Jan
3
My hair is in dire need of some highlights and I’ll tell you the truth, the only reason I’m waiting to get them done is because I’m afraid of someone giving me shit in the salon. You know: “Do you really think it’s safe to expose your baby to the chemicals?” I actually do think it’s safe, or at least as safe as anything in this chemical-soaked world is, but I’m too much of a pussy to risk the potential interaction. Because then I’d have to be all, yeah I do, want to make something of it, and they’d be all, I have a degree in Crap That Can Theoretically Harm Babies and so there, and I’d be like, shut up I’m hormonal and weird and I will sit on you and crush you to death, and then we’d have to have a ninja fight with hot irons and bottles of Bumble & bumble products, and it would just be a pain in the ass.
I feel kind of fugly, though, with my half-brown, half-whatever hair. Contributing to the fug feeling is my newly acquired Pregnancy Face, where the jawline has slowly disappeared into a sea of puffiness and my eyes always look half-asleep. I’ve been rudely enjoying some recent photos of Christina Aguilera because even that tiny little hoochie now has Pregnancy Face. ALL MUST SUCCUMB.
Most of my clothes have stopped fitting for one reason or another. The cute tops are now too short, the pants all get pushed southward by the midsection, and the combination of these problems results in a large swath of naked lower belly. The fitted shirts are stretched to the point of explosion, and anything clingy bugs me now anyway. I’m itchy, I’m hot, my belly is constantly erupting in a flurry of disturbing movement: I need muumuus.
The good news is that Smalltopus seems to have dropped down a bit or at least found a new position that doesn’t involve crushing my lungs, because in the last couple days I feel marginally more capable of walking across the room without dropping to the floor and gasping, which is nice.
God, is there anything more boring than listening to a pregnant person talk about being, like omigod, so totally pregnant? Jesus. The sad part is that while I’m currently tuned to the All Gestation, All the Time channel, it’s only going to get worse: the All Baby channel is even more insipid. Soon I’ll be blathering about how eye-searingly beautiful my new baby is, even if he looks like a miniscule Andy Rooney.
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While I’m still mainly handling the administrative Macworld preparations at my office this year, I’m not actually going to the show. I don’t know when the cutoff time is for air travel, but I’d hate like hell to go into early labor while standing in a booth hawking software. I mean, I suppose there could be worse places to give birth, like a Porta-Potty, but the .000001% chance of it happening at Macworld is too much for me. Although it’s fun to imagine the looks of horror on some of the geekier attendees’ faces: ALERT ALERT FEMALE PRODUCING BIOLOGICAL SPECIMEN FROM LOWER BODY ALERT.
So I’m staying home and happily skipping out on booth duties—but sadly missing out on a week’s worth of room service—and instead, JB is going out of town during that timeframe. To CES. Which just so happens to be in Las Vegas.
The exhausted, blimp-sized pregnant lady gets to stay home with the kid in the nonstop Seattle rain, while the unfettered husband jets off to VEGAS for a few days of technology circle-jerking, sunshine, and various forms of adult entertainment.
Man, is that bullshit or what? What should I get in compensation, do you think? Spa day? Lapdance from Jake Gyllenhaal? Chest of gold doubloons?
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Lastly, for no particular reason, a picture of my child being chased by a chicken:
(Run, Forrest, RUN!)
Jan
2
Man, I’m kind of glad that the holidays are over and done with and my house is fir-needle-free and there are no more seasonal celebrations to be had for a while. Down with festivity! Thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot poles for all!
Now I just need to make it through my work-related Macworld preparations then it’s sweet, sweet sailing . . . for about two weeks, then apparently there’s going to be this newborn in the house? Like, a tiny little baby? I know, it sounds crazy to me TOO.
I was lying in bed last night taking a breather from my vigorous wee-hour routine of repeatedly getting up to pee, eat Tums, and walk off the Jimmy Leg, when it occurred to me that Smalltopus could actually make his big appearance any day now. I mean, there’s no RULE that says he’s going to obediently hang out where he is until his scheduled arrival. And here I am, woefully unprepared—I’ve managed to unearth Riley’s old baby clothes, but they’re just lying on the floor in a big heap. We have no newborn-sized diapers! No bottles! No attempt has been made to get the carseat out of the garage and the sawdust blown from its crevices!
Plus, my fingernails are too long. They were all pregnancy-dragon-lady-length when I unexpectedly had Riley three weeks early, and I had to cut them right away with clippers because OMG WHAT IF I SCRATCH THE BABY and there’s this photo of me holding his little feet and it would be such a cool picture except everyone always thinks it shows JB’s hands, because of my short-ass, MAN HAND fingernails. This time I should try and stay manicured at all times from here on out to a baby-appropriate length, maybe a nice squoval.
Clearly I’ve got a lot to do, what with the baby gear procurement and the nail filing and all.
Truthfully, I would really like to take a break between going on maternity leave and Smalltopus’s birth date, just a few days when I don’t do anything at all, because all the preparations have been done and I can just sit around and breathe and read a book or two and maybe see a movie, get a haircut. Here’s hoping.
In other news, I managed to stay awake until midnight on New Year’s Eve, with the help of a (forbidden, surely) mid-evening Red Bull. We watched Seattle’s fireworks show on TV, which was sort of hilariously awesome since the software that manages the fireworks’ coordination apparently went tits up and at some point you can tell someone in a full-body panic just hit the RELEASE ALL button and explosions started going off willy-nilly, completely non-synchronized with the music, spraying from the Space Needle in a giant spoogy premature ejaculation of gunpowder and lights. Go, 2008!
Tell me, what did you do on New Year’s Eve? Was it marginally less lame than sitting on a couch watching bad fireworks before immediately staggering off to bed at 12:05?
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