five salads drenched in the weak Ital-lite in the last three days. I think there is only one serving left in the bottle. I’m not sure I’m over it.

[Image from: http://web.archive.org/web/20060129173242/http:/www.armamentarium.net/SitoNuovo/1-+Museo+Modena.htm]

Little Critter’s Pitter Patter

[Note: If you are a friend of mine and this is the first time you have heard that I am pregnant, please forgive me and then contact me. I didn’t mean to leave you out of the loop!]

I heard the heart beat of my baby today. It changed everything for me. Not only did that sound provide the first real evidence that I am pregnant, but it also felt like the first time I connected with the little guy. The first three months seem so theoretical. All the signs of pregnancy (except for the cheesy pregnancy test--who trusts those anyway?) are pretty much just exaggerated versions of PMS. You start to think, “Maybe I made the whole thing up.” I kept waking up at night feeling really embarrassed, thinking, ohmygosh, I’m going to have to tell people that I have been faking it. But no longer!! At least one other person besides myself (and Scott)--a health care professional--agrees: I’m definitely pregnant and, whatever it is, it is definitely alive.

I wish that I had been able to record the little galloping sound of its baby bird pulse. Sadly, the obstetrician greased up my belly and whipped out the Doppler device before I had a chance to grab my recorder. And, it is difficult to ask someone to stop what they are doing when you are mostly naked on an examination table. Scott said I am a terrible journalist for this misstep, hee, hee. Well, he’s right--when it comes to command performance reporting while wearing a hospital gown, I am no Ira Glass.

[Image from: http://www.wprc.org/trimester1.phtml]

Trip-Tech

I try to be as honest as possible when it comes to my professional reporting, but I had to write a story in which for tact/professional/fear-o’-the-law reasons I had to omit a certain truth. For the podcast I work for, I just did an audio piece on a trippy little device, a walkman that takes environmental sound and in real-time converts it into synthesized modern music that it pumps into your headphones. Even just on the surface this is pretty cool in that everyday street noise (like squealing subways, monotonous ATM beeping, loud motors, construction racket, and annoying teenage passersby) sound like enchanting trance music. BUT, there is an entire other dimension to this invention. Because it is live, because as you see the giant semi-truck pass by, as you feel the rushing wind of the subway train, as your nose and fingers tickle from the vibration of the jackhammer, you are expecting to hear something else. Instead, you hear this lovely music. And, it’s interactive because if you laugh or say “oh my” it gets incorporated into the sound track rhythmically.

“So what’s the problem?” you ask. “What do you have to lie about in your reporting?” Here’s the problem: The overall effect is EXACTLY like an LSD trip. I mean, there is no other equivalent that I have ever come across. Except for the visual hallucinations and the overall desire to touch things, the entire afternoon I spent on this piece felt just like I was on acid. Even after the interview, I had that post-trip haziness in which you know you are back in the real world, but the psychoactive world still buzzes in your memory. And, just as acid changes your perception of the world for the rest of your life, so did this crazy little walkman. But, how do you write about that? How do you refer to an acid trip and still make this family-friendly journalism? I couldn’t figure it out, so I just lied (by omission).

PS. To further damn myself to the hypocrite’s circle of hell, I am about to write a chapter on illegal drugs for a high school health book. Never trust what your teacher’s tell you!

[Image from: http://static.flickr.com/103/261556151_1625a140e6_m.jpg]

Scampoo

The airport security guard took my shampoo. Not just any shampoo, the shampoo I got from the fancy hotel in Dallas, where we stayed for Pete’s funeral. It came in generous 4.2 oz bottles. Elinor, Amy, and I managed to sweet talk housekeeping into giving us six sets of the shampoo and conditioner--coconut flavored, Kiehl’s brand, exclusive to Bloomingdales, and NOT cheap. The method of acquiring it added yet another dimension to its already luxurious appeal. I just feel a certain kinship with my friends when I use it. It even reminds me of Pete, who probably never even spent a full minute thinking about toiletries when he was alive, but whatever, it reminds me of that weekend. Just by association, this shampoo makes me think about enjoying and celebrating life.

And, it’s not hard to make that leap. This stuff is so delicious smelling. When I use this shampoo, I turn into one of those shower ladies in television ads, who massage their scalp with orgasmic sighs. Afterwards, I pat my hair gently with a fluffy towel and then I spend the rest of the day feeling pretty and trying in vain to smell my own hair.

I’ve been hording these bottles since October, because they are travel size and I don’t want to share them with Scott who just won’t enjoy them enough to merit that kind of generosity. He’ll squirt out way too much. He’ll waste my treasure. This shampoo brings out the most selfish little 10-year-old in me. I save it for trips, not only because of its convenient size, but because it makes me look forward to traveling. Using all those strange bathrooms that are void of all my special comforts is not so bad when I have my favorite shampoo.

