The Weekend, Part One

We went to Philly this weekend, y'all! And I hung out with Diana and I ate cheesesteaks and have lots of stories about it.

BUT FIRST, AN ENTRY I WROTE ON FRIDAY AND THEN NEGLECTED TO PUBLISH, FOR I AM THAT STUPID:

I had my second prenatal appointment today, in all its boringness. Three highlights:

The nurse called to me in the waiting area and told me I could go ahead and use the bathroom, which I thought was nice of her, as I ALWAYS have to use the bathroom. But it turns out that "go ahead and use the bathroom" is a secret OB code for "go pee in a specimen cup." I did not know this and did not pee in the specimen cup. The code was then explained to me and I was shown the self-serve specimen cup station that I am to familiarize myself with from now on.

All of this goes to prove what infertile women everywhere already suspect: THE PREGNANT WOMEN HAVE A SECRET CLUB AND LANGUAGE AND SPECIMEN CUP HANDSHAKE AND THEY WILL NEVER TELL YOU ABOUT IT. BWA. HA. HA.

After Specimencupgate, and my sincere promise that I would most certainly have to pee again by the end of my visit, I stepped on the scale.

Get this, I've LOST WEIGHT.

Despite my best efforts, and the efforts of about 346 orders of Chicken McNuggets and 143 bags of Doritos, I'm losing weight. The damned morning/afternoon/evening sickness has deprived my body of all the essential fatty goodness that one would usually get if one usually consumed eight or nine mini-Twix Bars every day. I'm wearing nothing but maternity clothes now and am actually sporting a noticeable little bump, yet the bump appears to contain nothing but featherdown pillows and air. Possibly helium.

Clearly, I need more milkshakes.

THEN, the doctor came in, revealed that the ultrasound place never sent over the ultrasound films or the ultrasound report, so he could not review it with me and tell me what a perfect and clearly indestructible embryo I'm carrying.

THEN, he whipped out the little doppler thingie.

Him: Now, it's probably too early to this to pick up the heartbeat, so don't panic if we can't hear it.

Me: Oh, I know. It's about a week or two too early. Is okay.

Him: Right. So don't panic.

Me: Right. Right right.

Him: *starts searching for heartbeat*

Me: *oh shit*

Him: Nope, too early. Next visit! Don't panic!

Me: *panics*

And that was that. Go pee in cup. See you in four weeks. Try to fucking eat something already.

Now I am at home, where I should be packing, but I am not packing, because I am TIRED and PREGNANT and need to have a good talk with my baby regarding the polite volume for one's heartbeat.

Hint: LOUD, MOTHERFUCKER.

Then I should pack. We're taking a weekend trip to Philadelphia, where we will be going to see Carbon Leaf with Diana, and staying in a nice hotel and eating lots and lots of room service. Hopefully. Because damn, I can throw up at home for FREE.

Also, Ceiba will be staying at a PET RESORT. No, seriously. Mostly because we totally forgot about her until like, yesterday, and our vet had no room to board her. So she's going to board at a place that sounds even nicer than our nice hotel. She's getting a SUITE, people. With rooms and everything.

I'm so excited for her.  I wish I could send her with a camera to take pictures.

Max will be staying home alone, because I trust him not to throw loud parties.

Another reason I am not packing: delivery food trauma. Earlier this evening my stomach and I decided that the only thing I could eat tonight was paneer makhani from this one Indian restaurant near us. So we ordered, and it was delivered, and there was no paneer makhani.  And I swear to God, I cried. And I said the f-word many, many more times than was really necessary. And then Jason sighed, put down his fork (they got HIS fucking food right, naturally), put on his coat and drove out in the cold to obtain my paneer makhani.

Welcome to pregnancy, baby. Isn't it the greatest thing EVER?

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

(Thursday Edition, Again, Like You Are Surprised)

Okay, before we begin, let me issue a word of caution regarding the state of your advice guru:

1. It is snowing outside, yet there was no delay at my office, mostly because I assumed there would be a delay and stayed in bed for an extra half hour.

2. I am wearing maternity pants to work for the first time today, and while they are deliciously comfortable around the belly, they are falling off my ass. Seriously, if I sit down wrong I will moon anyone behind me, or at least show off my new maternity underwear with the twee pink hearts.

3. I just realized I am wearing my new red shoes with a green sweater. Yick.

4. I wore my new red shoes in the snow? Have I gone mad?

5. I did not comb my hair today before mashing it into a hair clip.

Basically, I've got a really great look going on today and feel super extra qualified to tell you how to look all beautiful and stuff. Let's begin!

Dearest Amalah: Queen, Mother, Goddess -

I have found your make-up advice to be so good in the past, that I've been known to rush right out and purchase a foundation brush without even bothering to finish reading your entire post. And I didn't even KNOW I had a problem. This time, I recognize my ignorance and have thusly turned to the woman who can guide me to fabulousness.

