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Will you look at the fucking pumpkins?





Thursday, August 25, 2005

You guys sure leave some helpful comments! Thanks for chiming in on the hospital bag issue, I'll be sure to pack socks, as that seems like the one item that's universally appreciated by laboring women everywhere. Just to shake up the delivery room a little, maybe I'll bring a novelty pair.

Many of you mentioned pajamas, which made me realize that the things I typically wear to bed may not in fact be suitable for a hospital stay. Unless I don't mind being seen by the nursing staff and possibly the janitor while clad in a see-through, definitely-not-maternity-sized tank top with what appear to be drool stains on the front (I think it's a bleach mark, actually, but since I sleep with my mouth gaping wide open every night to compensate for my plugged-up, snoring snout, I've slobber-drenched a pillow AND my own chest more than once; like actually many, many times over the last few months, and thus cannot deny the possibility of saliva related discoloration. Also! HOW GROSS AM I?). So maybe a nice new t-shirt is in order, here.


Chiara and I had been planning to see Hump! last weekend, because hey - local amateur porn contest, what's not to like about that? (Well, maybe the potentially uncomfortable scenario of becoming intimately familiar with your neighborhood grocery clerk's private parts.) Unfortunately, the event was sold out, depriving me of what might have been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be a giant pregnant lady watching bad porn in public. God, there was just something...something so beautiful about that, too.

With our dream of experiencing dilettante genitals on the big screen shattered, we tried to hook up in order to catch the next filthiest movie that it's possible to see in Seattle right now: The Aristocrats. The Aristocrats, if you haven't heard about this film, is basically a documentary about a dirty joke, and various comedians' takes on said dirty joke. The joke has a common intro and punchline, but everything in between is up for improv and typically involves the most vulgar themes you can imagine. I thought Chiara would be a particularly fun date for this movie as she rarely if ever resorts to foul language, whereas I am the sort of person who recently referred to an exposed carpet tack in my bedroom as a "goddamn shitsucking cockpig"*. I imagined myself waving a lacy fan for her during the most offensive parts, maybe, but sadly our schedules did not mesh and so I saw The Aristocrats with JB. Personally, I thought it was hilarious, but, well, depending on exactly how you feel about jokes involving incest and feces, your mileage may vary.

(At one point a mime tells the joke, which is one of my favorite parts. Everything is dead silent, of course, and there's this mime....acting out the.....bending over a....anyway, it's funny.)

*I blame JB for the verbal cesspool that often spews, unchecked, from my probably-should-be-scrubbed-with-Dial mouth. Not only has he provided me with a plethora of small-town NC-17 colloquialisms to add to my personal lexicon, but he's prone to casually using obscenities in lieu of basic adjectives. "Will you look at the fucking pumpkins," he said proudly the other night, staring out at our vegetable garden. "Those goddamn things are getting big as shit." He's a bad influence on me, is what I'm saying, because I'm sure without his dubious guidance I would never routinely call the dog a dirty sanchez.

Three different couples, in a palpable huff of disapproval, got up and left the movie during the first fifteen minutes (read the reviews next time, kids), and I swear I got stared at by all of them as they stiffly exited the theater in search of more wholesome pursuits. Shouldn't you be home knitting booties, instead of exposing your unborn child to the phrase "so THEN the dad starts eating shit out of the mom's ass"? their beady little eyes seemed to say.

Yes, but then I would have missed both the porn contest AND the opportunity to hear Bob Saget's take on The Joke, which involved eyesocket sex. So there, Righteous Theatergoers!


In addition to maybe cleaning up my language a little, I also need to clean out a closet in preparation for Riley's arrival (note: closet not metaphorical). Where the piles of shoes and purses that currently explode from its interior each time the door is wrenched open are going to go, I know not, but it's becoming more and more obvious that we are in desperate need of storage for all the miscellaneous baby THINGS we have already accumulated. So many things, and all I can do is worry that we don't have enough things, because wouldn't I be a better parent if I bought him that particular thing? Crazy.

Closet-cleaning is high on my agenda for the time between going on leave and giving birth, however long/short that might be. Yes, thrilling, but it's either that or sit at home all day hitting refresh on people's blogs and cursing their lack of updates, so between those two options I'll take the one less likely to result in having my IP banned from half the internet. Next week I'll be 37 weeks, so let's see...I could go into labor as much as four weeks later, I guess. If that's the case, my closets are going to RULE.

There's a particular pregnancy messageboard that I keep reading, despite the fact that it consistently gets my knickers in a twist, especially its members' overuse of the acronym "pg" BECAUSE THE WORD "PREGNANT" TAKES TOO LONG TO TYPE I GUESS. (See? Right there: panties, all roiled up.) Anyway, I'm currently scratching my head over the number of women who 1) are getting internal exams at every checkup, apparently, because they're talking about being 1 cm for weeks now, etc, 2) are "35 weeks and am soooo incredibly sick of being preggo and will castor oil start labor?", and 3) are electively scheduling inductions.

My doctor doesn't do internal exams until 39 weeks (unless there's a reason to do otherwise), is not a fan of inducing unless it's necessary ("I want the baby to be a Virgo" = not necessary), and doesn't routinely strip membranes/break waters - again, unless there's a reason. I don't know enough about this childbirthin' stuff to have an informed opinion, I guess, but my gut feeling is that I'm glad to be working with her. If I go past 40 weeks, I'm sure there's a chance I will also be Soooo Incredibly Sick of Being Preggo, and if extra measures need to be taken to extract the babe, so be it - but until then I'm going to enjoy these last few weeks and not worry about what in hell my cervix is doing and you know, clean some damn closets.

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