That’s why, last night I probably spent a half an hour trying to find a way to get this shampoo into an airport-security-approved container. I even looked up the guidelines on the internet. No, I wouldn’t jettison a single ounce of the yummy, matching bath gel that comes in a 2.6 ounce bottle, but I would carefully transfer 2 ounces of the precious unction into a 2.2 ounce nail-polish-remover bottle. This was Scott’s brilliant idea (perhaps I shouldn’t be so stingy with the stuff). I fell asleep soundly knowing I was bringing just enough shampoo to keep my hair looking sleek and shiny all weekend.

Alas, you already know the end of this tale of woe. You probably knew the rule that your three ounces of shampoo had to come in a properly labeled container. Those stingy shampoo-stealing monsters.

[Image from: http://www.kiehls.com/]

Millionvoyaire

I think I saw someone win a million dollars tonight. I say I think, because it wasn't like when you see it happen on TV. There was no gasping or screaming or fainting, no slapping of foreheads, no hearty congratulations, no laughter, or praising of the lord, or even stunned looks. It was mostly mild confusion, like a transaction between two non-English speakers whose only common tongue is a patchwork of different types of broken English.

I walked into the corner store just down the street to get some snacks and this customer was having a serious tete-a-tete with the clerk concerning a scratch-off lotto ticket. They both looked up when I came in like I had caught them, but with more of an open countenance, like it would be okay if I asked what they were up to. I shopped and eaves dropped and heard them discussing the numbers and reading instructions and exchanging interpretations.

When I finally got up to the counter, the guy took off, but said "I definitely won." The clerk was kind of dazed and had trouble ringing up my items. I asked him if the guy really won like he said. The clerk said yes, but he still seemed too out of it to be credible. In the middle of our transaction, he perked up and then checked the back of one of the same cards as the winning one, one that was still on the dispenser. Then, he turned to me and said, "A million dollars is a lot of money."

As I left the store, I realized that he hadn't rung up my gum. Score! Free gum! A little touch o' that windfall leaking onto me.

[Image from: http://www.tinypineapple.com/bookshelf/]

Dogastrophe!

Wow, the dogs got their snouts into a bag of flour last night. This turned out to be a 3-tiered mess. The first tier involved a fine layer of wheat dust spread over every square inch of our things, even gumming up the computers. The second tier was the the slobbery paper mache mess they made all over the apartment. Basically, they invented a dog slobber and flour glue. They had little dumplings in their hair, flour caked on their toes, and every once in a while they'd regurgitate a little biscuit. We didn't realize that there was a third tier of foulness and disorder until the middle of the night when the "end" result materialized. OMG, you have never seen so much, ahem, end product. Our house reeked, and I spent most of today scrubbing, mopping, airing out, and just plain throwing away things. If I ever worried about Scott's and my ability to handle a little rugrat, I now know. We certainly can survive one day of it. But, could we handle two?

I bought a latch for the pantry door.

[Image from: http://my.opera.com/gennafaith/albums/show.dml?id=39756]

S.A.S.E.

As mail burst forth from my rickety mailbox, bloated from the postal holiday accruement, I spied the thin edge of familiar stationary. Only two millimeters of ochre parchment needed peak from the hectic stack of ponderous bills and neon fliers shouting about 0%. I’d been rejected.

When you send a self addressed stamped envelope, it’s like writing yourself bad news. Disappointing news. Day-wrecking, confidence-cracking, why-didn’t-I-include-a-kleenex news. You know you’ll never see that envelope if they accept you. You can always hope it’s at the bottom of some tall stack on a very busy editor’s desk…until the day you get that hopeless envelope. Enveloping hopelessness, it’s mocking and tautological return address, the recipient’s name correctly spelled in an intimately familiar handwriting, the cheery stamp chosen by someone with taste—all were engineered unwittingly by yourself.

I thought that by using some of my nicest stationary (and hear me right, my collection is exquisite), it might take the edge off any impending rejection-inspired dejection. Surely only lovely things are born from heavy rag, I thought. And, wouldn’t a bit of that lovely brush off onto a loveless brush-off? Sadly, no.

[Image from: http://esart.com/projects/food/rejectioncheese.php]

Perched

Personally and professionally, I’m sitting on a bunch of opportunities that just won’t hatch without patience—a virtue I have never developed. It’s simultaneously excruciating and exhilarating. I’ve got a query letter out for a story that just gets more and more brilliant with each passing day. I’ve got a job offer/rejection pending that could really solidify my new career. I’ve got a personal project percolating that could change my life. In a couple of weeks, they could all turn out to be duds, and my life would be no different than it has been for a while now. Or, they could all bloom into full on successes and I’ll be tearing my hair out with the stress of having to juggle them all at once or just choose one. And then there are the many permutations of some working out and others not. It is agonizing to wait.

[Image from: http://www.allposters.com/-sp/A-Great-Horned-Owl-Perched-on-a-Galvanized-Tub-Posters_i1023903_.htm]