Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Today's Wednesday Advice Smackdown will be even more particularly half-assed than previous installments. Why? Because I'm tired. Fatigued. Exhausted. Vaguely comatose. Etc. It is probably all the Babalah's fault, as I am getting approximately 19 hours of sleep a day, yet still. So. Damn. Tired.

This is how tired I am: diohv ccoljuoi caljlllllllldijulj

HAAAAAAAAAA. That's the funniest thing I've typed EVER.

This is also how tired I am on a regular basis: On Easter Sunday, neither Jason nor my parents woke me up to go to CHURCH. On EASTER. And then they let me sleep through PANCAKES. Out of PITY for my tired, tired self.

Anyway. Here are some questions, some answers and some typos that I will probably not fix.

Dearest Amalah who I would recognize if i saw on the street and hug and then run before she called the police on the tiny girl she doesn't know,

Very soon, I am graduating from college. I have always used (gasp) drugstore foundation. By always I mean the same kind since sixth grade. I actually spend more on things like eyeshadow, but for some strange reason, have never ventured past Maybelline for foundation (I ventured past it for mascara and came straight back). Aaaaanyways, I am going to be a grownup very soon. Kind of. And I would like to upgrade my foundation. As I already took your foundation brush advice (with excellent results) and as you always look so pretty with such lovely dewy skin, I thought you could advise me on a nicer foundation to switch to. I like them pretty liquidy and seemingly sheer yet powerful enough to really cover.

I apologize for my overuse of parentheses (but I kind of talk in parentheses actually) and hope to have an answer whenever your lovely self is bored of the doppler and has a notion to do an advice smackdown.

Merci,
JackieO

I still stand by the foundation pictured in my infamous and frighteningly-often-Googled foundation brush entry, and that's the Sue Devitt 70% Triple Seaweed Gel Foundation. 70% water, this stuff is light and gelly (it's a word now, shut up) and goes on easy and smooth. Also won't clog your pores or destroy the rain forest or steal your boyfriend.

Yes, it's $38 a bottle. I could try to justify that for you, but I'm tired. (Which brings us to the half-assedness of this Smackdown.) Dewy don't come cheap, chickies, and if it did, I'd likely just find some way to be a snob about it.

Oh great goddess of all things hairtastic!

I am in desperate need of hair advice. I just had my regular below chin length bob cut today and found out the hard way that you should never be the last customer of the day on a busy spring Saturday. I foolishly told the stylist to angle my hair in the back in a wedge, and then cut the front to chin length and add a few little angled-in pieces in the front. And since it was Saturday and the stylist had just finished cutting the hair of a six-year-old whose mom was a royal pain who wanted the impossible-the stylist was tired and just said, okay, instead of, wait, no way this will work with your fine, thin, curly hair, you’re going to look like you cut your hair with a lawnmower. Which is exactly how it looks now. So now, I come to you, great goddess, Amalah, asking for advice on how to fix this mess other than cutting it even shorter (not an option, as my husband said, just go get a Subaru Outback and some flannel shirts and call yourself a …..you can guess the rest, he’s not very politically correct!) So anyway, hair goddess, what hair products do you recommend to help me achieve some sort of hairstyle that people won’t laugh at?

Peanut Butter Patty

First, let me take issue with the idea that a bad haircut can only be corrected by further drastic cutting. Not true. A decent stylist (and by "decent" I mean "expensive" and "homosexual") can RESHAPE a butchered cut without sacrificing a lot of length.

(Trust me, for at one low point in my life, I was laid off from my stupid dot.com job like the rest of the entire world. I burned through my severance package and was soon a miserly ball of misering, reusing tea bags and canceling HBO and, at the lowest low point, going to the HAIR CUTTERY for trims. Sometimes, even a half-inch trim is too much for certain scissorly-challenged people to handle. That's all I'll say, but indeed, I know your pain.)

But as for products, there are four billion and one options. From your email, I'm trying to guess as to what will make your hair look better. Straighter? Thicker? Piece-y-er? (Also now a word. Continue to shut up.) So I'll just go half-assed (again) and recommend my favorite products for the most common hair complaints.