I've worn contacts since the seventh grade. I've always HAD glasses, but I never WORE glasses (except at the very end of the day when I removed my contacts), because I always hated glasses.

Recently, though glasses seem to have become much more stylish than those ridiculously huge frames I was originally offered in *cough* 1978. Glasses are practically an accessory! They can compliment and complete many outfits! So, while I still have my contacts, I recently invested in a smart pair of Armani glasses that look similar to this. They're a dark, subtle tortoiseshell. I don't wear them every day, but a couple of times a week, when I'm looking to up my intelligence image.

Now here's my dilemma: I'm extremely near-sighted. Way extremely. Can't see to find my glasses if I don't have them out before I remove my contacts near sighted. And while technology has, thankfully, significantly reduced the thickness of today's lenses, there's still the problem that my glasses make my eyes look very, very small behind them. Teensy tiny small. Are you hungover or are your eyes always that squinty small.

How can I use the fine art of make up to bring out my eyes behind my glasses? Are there eye shadow colors I should wear or avoid? Flat or shimmery? Skip the eyeliner altogether? Wear false lashes?

Anxiously awaiting your magical advice,
Overdressed

(By the way, when I first read the salutation on this email, I was all, "Mother?" And then I was all, "Oh right! Aww!" Then I was all, "Shit.")

As someone who possesses relatively-normal-sized eyes that have the tendency to go bizarrely squinty in photographs, I feel your pain. (I am also wearing my own Armani tortoiseshell glasses today to complete my "I just rolled out of bed and may possibly still be asleep right now" look.)

Anyway, not to go all The Graduate on you but I have one word for the squinty-small-eye problem: neutrals. Think about it. You start loading up with the bright, shimmery or smoky colors and you are NOT drawing attention to your eyes. You're drawing attention to your damn eyelids.

You want to make your lids vanish into the rest of your face and you want your actual eyeballs to stand out.

Here's what you do.

1. Apply a creamy base to your lids, from the lash line up to your brow bone. I recommend Tony & Tina's Therapeutic Eyebase in whatever shade best matches your skin tone. (Match it the way you'd match foundation, it ain't for show.)

2. Next, brush on a neutral shadow -- again from the lash line to the brow bone. This shadow should be about the same as your skin tone with NO SHIMMER. Shimmery shadows settle in those little creases and will make you look wrinkly and tired. If you think your lids and under eyes tend to look dark, pick a color slightly lighter than your skin tone (like a bone or peach) and also dab a little under the inner corner of your eye.

3. Then brush a slightly darker color on the outer corner of your eyelid in a sideways V (mid-crease to corner, mid-lash line to corner). This will make your eyes look wider. Blend it well. If you want a little shimmer, this is where you can use it, or you can stick with a matte brown or grey. (I use Nars Duo Eye Shadow in All About Eve, which contains two shades of peachy brown that are almost identical, except that one is a shimmery.)

4. And here's where people get all uppity and divided. Some makeup artists swear that lining the eyes can only make them look smaller, while others swear that eyeliner totally makes your eyes bigger. I believe there have been bitchslaps and bloodshed over this issue.

I'm in favor of eyeliner. My lashes are practically blond, and even with mascara I tend to not have a very strong lash line. So I use a soft brown pencil around the outer edges of my lashes, staying away from the inner corner and extending the line past the outer corner. Then (and this is the MOST IMPORTANT PART) I use an tiny angled eye shadow brush to blend and soften the line. So if you look at my eyes you won't see EYELINER LINE BEGINS HERE AND I PAINTED IT ON WITH A FELT-TIP PEN, PLEASE DIRECT ME TO THE SLOT MACHINES.

5. Finally, curl your lashes and then apply mascara. Go for a lengthening one with a thin brush, not volumizing, for the least amount of clumping. Y'all are going to totally laugh at me, but I use a Loreal drugstore mascara that costs $7.15. I've used the super nice expensive ones, and honestly, I just don't think they're that much better. At first, sure, but ALL mascara tends to turn all funky in about three months and needs to be chucked. With my $7 mascara, I could care less if I'm throwing out more than half a tube of congealed product. With a $25 mascara, I'm PISSED that there's clearly a dozen or so dried-out applications left.

Aaaaannnnnnd...you're done, and dude, you totally look just like Audrey Hepburn now with the big doe eyes. Bitch.

Dearest Amalah~

I have been rejoicing and basking in the glow of your wondrously gassy pregnant-ness. I want to be just like you and become pregnant as well, but for some reason cannot find time to have sex when I'm ovulating. I know that you are a very very VERY busy woman, with a very busy husband-- so I was just wondering if you have some creative pointers to share on finding time for enough sex to get knocked up. Oh and also? I have two dogs that try to watch when we finally have time to DO IT. It's very distracting. How can I get rid of them without hurting their feelings?

