September 2005

Found

If you’re not familiar with Found magazine, you should check it out. It’s fascinating. I love finding bits and pieces of other people’s lives. Of course this isn’t quite as interesting, as I found this on my bedroom floor and know who wrote it. But it’s still pretty funny so I’ll post the contents.

Slogans that fit

  • Stops traffic in Rome
  • Boyfiend strikes back
  • See the world with Boyfiend
  • Boyfiend- he brings good things to life
  • You’re in good hands with Boyfiend
  • Pure Boyfiend. Pure Power.
  • Boyfiend is our middle name
  • Boyfiend. It’s as simple as that
  • With a name like Boyfiend it has to be good

odds and ends

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16 and a half weeks


I apologize for the crappy lighting and scratched and dirty mirror. Sadly it’s the only mirror in the house that works for self-portraits. But there’s the belly. It’s actually bigger than it appears, but it’s hard to tell since the skirt sort of blends in to the background.

odds and ends

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Something to think about at your next appointment

This morning I had an ob appointment with another doctor from the group practice. The appointment was scheduled at a satellite office that’s more convenient to my house than the downtown office. This satellite office happens to be the same place where I’ve gone to regular doctor’s appointments for the last fifteen years. It was really nice not to have to schlep all the way downtown in rush hour and even nicer to know that I wouldn’t have to worry about parking.

When I walked into the waiting room I saw I was second in line. The woman ahead of me was your typical 40-year-old Main Line bleached blonde wearing too much makeup. She mentioned to the receptionist that she was just there for a second opinion. After a few minutes she was called back. Minutes later it was my turn.

The nurse weighed me (I can’t believe I’ve gained 15 pounds in 16.5 weeks), took my blood pressure (a healthy 102/60), and sent me to the restroom with a plastic cup to pee in. After handing over my specimen I returned to the exam room and opened up my book. In the exam room next door I overheard a doctor talking to the bleached blonde. The room obviously wasn’t soundproofed so I tried not to eavesdrop. Then I heard the initials HPV.

At that point I lost all pretense of trying not to listen and put down my book. The woman had a lot of questions about the diagnosis, if she did indeed have the virus and where she could have gotten the virus. The doctor explained that the virus is transmitted through genital contact. I missed a part of the explanation but overheard that the skin in the vagina is different from the skin of the penis and that it would be difficult to figure out who gave her the virus as it could have been dormant for years. I sat there uncomfortable, yet fascinated, thinking that the Main Line bleached blonde has genital warts.

Explaining that her friend urged her to seek a second opinion, she continued asking questions and he continued to answer. At one point she lowered her voice and I leapt off of my paper covered exam table perch and pushed an empty (sterile, I’m not THAT nosy) specimen cup against the wall so I could better hear what she was saying. I missed it, but overheard the doctor tell her that the initial diagnosis was correct and that she’s in good hands with her current doctor. They wrapped up the appointment and I hopped back up on the exam table.

The door opened. I’d incorrectly assumed that I’d be meeting with a female doctor, but I should have known my appointment would be with the guy I’d just spied on. He introduced himself and we got started. Not much has changed since the last appointment. At 16.5 weeks baby’s heartbeat is normal and my uterus is the size it should be. We talked about the next ultrasound (in about 3.5-4 weeks) and the blood screening tests I needed. I didn’t ask any questions I wouldn’t want someone else to overhear.

Toward the end of the exam, while discussing future appointments, the doctor mentioned that he’s new at the satellite office. Until recently he’s taken his appointments at the main office in town. I casually mentioned that the rooms weren’t so soundproof. His head moved suddenly and he looked me straight in the eye. Understanding what I’d overheard he looked a bit embarrassed and said, “Thanks. I’m going to have to keep that in mind from now on.”

odds and ends

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Working girl

Being the coffee girl at the bagel shop isn’t so bad. I provide the wealthy masses with their daily lattes, cafe mochas and large cappuccinos with extra foam. In between making fancy coffee drinks I brew gallons and gallons of normal coffee- 3 blends, 1 decaf, 2 flavored, 1 flavored decaf- refill lids, sugars, splenda, equal, stirrers, napkins and milk thermoses. We don’t fuck around when it comes to milk. We offer half and half, light cream, whole mile, 2%, skim, nonfat Lactaid, non-dairy creamer and soy. Surprisingly Lactaid makes the best foam for cappuccinos.