(All of these, I believe, have been recommended here before. Am officially one giant re-run.)

Bed Head Control Freak. A gentle straightener and de-frizzifyer that's perfect for thin hair. Work a dime-sized amount through wet hair and then blow-dry straight.

Bed Head Small Talk. A volumizing, thickifying goo that will pretty much solve world hunger one of these days. Use a small amount on dry hair to fluff, lift and separate. Like a bra! For your hair! Sexy!

Bed Head Hard to Get. A finishing paste for piecing out your hair, which I imagine could come in particularly handy in lawnmower-inspired haircuts.

Bed Head After Party. The infamous dildo-shaped tube of smoothing cream. Any fly-away crazy hair? Stubborn assy cowlicks? A little of this stuff with make your hair your well-behaved, shiny bitch.

can't remember whose site linked to it, but found you through my daily readings. yours is just the second (including mine) that makes any reference to infertility, and deals with it in a manner that could help other people understand it, instead of the doom and gloom stuff on the newsgroups and other websites. we were lucky that clomid worked for us the first month, but wow, when I think about the wasted year of trying, well, I try to not get bitter. more because a simple fertility test from the doctor, who told us to "relax" (you know the drill), would have put us in a position to make smarter decisions earlier instead of exercises in futility.

it sounds like you are in about week 16, and my wife in 19, so two infertility babies coming within weeks. i look forward to reading your blog more as the weeks go on as i am sure i will be able to relate. oh, and in reference to the Girlfriend's Guide you made, and What to Expect...what did your husband read? you sound like a well read couple, and my wife and i had a very difficult time finding any books that made sense for me to read. while i appreciate the 15 pages in What to Expect on the father feelings, the mass of the books out there for men are either 1) all science and volume, 2) sensititve pony tail type books, or 3) Man Show type books. we really couldn't find a book that was like the Girlfriend's Guide, but for men. Just curious.

-B

(I'm actually right at 14 weeks now, but everybody assumes I'm further along than that, thanks to the BELLY THAT WILL SOON EAT MANHATTAN. Along with everything else, because DAMN, I'm hungry.)

Also? Jason? Read books? Pregnancy books?

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

He did accompany me to Border's when I purchased the Girlfriend's Guide and some technical Mayo Clinic guide after my first prenatal appointment confirmed that I was, indeed pregnant. (Because five or six home tests? Clearly lying to me out of spite.)

I picked up a copy of The Expectant Father and asked Jason if he wanted it. And he looked at me like I was giving birth to a litter of puppies right there in the Parenting section.

"Everything I need to know I can read on the Internet," he said.

"But this will tell you how to be all, loving and supportive and shit," I countered.

"I AM loving and supportive and shit."

"Fine." I shoved the book back on the shelf. "But I reserve the right to tell you if, at any point in time, I do not feel you are being loving and supportive and shit."

And that was our agreement, which meant during the first thirteen tortuous, nausea-filled weeks, I routinely called Jason an asshole.

(Usually for various food-related offenses.)

So I have no book recommendations for you, B. Which brings us to the half-assed portion of this question.

Readers? With literate, supportive, non-asshole husbands who read pregnancy books? Any suggestions?

(Oh, and I'm totally kidding about Jason being an asshole, as he had two dozen roses delivered to my office today for no reason at all except to make my coworkers jealous. That's just awesome.)

Have a question for next week's Smackdown? That requires a half-assed answer? Send it to advice@amalah.com. Or maybe, if we're lucky, I'll get that second trimester energy boost everyone keeps yakking about, which SHUT UP, you're making me tired.

Updating For Updating's Sake

I would love to update, y'all, but honestly, there's just nothing to talk about.

Weekend: Went home to visit parents. Discovered doppler is fine family entertainment, provided you're okay with unbuttoning your pants in front of everyone and giving them a 10-minute listen to the symphony that is your gastrointestinal tract. Ate lots of ham. No, more than that. Ceiba peed in parents' house twice; refused to poop until the car ride home.

Monday: Wore underwear that were too small. Spent entire day with persistent wedgie. High point of day was eating a 12-inch meatball sub for lunch. Fell asleep at 8 p.m., woke up at 11 p.m., ate hot dog, went back to bed.