Busy and Barren,
Bellabelly

ps. I don't like to throw up. In fact, I hate it. Do you think that will be a problem?

Well, first you must come to terms with the simple, unavoidable truth: sex for procreation will be the worst sex you have ever had. Remember that time? With that guy who had that one car? Yeah, worse than that.

No guy wants to hear the words "Let's have sex tonight" followed by, or modified with, the words "I'm ovulating." And no woman's body will ever cooperate if being bossed around by the calendar. So basically: drink wine. At least a bottle or four.

But! The good news is that apparently? You can get knocked up after having sex only ONCE in the entire vague am-I-or-am-I-not-ovulating-four-to-five-day fertile period. Trust me, I've seen the ultrasound and am just as shocked as y'all are.

Our seduction went something like this:

Amy throws Gardenburgers on George Foreman grill in a sexy manner.

Jason enters kitchen.

Jason: Hey, aren't we supposed to be trying to get you pregnant this week, or something?

Amy: Bah. Bahbahbah hate bullshit whatever.

Couple eats dinner, watches Lost, has sex. Conception ensues. Much confusion by all who thought that, hey, it wasn't supposed to be easy like that.

Aaaannnnnd scene. Romantic, no? But hell, it was enough. So ditch the whole "I want our child to be conceived during the greatest love-making session of our relationship" thing and just do it. (Hey, Nike! I've got an AWESOME commercial idea all of a sudden.)

And lock the dogs away. Hurt their feelings. They need to get used to being ignored on behalf of the baby, who is totally going to steal their thunder. Bitch.

Bonjour le hot Amalah et tête de gomme à effacer,

Amalah, I am going to Paris. I leave on Friday. And, if you answer this during your next Super-Fun-And-Fabulous Wednesday Advice Smackdown, I will READ the smackdown while I am IN PARIS IN PARIS IN PARIS. So seriously, what should I buy? Bear in mind that I don't have much money. At least, not mounds of it.

Your devotee, Shizalala

Pfft. Next week I will not be in Paris. And probably not the week after that either! Wah. Woe.

Anyway, here's the sad thing: in high school I went on a tour of Europe with my Spanish class. We went to France, Italy and Spain. I saved up tons of money to go and to spend while I was there. You know what I bought while I was there?

Crap. And croissants.

I totally bought tons of stupid tourist shit. T-shirts. Mugs (that totally broke on the way home). A keychain or something.

In Italy, I was determined to buy something clothing-related, hopefully a pair of shoes. Did I buy a lovely pair of leather heels like my friend did? A pair that she probably still has to this day?

No. I bought a pair of high-heeled jellies.

I BOUGHT PLASTIC SHOES. In Italy.

So my advice would be to not buy plastic shoes. Or anything equally stupid.

Even if you don't spend a lot of money, buy something that you'll honestly KEEP for years and years. Something that you can say to anyone who admires it, "Oh yes, I got this in Paris," and it will make SENSE that you got it in Paris.

Unlike jelly sandals from Italy that could also be found at your local Caldor.

The only things I brought back from Europe that I still actually have and use are a tiny leather hair clip that I bought on our tour of a leather maker's shop that has a Michelangelo painting printed on it and a small gold picture frame that I got in Spain.

(I originally bought it for my boyfriend at the time, but he had the decency to give it back when we broke up. Or maybe I stole it from his house. I can't remember.)

So buy a watercolor from a street vendor or a pair of earrings or a lovely scarf. Don't buy miniature Eiffel Towers or berets made of felt. Save napkins from cafes where you buy croissants and take lots of pictures. You don't have to spend mounds of money to bring back wonderful souvenirs.

(Although if you did want to spend mounds of money, something from Louis Vuitton would TOTALLY be okay too.)

(It would also totally make a great gift.)

My question involves dating. I realize I'm asking this of a woman who is married, and to the Perfect Guy at that, but what the hey...

I am looking to re-enter the dating scene after an absence of...oh...12 years or so. Needless to say, I have NO idea what I'm doing when it comes to dating. I've been asking around a bit, checking out the obvious "Dating Do's and Don'ts" references, reading the tips on Match.com and other dating sites, and have basically come to the conclusion that there are too many rules.

I don't like games. I don't want to play games. I'd rather confidently walk up to a girl and ask her to dinner than to try and learn all the various "techniques" and "strategies" for "dating success." It seems counterproductive anyway. Eventually they're going to get to know the "real you" and I don't know about the rest of the world, but I'd want the "real them" to be as real as possible. No BS. No gimmicks.