It’s mindless work, but there’s a strange sort of satisfaction that comes from making the perfect stiff foam required when a dry cappuccino is requested. I sort of like the sound of the steamer and the monotony of endlessly wiping down the same counters. Many of the regular customers recognize me from my earlier incantations as coffee girl and stop to chat. And unlike the other employees over at the main counter, I get a place to sit, which is absolutely necessary when the morning rush for coffee ends, three hours after it started. Being pregnant and on your feet all day is exhausting. Especially when the being on your feet part starts at 7:30.

It’s good to be back at work. But having the day off is better.

odds and ends

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I defended Britney and I’m not ashamed to admit it

In a pregnancy induced rage, I just freaked out over a message board full of pregnant women lambasting Britney Spears for having a c-section. These women, all of whom have those creepy baby tickers, are incensed that she’d dare to have anything other than a vaginal delivery. What the fuck? I think Britney’s as trashy as they come and I can’t stand her or K-fed. I’ll judge the fact that she dresses like a skank and uses public restrooms while barefoot, but her (or her doctor’s) decision to have a c-section is no one’s business but her own.

In an ideal world, we’d all be earth mothers with great big birthing hips and wide pelvises who can pop babies out without breaking a sweat, but in this, the real, messy world, the last thing a pregnant woman needs is to have to feel guilty for how she’s giving birth. Like that really fucking matters. One woman, who probably wouldn’t even know how to find a medical journal to back up her inane statement, suggested that by having a c-section she was endangering her child. That’s such bullshit. Smoking crack endangers an unborn child. Doing lines of coke while riding a motorcycle drunk endangers an unborn child. Not a fucking c-section. Get a grip.

I was able to look beyond the excessive use of the word “blessed,” the stupid baby tickers and animated smilies, but attacking someone for how they choose to give birth is a step too far. I’d like to participate in these message boards and be a part of a community of other pregnant women, but I just can’t be a part of a bunch of judgemental assholes.

I promise I won’t defend Britney any more, but in six months if I write something about inducing labor, scheduling a c-section or begging for an epidural keep your nasty comments to yourself. And if you’re one of those people whose signatures include a graphic of your babies who were taken home to be with Jesus, you should really reconsider. Dude, that’s even creepier than those baby tickers with the fetuses.

odds and ends

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Losing the battle


I was totally fighting the urge to put one of these creepy things on this blog, but obviously I just lost.

At least it won’t change daily.

It’s weird though- I’ve got something 7 inches tall in me and it’s getting bigger. Yesterday during yoga we were doing back bends. I’ve stopped attempting a full wheel pose, but when I went up into a bridge pose I really truly felt pregnant. Something happened just below my belly button that was different than anything I’ve ever felt before. My uterus suddenly asserted itself and told me to stop. So I did.

I have a feeling my belly is going to pop in the next few weeks and I’ll start looking pregnant instead of fat. I just wish my thighs would stop growing at the same rate as my belly. They’ve started to rub together when I walk, which is incredibly depressing.

odds and ends

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Family

Have I mentioned that my family’s insane lately? Tonight after yoga I stopped at my favorite little market in my old neighborhood to pick up dinner. Across the street I spied my mother, her sister and her contractor dining outside. I crossed over to say hello. My mother, oddly enough, was very well-behaved. Her sister, not so much. You see, Aunt Bea isn’t talking to me because of a Ketubah.

Before the wedding she asked if I’d like a ketubah for a gift. Knowing I wanted a ketubah but that I didn’t really want to pay for one I told her yes and she told me to choose one. I went to the National Museum of American Jewish History and looked at the ketubot adorning the walls. I wrote down the names of a few that I liked and they directed me to their website where I could see more. I found a beautiful ketubah and showed it to Boyfiend. Even though he wasn’t so much into the idea of a Jewish marriage contract as art, he liked my choice and agreed to it. I called Aunt Bea and told her that we wanted the ketubah Summer of Joy by the artist Nishima Kaplan. I directed her to the website where she saw it. She said it was lovely, said she’d order it and I thanked her.