Today: Hit wall, clothing-wise. Three pairs of slobbish maternity pants from Old Navy and four tops from the Gap are not enough to cobble a week's worth of outfits from. Panty hose no longer fitting. Took 45 minutes to find something non-hideous to wear to work today. Wearing elastic-waistband skirt hiked up to chest and a maternity sweater I have worn about seventeen times in the past five days. Also cut big hole in control-top hose to accomodate pooching belly. No, seriously. Ate oatmeal, BLT, fruit cup, bagel with cream cheese, two mini-Twix, three mini-Snickers and box of raisins.

Am feeling distinctly constipated now.

Aaaannndd, that brings you completely up to speed on the Fabulous Life of Amalah.

Oh, except that I bought my BLT and fruit cup at the little deli in the office building next door, and I was 24 cents short. And I looked sad because I really wanted to be healthy and eat some fruit salad, but there was no way in HELL I was leaving the bacon behind instead. But then the cashier told me it was okay and that I could just bring the 24 cents "next time." Like I was some sort of regular with excellent credit. Which, awww.

Either that or he could tell that I was wearing panty hose with a big huge hole in the stomach and felt sorry for me. Or maybe it was the sweater that I've worn forty-two times in the past three weeks.

Later I found a quarter in my desk and debated taking it over to the deli, except that I'd probably be too tempted to get another BLT and ask them to put it on my tab.

Dreams of Baby & Expired Car Insurance

Last night I had another in a long series of pregnancy anxiety dreams. The baby is here, and we have nothing for him. (The baby is always a boy in my dreams, which probably signifies nothing more than the fact that little boys scare the crap out of me.)

Last night's dream was nothing new. We had no name, we had no clothes, we had no furniture.

(Which is...pretty much where we stand right now. We have a mobile my mom sent, a stuffed bunny Granola sent, and of course, a highly silly rattle. And that's it. I was planning to wait until we know the sex to start buying things so I can gender stereotype to my heart's content, but apparently, my brain DOES NOT LIKE THIS IDEA VERY MUCH.)

(Oh, by the way, we did buy one piece of furniture after learning I was pregnant. It's a liquor cabinet. Go us!)

We tried to buy a car seat at one point in my dream, and were asked to provide proof of our car insurance. I opened my wallet, which suddenly contained about a dozen State Farm insurance cards, none of which was valid.

So they wouldn't let us buy the car seat.

Dejected, we wandered into a clothing store and tried to find some onesies or whatever, and they had every size except for the size we apparently needed. My arms also really, really hurt because Dream Baby was heavy and we had no stroller or Baby Bjorn or convenient cardboard box to carry him in.

We did succeed in buying diapers, but forgot wipes, so we used some damp paper towels.

Then we were home, trying to figure out why the hell our friends sucked so badly and didn't throw us a baby shower and also...weren't we supposed to be...feeding? The baby? Or something?

At this point in the dream I realized that Jason had been bottle feeding the baby for like, DAYS, which OH MY GOD, I'M A FAILURE BECAUSE I DIDN'T EVEN TRY TO NURSE SO PUT THAT BOTTLE DOWN, I'M TAKING MY BRA OFF AND FEEDING MY CHILD.

And then Jason handed me the baby. And the baby was suddenly Ceiba.

And then I woke up.

*shudders*

So today I decided to take on my subconscious, mano to charge card.

I won't bore you to death with photos of each individual twee onesie and sock, but instead present a group portrait, titled: Amy Attempts To Reason With Her Sleep Cycle By Spending Lots Of Money On Small Noah's Ark And Beatrix Potter-Related Things. Also Pictured: Burp Cloths.

Mocking Stupid People is Fun

I'm back in burritos, y'all!

In what may be the clearest sign yet that the second trimester will be infinitely more bearable than the first, I am eating a Chipotle barbacoa burrito for lunch today. With MEAT. And HOT SALSA. and OTHER FOOD PRODUCTS THAT ARE NOT SALTINES.