So the question is: In the real world, is the no-BS, "game-free" approach a plus or a minus? I'll be the first to admit that I have "no game," but frankly I have no interest in learning how to game the system. Is "refusing to play the game" another way of saying "destined to remain on the sidelines?"

Sycophantically yours,
Chris

Oh man, you came to the right place.

Not because I can help you, because I can't. I've been married since I was TWENTY YEARS OLD.

At 20 years old, you wouldn't recognize a "game-free" approach if it walked up to you and said, "Hi, I have a game-free approach to dating. Would you like to go out?"

At 20 years old, you'd just go, "Are you old enough to buy me beer?"

Although I do seem to recall that one of the reasons I was in such a bloody hurry to get myself all married off was because I really, truly hated dating. I hated meeting new guys, waiting for them to call, waiting for them to admit that they liked me or didn't like me, blah blah blah breakupcakes.

So I married Jason, who is Perfect, and who could also buy me beer.

But! I think you came to the right place anyway, because the readership of this site skews distinctly female. Even more so since all this talk about my womb and boobs and farting began.

Also all the makeup talk. I'm pretty sure it's mostly the vaginas in the audience that care about that.

So at this point, ladies and gentleman, I'm turning the Advice Smackdown over to you. Let's help Chris out. Give him your two cents or a nickel about how to get back into the dating scene and whether or not he's got game. Or something.

I don't know all the dating lingo the crazy kids are using nowadays.

After you spread your commenty wisdom re: dating, perhaps you will feel qualified to start your own advice column. From which I will not stop you. But if you realize that maybe it's a little harder than you thought and would like to turn to me once again for the mad problem-solving skillz, please email me at advice@amalah.com.

Those Three Little Words That Mean So Much

Y'ALL Y'ALL Y'ALL Y'ALL Y'ALL

So okay, I was totally planning on hosting an Advice Smackdown today.

(Collective groans from the readers who know exactly where this is headed.)

No, really! I was! I had questions lined up! Advice at the ready! I just needed to take care of this one tiny thing at work first.

And it was tiny. I needed exactly three words added to a particular web site. Three words! And two of them were hypenated!

But as it turns out, the Only Person who knew how to add these three words to this particular web site has left the company, leaving a Jurassic Park-like trail of secrets and mystery and missing web forms in his wake.

After two hours (no really, TWO HOURS) of sitting at some IT guy's desk while he searched and DOS'd and SQL'd his way through our interwebnet infrastructure, trying to find a way to add my three stupid annoying words, he finally admitted that it would easier if we just REBUILT THE ENTIRE PAGE.

Which is taking HOURS. All of which I have spent at his desk, staring at his wall calendar, counting the days until every major pregnancy milestone I can think of.

Then I finally got to come back to my desk for a few minutes, where I was greeted with some unbelievable news from Miss Zoot. This news freaked me out so much that I immediately had to drive to McDonald's where I consumed approximately 347 Chicken McNuggets.

I feel calmer now, but a little gassier.

And now I must go back to IT guy's desk. How lucky for him.

Advice Smackdown tomorrow? Ya think? What's Vegas have to say about my odds on following through with a single blessed thing? Place your bets now at advice@amalah.com.

Look! Updating! Now Stop Yelling At Me.

SIGNS THAT YOU ARE A SLACKER:

1) People email and ask if your pregnancy has gone to your typing fingers.

2) People email with entry ideas, even offering to write the first draft for you.

3) People email and tell you that "Gee, I used to love your site, and I was all excited about the pregnancy entries, but then you vanish too much and honestly, I expect more from my free online entertainment, so I'm not gonna read you no more, you lazy bitch."

4) People stop emailing you altogether, leaving your inbox full of nothing but 400 personalized pregnancy newsletters and shipping confirmations from Old Navy Maternity.

5) TypePad no longer logs you in automatically, and you really have to stop and think about what your blog password is.

So hi, I'm a slacking, awful person. Who really didn't mean to go this long without updating. Really! Am sorry. (Sort of. You know.)

I haven't written anything because I am sick to death of the stuff I write about. And talk about. And think about. Because it's all the same!

IF AMY IS TALKING, CHANCES ARE SHE IS TALKING ABOUT ONE OR MORE OF THE FOLLOWING:

1) Puking.

2) Feeling like puking.

3) Things that cause puking (i.e. toothpaste, leftovers, boiling water).

4) The sudden and rapid disappearance of my waistline.

5) Also, I feel like puking.

Although I felt really stupid doing it, I purchased maternity clothes this weekend. All my 400 pregnancy newsletters keep saying, "Your clothes may be a little tighter, but you aren't showing yet."

All my clothes keep saying, "Bitch, you're insane if you think you're getting us on anymore."