A few weeks later she called with some questions. She wanted to know the style of text we wanted, parents names, Hebrew names, witness names, the rabbi’s name and all of the other things that make the ketubah specific. We went over everything and she said I’d have it in a few weeks. After we returned from the honeymoon my mother asked if we’d received it yet and I told her that we hadn’t. A few days later Aunt Bea called to see if we’d received it. We still hadn’t. A few days later the ketubah arrived. I excitedly cut through the tape and pulled it out of the tube. It was the wrong one.

The names were correct and the text was correct, but the artwork itself was completely different than what we’d asked for. Since each ketubah is personalized, it wasn’t something we could return or exchange. I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to wait. When my mother called a few days later I explained what had happened and told her I hadn’t yet figured out what to say to Bea. Of course, because she’s ten instead of sixty-two, Mommie Dearest immediately called and tattled to Bea who freaked out.

Bea called my house in a rage, yelling at me and yelling at Boyfiend. “What do you mean it’s the wrong one? It’s the exact one you told me you wanted. I got you [Insert incorrect name here] by Nishima Kaplan.” She yelled for a while and I told her that while the name she quoted was not the one we discussed, the ketubah that arrived was by the same artist. I lied that we liked it just as much as the one we’d originally wanted. I told her it was lovely and that I couldn’t wait to have it framed and we promptly sent her a thank you note.

She hasn’t spoken to me since. In fact, she’s gone out of her way to show me how displeased she is by blatantly ignoring me whenever our paths cross. Earlier in the summer on my way home from yoga I passed her and my mother eating at an outdoor cafe. I said hello to them both and my mom invited me to sit and join them. I accepted. When I sat down, Bea angled her chair to ensure that her back was turned to me. She literally turned her back on me so I’d get the idea that I wasn’t welcome. I felt incredibly uncomfortable and left a few minutes later.

Meg, her daughter, later told me why Bea isn’t speaking to me. Apparently I didn’t console her enough. Telling her we loved it and sending her a thank you card reiterating how beautiful it was wasn’t enough.

You’d think that, for something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, time would be enough to heal old wounds. Nope. Tonight she did it again. When I said hello my mother pulled a chair over to the table so I could sit down. Bea moved her chair as far from mine as she could and turned her back on me. She bought me the wrong present, I graciously thanked her for it and the bitch isn’t talking to me. What the hell is that about? It’s been almost six months. It’s like middle school all over again, except it’s my aunt. I stayed for a few minutes and did my best to make polite conversation, but again I was too damn uncomfortable to stay. The woman is sixty-seven years old and couldn’t even pretend to be nice for the contractor’s sake. Grow the fuck up.

odds and ends

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Remember when

Remember when I used to have a teaching job and I had stuff to write about and I was kind of funny and interesting? When I spent my days with incompetent adults and whiny ten-year-olds crying and wiping their noses on me- back before I was all lame and pregnant (14w4d in this pic taken last week) and staying away from the booze? Well, I’m pleased to announce I’m heading back into the work force while reliving my past. The bagel place is taking me back part time.

I start training on Wednesday- my boss calls it “reacquainting me with the store”- so maybe then I’ll have fun stories to tell from bagel-land about yentas and the Main Line whores and people who insist upon ordering tuna melts on blueberry or cinnamon raisin bagels even though that’s just wrong. If the stories aren’t so interesting I’ll just tell you about why not to buy a mattress at Sleepys and why I’ve spent the last three days obsessively reading mattress forums. Then I’ll post more pictures of my belly.

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Charmed

Yesterday I said that despite all the shit, I really lead a charmed life. Today was a good example of that. My house sold today and even after paying off my mortgage, two equity lines and the realtors’ commission I ended up walking out of settlement with enough money to make up for two years without a salary.

To celebrate I immediately went out and bought maternity clothes. I had no intention of buying any maternity items until I really, really looked pregnant, but I was down to almost nothing that fit. The beauty of maternity clothes is that while I can hardly squeeze into a regular size S I’ve got room to spare in a maternity XS. And I don’t look all squeezed in and sausagey.

odds and ends

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Vera

When I’m not in the midst of it or directly affected it’s hard for me to react to tragedy. But this story makes not reacting impossible.

odds and ends

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