And yesterday, while working from home, I made about 45 bowls of delicious, delicious grits for myself, all of which required boiling water. Up until about three days ago, the smell of boiling water made me throw up. (And don't tell me boiling water doesn't have a smell. It DOES and it's HORRIFIC.)

Anyway. This could be the beginning of the end of all the puking talk. But let's not jinx things. Instead, I would like to share with you some of the very stupid things pregnant women post on message boards.

I get about a dozen pregnancy e-newsletters, all of which I signed up for the day after my positive test result, because I really needed 400 different sources reminding me that I was pregnant!pregnant!pregnant! on a daily basis.

You know, in case I forgot.

All of these newsletters are linked back to various pregnancy sites (iVillage, BabyCenter, WebMD, etc.) where you can read tons of articles about every possible pregnancy concern, see how ugly your embryo is and get yelled at about not exercising. Or, if you're like me, you can troll around the message boards and make fun of the things women ask about.

just wondering if cream cheese would be considered a soft cheese and we should not eat it. I love cream cheese but have been hesitant to eat it just in case?

Holy shit, people. The soft cheese thing is killing me. Somewhere along the line, it was determined that pregnant women were too stupid to understand big words like "unpasteurized" and now we have women scared to eat pizza because "cooking makes the cheese all melty and soft." Of course, this comment was posted as a reply to an in-depth article that did use the word "unpasteurized", so maybe pregnant women really are that stupid.

(Oh, and to the woman who keeps posting the same comment over and over about how her fetus died from a listeria infection brought on by Kraft American cheese singles? Please shut up.)

When is too soon to get in a tanning bed I may be pregnant I am not sure. How long should I wait after trying to concieve? And does tanning effect conception?

Tanning WILL "effect" conception, but only if your RE is attempting to do an IUI at the same time and accidentally leaves the syringe of your partner's sperm on the tanning bed for more than 20 minutes.

tanning also has cooked peoples insides, from over doing it... i would not want to risk doing that to my child. I would defanitly stick to self tanners... or lay out in the sun a little at a time not as hazardus as tanning beds.. with a low spf at least a 4 well more on your face... is better... but don't be selfish it is only a few months that you are going to think about your baby over yourself...

I would defanitly say that you also need to shut up. Although thanks for pointing out that "it is only a few months that you are going to think about your baby over yourself." A lot of women forget that once the baby is born, it totally will take care of itself while you lie around tanning beds all day eating cream cheese without a care in the world.

WHEN YOU'RE PREGNANT SOMETIMES WE CRAVE CERTAIN FOODS. THAT'S HOW I KNEW I WAS WITH CHILD BECAUSE OF THE STONG CRAVING OF TUNA. THIS IS VERY FRIGHTENING INFORMATION TO ME.

Noted.

i am only 12 weeks pregnant and just got my newsletter for this week and was shocked to see a photo of a 5-month pregnant woman at the top of it. please redo the photos as this is very disconcerting to me.

I bet you're the type who sends soup back at restaurants because it's too hot. Please shut up.

Because of all the shocking and disconcerting things in the world, a photo of what your belly doesn't quite look like yet kind of pales in comparison to say, a big brother government creating legislation that inferferes with the private health decisions of its citizens because the same people who bomb abortion clinics have decided to take a very sad story and turn it into a political platform. Or if the governor of your state decided to demand custody of your family member because he didn't agree with your medical decisions. And how's about banning gay marriage while refusing to honor the rights that a male-female marriage gives you in regards to guardianship of your spouse because a big brother government thinks that you were a less-than-perfect spouse, because naturally, a big brother government has the right to be the moral judge of us all? Huh?

THAT's fucking disconcerting. Go make a living will for yourself and stop kvetching about your damn pregnancy newsletters.

(Breathes. Sorry. Am done now and will never attempt current-event-like commentary again. Is tiring.)

Is it safe to get pedicures, i know you are not suppose to go in jacuzzi's or saunas, what about the foot soak from a pedicure?

Only if you are carrying your baby in your feet. Call your doctor and demand an ultrasound right now to rule out this possibility, which occurs in one out of every 140,000 pregnancies where the mother is really, really stupid. Also stop wearing high heels until you know for sure that you do not have an embryo in your instep.