So after a few weeks of looping rubber bands around pants' buttonholes and hiking skirts up to right below my boobs, I finally did what I should always do first: I talked to my mommy. Who has been pregnant four times and was wearing maternity clothes by eight weeks along every single time. Apparently, women in our family carry all "in the belly," we get the belly early, and the belly grows until we look like big old beach balls with stick-figure arms and chicken legs waddling about.

This would explain why I totally have a belly already.

I mean, no one's going to look at me and go, "PREGNANT!" yet, and a few people who have been shown the belly are all, "Yawn, whatever, you scrawny bitch, you just look like you actually ate food today." But still. Belly. For me to pat and talk to and for Jason to eye suspiciously. (Jason: Oh, you're totally pushing it out. Amy: *actually pushes her abdomen out.* Jason: Oh. My. God.)

So I bought some maternity clothes. And I very nearly threw up in the Old Navy dressing rooms. (See? I'd gone way too long without talking about puking.)

IN OTHER NON-PUKING NEWS:

1) Chicken McNuggets are the most delicious, wonderful, straight-from-heaven food I have ever tasted.

2) I am a little in love with the SuperNanny.

3) I went to the movies! In the theater! Which was totally not on my own couch! We saw Sideways. Which really made me pine for wine and soft cheeses.

4) I also ate (vegetarian-please-don't-email-me) sushi and aged tangerine peel beef in a rare burst of non-nausea, and then followed up this culinary extravaganza with more Chicken McNuggets.

5) Aaaaannnd...new shoes. Comfy flat shoes to help me not fall down so much.

Yes, they are Coach. Yes, they match my purse. Yes, I totally promise to stop now.

(Oh, but first, while the camera is out and being fiddled with, let me assure you that I have not forgotten the other babies, who have no freaking idea how terrible their lives are about to become.)

A Sonogram Story

Confidential to my coworkers who may be wondering what happened to that entire box of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies that disappeared from the kitchen about 30 seconds after it appeared: It wasn't me. I swear.

By the time I got to the ultrasound appointment, I was only thinking about my bladder. My furtive prayers and soul-selling bargains with God had switched from "please don't let anything be wrong with my baby" to "please please please don't let me pee myself on the elevator."

Making a woman show up for a medical appointment with a full bladder is mean. Our bladders are always full, and we always have to pee. Just ask anyone who has ever driven anywhere with us.

Making a pregnant woman show up for a medical appointment with a full bladder is just fucking sadistic. Making her fill out insurance forms while she's visibly fighting back tears and hopping around on one foot is perhaps the most evil thing that can be done to a human being.

I ended up bolting for the bathroom by the time I got to the line asking for my employer's information, because OH MY GOD, I DON'T REMEMBER WHERE I WORK, BUT I REMEMBER THAT THERE ARE TOILETS THERE. Then I stuck my head under the sink faucet and desperately tried to drink enough water to ensure a re-filled bladder within the next five minutes.

(By the way, Jason witnessed all of this and thinks I am the most insane person ever. But it's okay because I got to witness him reading a pregnancy & baby magazine in the waiting room, which he picked up OF HIS OWN FREE WILL.)

I was still recovering from my near-miss bladder explosion when we were called back by the most adorable ultrasound technician ever. She looked exactly how an ultrasound technician should look. Cute and round and sort of fluffy. I don't know. Post-urination euphoria or something. All I know is that she warmed up the ultrasound goo before putting it on my belly, and I love her.

In the 15 seconds it took for her to locate my uterus, the screen was blank and empty and completely devoid of anything remotely baby-like, and I realized that I was not pregnant after all and was going to have a very difficult time explaining to Jason why I've been demanding so much Kraft Macaroni & Cheese this past week. Then I felt bad for wasting our soft and pretty technician's time.

"And there's your baby!" she said.

I think I said something supremely stupid at this point. Like, "Really? For real?" Like she was lying.

And she zoomed in, and yes, there it was. Tiny and sort of oblong but undoubtably embryo-like.

I don't remember who grabbed whose hand first, but suddenly Jason and I were squeezing the hell out of each other's fingers.

And then I saw the flicker. Jason raised his finger to point and the tech said, "And there's the hearbeat! See it flickering?"

And I let out the breath I think I've been holding in for about a month.

She ordered me to lie still and then turned up the volume.

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

And then there were tears and some laughing and a lot of "oh my Gods" and she turned to us and told us Happy Valentine's Day and I suddenly realized that this RIGHT HERE was the greatest moment of my entire life.

"About 160 beats-per-minute," she told us, which meant nothing to either of us, so we just nodded studiously. (However, if you're playing the Guess-the-Gender-Old-Wives-Tale-a-Thon, heart rates above 140 supposedly mean a girl, but not necessarily at this early stage, and really, not ever.)

Then it was kind of a boring blur as she took images and measurements of all sorts of random things. Cervix, check. Right ovary, check. Left ovary, check. Big honkin' cyst on left ovary, check.

Secret, persistant fears of a tubal pregnancy because of the twinges of pain on my left side? Rendered stupid and obsolete. Stupid cyst. Don't eat my baby.

Then it was back to the center square for one last look at the baby and another listen to the heartbeat. The baby measured right on schedule, which means my baby can officially be named the first Spawn of De-Lurking Day, and now you all know what I was doing on January 5, 2005, and that it was not responding to my hundreds of de-lurking comments like I claimed to be doing.

She printed out two pictures for us (one with arrows pointing at the wee blob and helpfully labeled "BABY"), but unfortunately they don't offer the heartbeat as an MP3 file for your iPod. It's like living in the Dark Ages, I swear.

Also, I do not own a scanner, so I can't post the ultrasound pictures until someone a) Buys me a scanner, or b) Shows me how to use one at work for illicit personal reasons, which I'm sure is allowed, except that I'm too shy to ask a coworker to help me scan photos of my womb.

Afterwards, Jason and I went out for a Valentine's Day dinner at a very nice restaurant, where I could not eat a thing, because the entire restaurant smelled like scallions.

Jason: (sniffs) I don't smell anything.

Amy: I cannot believe you don't smell the scallions.

Jason: Well, here's something that might take your mind off...

Amy: I mean, MY GOD, does the kitchen put scallions on everything? Do they think people really like scallions that much?

Jason: I'm sorry, babe, but like I was saying...

Amy: NOBODY likes scallions that much. NOBODY.

Jason: (gives up, practically throws Tiffany's box at scallion-obsessed wife)

Yep. That's a sterling silver baby rattle. Baby's First Tiffany's. This is going to be one spoiled little Tadpole.*

Anyway. Keep on with the thumping, Tadpole. We'll see you in about 12 weeks to nose around your private parts and such. And if you're good***, we'll buy you some more expensive shiny things.

*I have been ordered by both my mother and Jason** to stop calling the baby Eraserhead. Apparently, it's "weird" and "gross" or "something."

**We now know that Jason does not read this site as often as he claims, as he was unaware of the whole Eraserhead nickname until I told him about it, and while he was not amused, we are all free to talk about him as much as we want, because he'll never know.

***You totally don't have to be good. We will spend money on you anyway.

Thumpity Thump

So apparently, I am totally pregnant. With a baby.

And yes, I totally cried when the technician told us "Happy Valentine's Day!" right after turning up the volume on that that glorious, 160-beats-per-minute little heartbeat.

Things I Should Not Have To Deal With On The Day of My First Ultrasound, Because OH MY GOD

1) Colgate Total Fresh Stripe Toothpaste which makes me throw up.

2) My bangs.

3) Sewing buttons back onto pants, using the wrong color thread, because it's all I have, and irritatingly tiny needles.

4) Bras which suddenly, overnight, are two sizes too small, which THANKS, as I just bought new underwear this weekend and now have to make a separate trip.

5) My dog's incessant whining.

6) My cat's incessant shedding.

7) Wanting Frosted Flakes, not having Frosted Flakes.

8) Rain.

9) What rain does to my bangs.

10) That Range Rover who cut me off THREE TIMES, you GAS-GUZZLING ASSHOLE.

11) Having to call my bank about why my check card is getting declined, while my husband's card works just fine, even though it is currently in four separate pieces.

12) Dry heaving at work, mostly because of nerves, partly because someone burnt an English muffin in the general vicinity.

13) Having to wait until 4:20 for the ultrasound.

14) Four. Twenty. Which might as well be next week.

15) The huge pile of crap on my desk which REFUSES TO FILE ITSELF.

16) My office, which will not stop spinning, even when I lie on the floor.

17) The office cleaning people, who never vacuum.

18) People who point out how ADORABLE it will be when we see Eraserhead's heartbeat for the first time on VALENTINE'S DAY, which SHUT UP, like I didn't want to hurl enough already.

19) CAPS LOCK.

20) Trying to think of a 20th thing I shouldn't have to deal with simply because my OCD won't let me post an odd-numbered list.

4:20 p.m. ET, people. Send Eraserhead lots of cardiovascular thumpity thoughts and shit. And then send me some sedatives.

Home Alone

CONTENTS OF A GROCERY STORE BASKET BELONGING TO A PREGNANT WOMAN SUFFERING FROM MORNING/AFTERNOON/EVENING SICKNESS WHOSE HUSBAND IS AWAY ON A BUSINESS TRIP:

1 package baby carrots
3 boxes Kraft Macaroni & Cheese
2 cans Spaghettios w/ Meatballs and Added Calcium
1 half-gallon reduced-fat milk
1 six-pack ginger ale
1 bag Goldfish crackers

So Jason is away in New York until some ungodly late hour tonight, which means I am wild and crazy and unsupervised. So what am I up to? Mischief? Mayhem?

Well, I took the dog out to pee and now I'm watching episodes of A Baby Story while wearing pyjamas.

And I'm such a rebel? The top and bottom DON'T EVEN MATCH. Rock the fuck on!

But PJs and Goldfish crackers aren't the only fun on the agenda tonight. First: Presents! Lots and lots of presents!

(I'm really digging this whole I'm-having-a-baby-now-give-me-things.)

First up, a gift basket from my friend Penny from these fine people that includes Preggie Pops for morning sickness (dude, JUST IN TIME), snarky teabags and a wee book on "finding your inner mom," which I think I need, as you'll see in a bit.

(SHUT THE HELL UP, Woman On A Baby Story who got pregnant two months after going off the pill. Your hair is ugly.)

And then, from the always darling and generous and gorgeous Nola, a BIG ASS BOX from Anthropologie. From which, apparently, you can buy BABY TOYS like this one.

(It's official! Amalah.com has lost all edge and has given in to the fluffy.)

This is the softest, squishiest, deliciousiest toy ever, and if it does not become my child's favorite, I will be VERY DISAPPOINTED IN THEM.

Ceiba is not even allowed in the same room as this bunny, for she is Destructive. Look what she did to her toy today.

(Oh! The humanity!)

RIP Squeaky McPuff.

In Tadpole news, Tadpole is actually beyond a tadpole now. According to the various pregnancy books I have scattered around the house, Tadpole is now "the size of a chickpea or a pencil eraser."

Aw. A little Chickpea.

GAG.

I am hereby boycotting any type of cutesy pea/bean/legume-like nickname for my embryo. Instead, I'm thinking "Eraserhead."

See why I might need that inner mom book? "Yes little baby, while other pregnant bloggers were calling their babies names like Sweet Pea or Hominy Grit, I named you after the David Lynch movie with the mutant penis-baby. Now go to bed. Don't make me get out the wire hangers."

And now, it's 10 p.m., which means it's time for bed to rest up for another long day of vomiting. DAMN, my life is FABULOUS.

An Entry About My Underwear

What? No Wednesday Advice Smackdown?

Well, yeah, no. First of all, it's clear that the vast majority of you have no interest in seeking advice from Amalah v.2.0, Babymaking Edition, as the question queue is quite sparse.

Second of all, you are very, very wise.

You should not be coming to me with your hair and makeup and fashion queries right now, because I no longer feel superiorly gorgeous and fashionable. In fact, I'm an absolute disaster.

People, my underwear doesn't fit.

I've lost buttons on about four pairs of work pants already, but dagnabbit, I'm still wearing them. That's what that little extra hook is for, right? And safety pins? Plus, it's one less thing to do in the bathroom when I'm dashingohmygodIhavetopeepeepeethisinstant.

Mornings are no longer about me gazing at my many wardrobe options and putting together something fun -- they're about me justifying that no one at work will notice if I wear those stretchy black pants for the third time this week, and do I have any stretchy cotton underwear left that won't show panty lines too badly? No? Bah. Oh well. I'm sure as hell not going to attempt one of those delicate lacy thongs again -- the imprints of the fabric were visible on my skin for two days straight last week.

(To add insult to injury, my bras still fit.)

Then I go downstairs and convince myself that I don't need to wear foundation because I have lovely glowing pregnant skin. Also, I'm too lazy. Also, I thought pregnancy was supposed to make my hair all Breck Girl Fantastic? Why is my hair looking so...bad? Eh. Clip it up, pin it back, good enough.

Why don't I care? Why am I showing up for work with no concealer under my eyes and Saltine crumbs down my shirt? Why is my stomach pooching out at only seven weeks along? What kind of monstrous spawnbaby am I incubating?

Yesterday, I had my first real dry-heave-near-puke experience, and I didn't even move my purse out of the way.

Who is this slobbish nightmare? Can granny panties and Mom Jeans be far behind?

In other news, I actually threw up this morning. Several times. And while I was mostly thinking that I wasn't sure I have ever felt so miserable, the Crazy Post-Infertility Pregnant Lady part of me was all, "YAY!"

I AM INSANE. SEND HELP.

AND UNDERWEAR.

Scenes From A Pregnancy

I can't eat anything. Except for whatever the one magic food item is that I can eat. This item changes hourly and gives me no clue to its identity.

Jason: (on phone) What do you want for dinner?

Amy: Oh, anything. Whatever you want.

Jason: Chicken?

Amy: (turns green) Oh God, no.

Jason: Um, I think we have salmon?

Amy: Why do you hate me?

Jason: Okaaaay...how about I pick up a pizza?

Amy: Okay. Wait, no. Definitely no.

Jason: Pasta?

Amy: Nothing with sauce. I cannot do sauce.

Jason: (thumps phone against hard surface several times)

Amy: Could you pick me up a jar of peanut butter?

Jason arrives home with jar of peanut butter and a chicken salad.

Amy: Oh. Now I want a burrito. And if you eat that chicken in front of me I will kill you. Please leave the room.

Last night, as I was getting into bed and pulling up the covers, I managed to punch myself in the eye.

The night before, I had a dream that I was miscarrying, and then went shopping with Dooce. We bought gummie bears.

I'm getting my first ultrasound next Monday, and we should, presumably, hypothetically, possibly see the heartbeat. But again, I'm all kinds of annoying.

Jason is already creating our baby registry and I can't help thinking that while I'm certainly having some stomach issues, I'm not puking. I'd  feel better about my odds if I was actually puking. Everybody's all, "The sicker the better!" when you tell them that yes, you're having some digestive issues, not realizing that they are FREAKING YOU THE FUCK OUT because oh my God, I could totally be sicker. Why am I not sicker?

Maybe I'd puke if I ate some chicken.

Watching Iron Chef America is never a good idea for me. Neither is my brand-new TiVo season pass to TLC's A Baby Story, which absolutely terrifies me. And then makes me cry. Because babies! Who are small and soft but OH MY GOD, they totally come out your vagina.

Also: I watched The Discovery Channel's Pompeii special yesterday. By myself. And I watched the whole thing. (Hi, I'm Amy, and volcanoes scare the ever-loving crap out of me.)

Let me recap Part One, which was the Gruesome Recreations By Vaguely British-Sounding People:

Rich Pregnant Woman: I cannot flee. I can only sit here and moan quietly.

Rich Pregnant Woman's Family: Then we shall do the same! Arrange yourselves in sentimental and heartbreaking embraces!

Rich Pregnant Woman's Slaves: Aw, FUCK.

Rich Woman Carrying Box of Money: Oh! I will take refuge with the strong gladiators!

Gladiator #1: I am not afraid of pebbles!

Gladiator #2: That Rich Woman is hot!

Gladiator #1: (takes a boulder to the head and dies)

Gladiator's Dog: Could someone bring me inside? Or untie me? Please?

Small Dirty Child: Papa! Papa!

Man With Some Sort of Beam Impaled in His Chest: Heeeeellp meeeeee

Rich Woman's Despicable Husband: I will not help the Small Dirty Child! I will not help Man With Some Sort of Beam Impaled in His Chest! I will steal their money and sleep with my Noble Slave Girl!

Noble Slave Girl: (kneels to pray, for she is Noble, gets taken out by a roof or something)

Rich Woman: (kisses Gladiator #2, because hey, why not)

Pyroclastic Flow of Death: (flows deathily)

Rich Woman's Despicable Husband: (steals dying people's money, gets taken out by Pyroclastic Flow of Death, because oh! The irony!)

Gladiator's Dog: (is dead, just in case you were wondering)

Some Random People Hiding in a Boathouse: (are totally dead, because the Pyroclastic Flow of Death boiled their brains and made their heads explode, and look, here are some close-ups of some shattered skulls)

Everybody Else: (is also dead, which you probably didn't see coming)

Part Two was less violent, as it was comprised by an attractive volcano expert wandering around modern-day Pompeii and harassing local citizens.

Attractive Volcano Expert: How can you live here? Do you not realize that Vesuvius is a TICKING TIME BOMB OF FIERY DEATH?

Local Citizens: Eat, drink and be merry! We don't care! We are invincible!

Attractive Volcano Expert: So how much notice does Pompeii need before an eruption to safely evacuate the 700,000 fools who live here?

Local Volcano Representive: Two weeks.

Attractive Volcano Expert: And how much notice do you think you'll get?

Local Volcano Representive: Umm...14 minutes?

Local Citizens: Fiddle-dee-dee! Clearly The Discovery Channel thinks we deserve what's coming and frankly, kind of hopes Vesuvius will erupt to help the DVD sales! Look at us on our jolly mopeds!

Cheap Ass CGI Effect: (destroys modern-day Pompeii with a Pyroclastic Flow of Death, pointedly taking out several mopeds)

Attractive Volcano Expert: You people are retarded. The end.

And that brings us to today. My eye (that I punched) (myself) is all red and angry and painful. The thought of Cheerios nearly made me faint, but a breakfast of German chocolate cake totally hit the spot.

Now I must figure out what my stomach will accept for lunch (hint: not chicken) and try to figure out how to get someone to buy me the Pompeii DVD, because it was totally awesome.