girlfiend

Boyfiend’s back at work and I’m not which makes me feel like I have to overcompensate. So far I’ve organized the office, the guest bedroom and the extra room on the third floor that’s acting as an additional storage space for now. Office supplies are away, the desktop is finally set up, winter clothes and linens are out of boxes, folded and in closets.

This morning was set aside for cleaning. Unfortunately my house doesn’t love my dyson as much as I do. I was fine on the first floor, but as soon as I plugged in upstairs, I blew a fuse. The circuit breakers in the basement aren’t labeled so when the circuit blew I tried flipping the main switch. I ran back upstairs to continue, but it didn’t work, so I clomped back down to the basement and flipped each switch individually to get the right one. Back upstairs I switched the plug to another outlet. Two minutes later I was back in the basement. Then I tried another outlet. Down to the basement again. Another outlet. Back down. At this point I was basically finished on the second floor so I moved upstairs. There are only three outlets upstairs and they’re all connected to the same fucking circuit. After running up and down stairs all morning I decided to forgo the stairmaster at the gym.

I guess we’ll have to hire an electrician. It doesn’t happen every time I vacuum, but if the humidity makes something short it’s not a good sign. I’m also thinking that the humidity might be the reason my breads aren’t rising. I made a sourdough starter and attempted to make a loaf. It was delicious, but flat as a pancake, similar to the wheat loaf I made last week. Since the challah I baked on a cooler, less humid day was perfect, I’ll choose to blame the humidity rather than my own inexperience and ineptitude with yeast breads.

This is what I’ve become, people. I’m out of work for a few days and all I have to write about is cooking and cleaning.

Last night my mother fake whispered to Boyfiend, “Why is she so big? Isn’t it soon for her to be showing?”

The other morning my mother fixed breakfast for me and my friends. My mother’s idea of fixing breakfast is setting a beautiful table, pouring juice into wine glasses, and reheating frozen bagels in the oven. More often than not, these bagels don’t quite defrost completely so I suggested that my friends may want to toast their bagels before spreading cream cheese.

My mother, obviously offended by my suggestion, countered this by saying, “Girlfiend, you’re incompetent. I’m taking your baby.”

“What?”

“You’re incompetent. I’m going to have to take your baby.”

“Why the fuck does toasting a bagel make me incompetent. I’d think that my ability to toast a bagel that’s not all the way heated would make me capable, not incompetent. So why the hell are you threatening to take my baby?”

“I think I had the wrong C-word. Maybe I meant condescending and contemptuous.”

“Yes. Perhaps I am condescending and contemptuous, but I’m sure as hell not incompetent.”

Surprisingly, I left it at that. Without punching her in the face for threatening to kidnap my unborn child, I toasted my bagel and sat at the table where I discovered the moldy cream cheese. And she fucking calls me incomptent. At least I check for mold before I serve guests.

Wednesday, Boyfiend’s dad called to ask if I could use any tomatoes or basil. I said sure, figuring I could make some sauce and pesto to freeze for later. When he, with Boyfiend’s mom, sister, sister’s boyfriend, brother and brother’s wife showed up around nine on Friday night, with close to 50 tomatoes, it was not what I was expecting.

Yesterday I cooked. In the insane heat I made enough sauce to last us through December, pesto to take us through October and I unsuccessfully attempted to make wheat bread. This was the first time I’ve ever tried to make a yeast bread. I screwed up. My Williams-Sonoma baking book was kind enough to tell me that I overproofed it and I could punch it down and try again. So I punched it down and stuck it in the fridge to leave overnight. Frustrated by my failure I made a batch of meatballs to make up for it. At nine last night, when I paused for a moment to take stock of the situation and realized I was making meatballs to make myself feel like less of a failure, I was reminded of just how crazy I’ve become.

Now, at 10.30 on an 87-degree-heading-to-93 Sunday morning, I’ve convinced myself even further of my craziness. I’ve got another loaf proofing downstairs and I’m supposed to go to the shore in an hour. Maybe I’ll just shove it back in the fridge and let it proof really, really slowly. Or maybe I’ll just toss it and try again when I’m back.

Yesterday I went to the gym for the first time in a while. I admit that I was slacking for a while, what with the nausea and all, but since I’ve been feeling better I’ve actually started working out again. I taped three episodes of Inhale to take on vacation (I fucking hate that cocksucker Steve Ross, always telling you to dance, but the yoga’s not bad) and I actually made my way through the tape two and a half times. Since returning home I’ve gone to two 75-minute yoga classes. So even though I hate the fact that I’ve gained ten pounds while I don’t actually look pregnant yet, I haven’t been feeling that bad.