CAN THE DOCTORS REALLY TELL IF YOU SMOKED WHILE YOU WERE PREGNANT IF YOU TOLD THEM YOU DID NOT.

Right, because what the doctor doesn't know can't hurt your baby.

Is it safe to use vibraters when you are pregnant?

Safe and 100% effective.

I am going on 17 weeks tomorrow. My mom keeps telling me I need to wear loser pants to let the baby move around. Does this hurt them??

Okay, that's it, we're done. I'm officially slamming my head against the wall now.

Wait. Could slamming my head against the wall hurt my baby? Shit. I better ask the Internet.

The Death of Dignity

(Advice Smackdown? What? Eh. Didn't feel like it, frankly. Better luck next week, suckahs.)

I had to work from home today because Jason took my car keys. And his car keys. All the car keys.

Well, we do have one extra set of keys, because we're not complete fools, but the extra set is only for the Subaru, not the Ford, because we hate the Ford and want it gone gone gone so why bother making an extra key for a car we'll be trading in any day now?

Guess which car Jason drove to work today. Go on! You'll never guess. Fools.

I called Jason to make sure he had both sets of keys, just in case pregnancy stupidity was causing me to overlook the keys that were like, in my hand or something.

Amy: I think you took my keys.

Jason: D'oh! Shit. Fuck damn bitch.

(We are a household that watches a lot of Simpsons and HBO. Can you tell? But don't worry, we totally plan to buy The Incredibles DVD so the baby will have something wholesome to watch. And I already moved our Eminem CDs to a very high shelf, so we're cool.)

After sending my boss an email describing my keyless plight and swearing up and down that I actually had stuff to do and would not just spend the day surfing the Web while clearing out my TiVo queue, I received the following reply:

Sure, sure. The old "my husband took my car keys by accident" excuse.

I was tempted to write back:

Well, I figured you were tired of the old "puking my ever-loving guts out" excuse by now.

Then I thought better of it.

Either way, I actually did have tons of work to do and only spent the barest minimum of time torturing my fetus with the doppler. (And even less time torturing the dog, cat and other various parts of my own anatomy with the doppler.)

The baby hates the doppler. As soon as I lock onto the heartbeat the baby moves away. It's like a sullen teenager, running to its room, slamming the door while screaming LEAVE ME ALONE! It's frustrating, yet infinitely amusing. My child has a prenatal 'tude.

Anyway. Work. Diligence. Etc. How about some more awkward and embarrassing moments?

Yesterday, back when I had my car keys, I stalled my car at a stoplight. And in my frantic attempt to restart the car, Miss-Automatic-Transmissions-Are-For-Pussies turned on the windshield wipers. It was not raining.

Last week, back when it was my turn to drive the Subaru, for which we have extra keys and also XM Satellite Radio, I realized that I am making the conscious decision to listen to Kelly Clarkson.

When you're stuck with regular radio, you don't always have much of a choice. It's either commercials, crap pop, that one Jane's Addiction song with the steel drums or more commercials. But with XM, you have four hundred bazillion options. You can go from Pixies to Zappa to Ben Folds to to Snoop to Wilco to the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack.

It's totally awesome.

So why the hell am I listening to Kelly Clarkson? And even worse, telling the Internet about it?

I blame pregnancy. Which is also to blame for some fairly gnarly hemorrhoids and the fact that I am wearing a maternity top with polka dots today and was fully intending to go to work like this.

So maybe, actually, Jason taking the keys was a good thing. Thanks, babe. At least one of us is still thinking clearly.

Down the Toilet Bowl

(Housekeeping note: Do I owe you an email? Damn straight I do. I owe the entire world an email at this point. I'm sorry. I'm very slow and I also very much suck.)

(But wait, there's more: I also owe the world a well-written and totally-not-disgusting entry. This is not that entry.)

My dog fell in the toilet last night.

More accurately, my dog took a flying swan-dive leap into the toilet last night.

Twice.

A toilet that was, ahem, unflushed.

Dirty. Befouled. Full of pee.

I will not go to the bathroom in front of Jason, but I have no shame in front of my pets, who frequently follow me in because they know they'll have my undivided attention for 30 seconds or so. (Or longer, which then, you know, jackpot!)

Max likes to sit on my lap and Ceiba likes to hop around and play some sort of game that involves me trying to touch her and her trying anything to not get touched. Unless I stop trying to touch her. Then she gets mad and attacks the toilet paper.

(Hello Internet! Welcome to my bathroom! Would you like a magazine? Some quilted two-ply?)

Last night Ceiba got a little too worked up while dashing around the bathroom. She started doing this thing that I cannot ever seem to capture on film or adquately describe. She puts her ears straight back and puts her butt on the ground...and runs around in a circle until she gets dizzy and smacks into a wall. I know. She's insane. And we need a video camera.

It was about at this point that I was finished peeing, and I stood up. And Ceiba jumped right into the toilet.

*splash!*

At first, we were both too surprised to do anything. Ceiba stood there, completely in the toilet, while I just stood there, debating which was more important: pulling the dog out of my urine or pulling up my pants.

I ended up kind of doing both, which wasn't the best move. I held Ceiba in one hand while yanking up my waistband with the other, only to realize that she was DRIPPING WET and SHIIIIT, THAT AIN'T WATER.

So I did the next stupidest thing: I put her in the sink. Where she did not want to stay. And after leaving pee-tainted footprints all over the sink and counter and coming far too close to my toothbrush than I'd really like to think about, she lept off the sink and...

...back into the toilet, which I had not closed. Or FLUSHED.

At this point, the story get s fairly boring(er). Ceiba: bathed. Bathroom: scrubbed. Amy: squicked.

But then, in a subtle act of retaliation, Ceiba peed on the kitchen floor sometime after her bath.

Guess who stepped in it.

Twice.

Enough Yakking. Let's See Some Pictures Already

So I finally got over my blushing flower of shyness self and asked someone at work to scan my ultrasound photos.

This is the first one, at about seven weeks. (Click to embiggen.)

In case you are confused, in spite of the label helpfully pointing out which smudge is the "BABY", here's a close-up of the little blob.

If you tilt your head a certain way, I think it sort of looks like a lizard.

In just four weeks, the baby made an impressive jump from blob to big giant alien head.

(For those of you who have no clue what you're looking at, click here for the Ultrasounds For Dummies version.)

The baby is only about two inches long right now, which...okay, I guess that's why I can still see my feet. Sort of.

And since these were also on the camera, how about some photos of the original babies?

Max would like to remind you that he is still here, and is still too beautiful to be adequately captured on film.

Ceiba would like you to save her from the gross squishy belly that is totally cramping her lap space. She'd also like to tell Mom to just buy some bigger jeans already instead of lounging around with them all unbuttoned like that. She is so disgusted, she looks away in disgust. Like this.

The Wednesday Advice Bacon Cheddar Smackdown

Full Disclosure: Do not underestimate the power of the Jingle That Ate Hootie. I am currently eating a Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Raa-aanch, which is indeed as large as Brooke Burke's head, and is also infuriatingly delicious. Oh my God.

Okay, enough about my nightmarish eating habits. Let's talk about your problems.

(Okay, we'll talk about your problems as soon as Gmail stops dicking around with me.)

(We're all WAITING, Gmail. Please stop with the "oops...unable to process your request" errors.)

(In fact, could you not ever say "oops" when giving me an error message? It's really not that clever and always makes me start singing that Britney Spears song.)

(Oh FUCK. Now see what you've done? Quick, somebody start humming "Tiny Dancer.")

dear amalah,

i recently found your website and recently found out i was pregnant - your site came first, so maybe there's causation or perhaps just correlation. but here's my question - since getting pregnant (which was a trial in itself), i feel like i haven't been able to relax and enjoy at all. every twinge, every nebulous colored drop of "fluid" causes me to freak out and completely lose my cookies with fear (not to mention the general impulse to lose my cookies from the nauseous which i am grateful has not yet graduated to full grown yakking, but there's time as i'm only @ 6 weeks). beyond that the sudden reality of pregnancy is SCARY as ALL HECK. what to do?

rock on,
another amy from cyberspace

Last night Jason mentioned that I should really try to talk about non-pregnancy-related things, as amalah.com is in danger of becoming nothing but a pregnancy blog. Not that pregnancy blogs are a bad thing, but...you know, it might help if I got out occasionally. Read a non-pregnancy book or spent time thinking about issues beyond my digestive tract or whether the cashier at CVS recognizes me as the girl who keeps buying all the Cadbury Creme Eggs.

Wait...the hell was I going with this? Oh, right. I told him that hey, I still do my Advice Smackdown, so I still talk about other things. Like hair! I am totally still well-rounded as all get-out.

So now the last non-pregnant frontier has been invaded. My apologies. I will just sit here and incubate, as is my solitary purpose in life, apparently.

Anyway, Amy, your question. Back when we were trying to get pregnant (which was TOTALLY going to happen three months after I stopped the pill) and then TRYING to get pregnant (which was TOTALLY going to happen on our first round of Clomid), I imagined pregnancy to be this lovely, serene time of glowing skin and Jason bringing me ice cream and shopping for twee clothes.

I was going to relish every damn moment of it and walk around with my hands protectively cupping my belly while my baby instinctively moved towards my touch. I'd talk to the baby all the time and my hair would look amazing.

I was clearly on drugs.

Not just because I was unprepared for the physical horribleness of pregnancy, about which I've blathered on at length here in recent weeks, I was completely unprepared for the gripping, all-consuming FEAR that you wrote about in your email.

I've spent the last three months waiting for someone to come rip the rug out from under me.

More accurately, I've been waiting for someone to rip the rug out, causing me to fall down an ornate staircase while dressed in a red velvet dressing gown and then spend weeks moaning "Rhett! I want Rhett!" clear as day and yet the stupid servents are all, "Who? What? You want some toast?" while I lose my baby and my husband descends into bitter alcoholism.

I don't know where the fear comes from. I'm sure every newly-pregnant woman experiences fear to some degree: There's some frightening statistics on the Internet and in those books and in the story that woman at the supermarket told you, because she's an ASSHOLE.

There may also be people you know and love who've suffered loss after loss and you're keenly aware that life and reproduction just ain't fair. There may be the thought that, Jesus GOD, it took you over two years to get here, and if it doesn't work out, will you have to wait another two years? How old will you be? How much worse will it hurt when that coworker has her baby right around your due date?

My fears were compounded in January by the nagging feeling that "hey, I've been here before."

A few years ago, I discovered that the free birth control samples that I'd been using for several months were about six months past their expiration date. Whoops. I still got a period (albeit a very light one) that month, and figured that I'd dodged a bullet. (Although I daydreamed about what a nice accident that would have been.)

A few weeks later I was home alone and was struck with crippling cramps. I stumbled doubled-over to the bathroom and proceeded to bleed like I've never bled before. I won't go into detail here, but damn, there was a suspicious and fleshy-looking clot that haunted me for days. The bleeding stopped, and I never called the doctor.

Last year, after our final round of Clomid, I was so sure we'd succeeded. I had all the pregnancy symptoms and my period was late. Pregnancy sticks ran from very vague positives to emphatic negatives. My period started a week late. The end. Fuck this, let's nosedive into depression instead of an IUI.

Looking back, I wasn't imagining things. I felt EXACTLY like I did in the early weeks of this pregnancy. So while people tried to comfort my hysteria with the fact that my "problems" were related to getting pregnant, not staying pregnant, a little voice in the back of my head would go, "well, MAYBE."

So what do you do about it? First, admit that you just aren't ready to think long-term about the pregnancy. You just aren't ready to start painting the nursery or buying booties. People are going to repeatedly ask about names or where you're registered and you can just tell them you aren't at that point yet. And that's okay. (Me? I priced up diapers in the grocery store once. I think that'll do for a few more months.)

Start looking at the pregnancy in terms of milestones. The next beta. The heartbeat ultrasound. The doppler. The second trimester. The 18-week ultrasound. Look ahead only as far as the next milestone or your next OB appointment.

Before you know it, a slew of these milestones will be behind you, and you'll still be pregnant. (Hopefully, I mean, GAH, it happens.)

(See how well my advice works? I'm still a wreck.)

(Also? I am still totally carrying tampons around in my purse. Again, wreck.)

But most importantly, just try to get excited in your own way. The wisest and most non-assvicey thing anyone has said to me in the past three months was this: Keeping yourself from "getting excited" will not make the hurt any less if something happens, I promise you.

And on that note, get yourself a pregnancy buddy who is as totally awesome, bitchy and insanely paranoid as Zoot. That'll help TONS.

(Well, wasn't THAT an upbeat opening number? Christ. Can we talk about your hair now?)

Hi Amalah!

I need your superior knowledge on beauty products. My problem: I am white. Reference Mrsatroxi’s Wednesday Advice Smackdown question and comparisons to Nicole Kidman and Renee Zellweger. Recently my husband has taken to calling me Casper the Ghost. (Don't get me wrong - Casper was cute, but this is not meant as a compliment.) He sighs wistfully about the days before the Oil of Olay commercials scared me into wearing SPF 30 beauty products. When I was a bronzed, tanned, and a skin cancer candidate. (Remember those commercials? The opening shot was a clean, white, unlined piece of paper with a voice over saying "this is your skin." The second shot featured a crumpled piece of paper -- showing what happens when you don't use high a high SPF. Needless to say, I am now slightly neurotic about wearing sunscreen and am, consequently, very white.)

So how do I get the bronzed goddess look without killing my skin? I look wistfully at the self-tanners I see in the store, but I fear turning orange. Do I live with my whiteness? Or is there a product that I can use to get a natural looking tan?

Melissa

Oh my God, I swear to you, I had the following conversation TWICE today.

Scene #1, Doctor's Office, 9:30 a.m.

Doctor: Well, you certainly LOOK like you're feeling better!

Amy: Meh. Hate. Die.

Doctor: You've been looking SO PALE lately. But today you have some color! That's good!

Amy: It's bronzing powder. I'm still death on toast underneath.

Doctor: Oh! Well...it looks lovely on you.

Scene #2, Amalah's Office, let's say around 11-ish a.m.

Fellow Blogger Semi-Coworker Ubik: How are you feeling?

Amy: (shrugs shoulders in universal "Meh, Hate, Die" gesture) I won't puke on your shoes, or anything, but ehhhh.

Fellow Blogger Semi-Coworker Ubik: Well, you certainly don't look sick.

Amy: Behold, the power of bronzing powder. You're the second person to be fooled today.

Fellow Blogger Semi-Coworker Ubik: (polite noises, masterfully hiding the fact that he could not give less of a shit about the powah of my makeup)

Amy: Perhaps I shall reveal my secret on a Wednesday Advice Smackdown!

Fellow Blogger Semi-Coworker Ubik: (suddenly remembers something really important that he needed to do like, yesterday)

ANYWAY. Guess what my advice to you is, Melissa. Go on, GUESS.

That's right, BRONZING POWDER.

I too, am very white. I am so white I give off a radioactive glow in most photos. While I can tan, it's usually only possible after I've thoroughly charred myself, turned lobster red, peeled, molted, and grown new skin. Then I have about a 24-hour window in which I can tan naturally.

I will SOMETIMES use self-tanners (I'm partial to Clarins), but never, ever on my face. It's just too difficult to make it look natural around your hairline and neck. Which brings us to the bronzing powders.

I use this one.  It's cheap, it's available at Target and CVS (so I can buy it along with my Creme Eggs), and it's fairly idiot-proof (read: non-shimmery, which can go so wrong, so fast). (Trust me on that last one.)

First, moisturize yo' damn face. Dry skin looks paler than moisturized skin. Second, dab on your concealer (if you use any). Third, brush a translucent powder all over your face to eliminate shine and even out your skin tone. 

(POINTLESS TANGENT: Usually, I opt to put concealer on last...after my blush and everything. But I usually use foundation. When using a bronzer, I go for an all-powder look, and concealer on top of powder tends to not blend as well, in my useless opinion. