girlfiend

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

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Ordinarily my self-absorption is limitless, but with all that’s happening right now I’m almost embarrassed to write about my own seemingly trivial problems. Of course nothing seems trivial to me. It all seems huge and overblown and I feel like I just want to go to my dad’s house and let him bring me takeout for every meal and clean up after me while I sit on his couch and watch tv.

Here are some of the things that I can’t stop thinking about and don’t want to write about:

• My mother picking fights with me during the short time I got to spend with a good friend I don’t see nearly enough of
• My mother baiting me by telling me she’s found my sister on the internet and that my dad’s a bad person for not finding her himself
• Fighting back when my mother baits me instead of just keeping my mouth shut
• Boyfiend’s uncle yelling at me and telling me I’m a baby killer in front of many people at the dinner table, making me feel embarrassed, enraged and humiliated
• Feeling weak and spineless when I chose to be well-behaved and keep my mouth shut instead of telling Uncle Dick what a fucking misinformed cocksucker he is
• Boyfiend telling me he’s so miserable with me that thinking about our relationship makes him want to cry
• Knowing that Boyfiend probably feels that way because of a million things that don’t really have anything to do with me but feeling unloved and like a failure anyway
• Pregnancy zits

Despite how miserable I am right now, when it comes down to it I lead a charmed life and have to learn when to just let shit go. Especially since it all probably feels worse because I didn’t sleep for more than a few hours last night. Too many other people are far worse off than I’ll ever be.