Until yesterday. When the lovely staff at my gym told me that my ass is getting bigger. Of course it was immediately followed by how hot and curvaceous I am now, but really Chris, that was too little too late. Never tell a pregnant woman her ass looks big.

I was hoping that I’d be one of those women who stays thin and pretty except for a basketball-sized belly, but obviously that’s not to be. My waistline, my ass- what’s next? My ankles?

Before handing me my bill for the month of July my therapist asked me a simple question, “What name are you going by these days?” I replied, “Fiend,” because I haven’t changed my name and I’m not sure than I plan to. My therapist cheerfully said, “Oh, I wasn’t sure if you hyphenated it. I guess you didn’t like the sound of Fiend-Wagner.”

Confused, I said, “Huh. I think you’re making the Wagner part up”. Now she looked confused. “Boyfiend’s last name isn’t Wagner?” Smiling, I answered, “No, not even close.”

Strange how people get these things in their heads.

It’s amazing how quickly the calm of vacation disappears. After two glorious weeks of sunning, swimming, watching movies, reading and eating, I’m back to my usual stressed out self. School starts in two weeks and I don’t have a job. Last summer I interviewed at least twice a week and by this time I’d turned down several job offers. This summer I’ve got nothing, and it’s not for lack of trying.

I don’t know what to do. Long before I got pregnant, Boyfiend and I decided that one of us would stay home with the baby until he or she is school age. Since he now has the better job, the stay at home part falls to me. So any job I’d accept, if I were to be offered a position, would be temporary. I’d be done after February. Which leaves me with several options.

A. Screw it. Spend the next six months eating bon-bons and watching soap operas. Or, more realistically, watching Dawson’s Creek and Felicity reruns.

B. Take a job in the ghetto. There are no shortage of jobs in the ghetto, I’ve just been too proud to apply to work there. At least if I got stuck working in Southwest Philly I’d know the end was in sight- six months is nothing, especially since all the good long vacations fall in the first half of the school year. On the other hand, the idea of working in the ghetto while pregnant isn’t really appealing. Safety first.

C. Head back to my old standby job at the bagel shop. It’s familiar, it pays cash, and I love eating there.

D. Find some other job. Maybe I could find something I could do at home. I’m an excellent speller.

Any suggestions? I don’t know what to do and time is running out.

I pulled the pregnancy card for the first time on Saturday and I wasn’t very nice about it. We’d just driven over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, and I really, really had to pee. I’d had to pee for quite some time, only we were listening to This American Life and Act Three of the episode Image Makers was so good I couldn’t bear to stop and miss it. So I stupidly told Boyfiend I could wait.

The Bay Bridge-Tunnel is really, really long. 17 miles, to be exact. And if you take into account that I’d probably had to pee for at least half an hour before that, my bladder was quite full. We finally got to a rest stop and I ran out of the car leaving Boyfiend to find a spot large enough to accomodate his trailer. When I say ran, I really mean something more along the lines of waddling, clutching my thighs together so as not to spill, while attempting to move as quickly as possible. To my dismay, the ladies room was closed. A line of women, also waiting to pee, stood before the door which was roped off for cleaning. So I stood and waited. And waited.

A few minutes later Boyfiend came in and used the men’s room. Another man brought his two little girls into the men’s room with him. I contemplated following Boyfiend in and just using the men’s, but decided against it. When he came out I asked him about the scene and he said the stalls were occupied. I figured I’d give it another minute before just using the men’s. A minute later, the janitor emerged from the lady’s and moved the ropes. The women ahead of me surged forward.

In the rest room there were maybe five stalls. At least five women, and seven pre-teen girls were ahead of me. A little girl walked into a stall then walked right out crying, “Ew, there’s poop on the seat!” Her sister, who probably had to pee more badly than she did said, “I don’t care, I’ll use it,” before walking in, looking at the seat, and deciding against it. The girls’s mother made some comment about the restroom having just been cleaned. At this point, I was about to explode and had no interest in listening to idle conversation. I announced to the line in front of me, “I’m pregnant,” and pushed them out of my way. The girls’ mother was on her way into the stall. I hurriedly pushed her aside, grunted, “Pregnant,” slammed the door and locked it.

The poo on the seat was pretty fucking gross, but years of yoga practice has prepared me well for using public restrooms. My first yoga instructor actually referred to chair pose as ‘public restroom pose’ so rather than attempt to cover the nastiness on the seat below me I squatted and relieved myself. When I was finished I calmly washed my hands and left the room without making eye contact with any of the women I’d shoved aside.

I felt sort of bad about my behavior, especially since I don’t even look pregnant yet, but desperate times call for desperate measures.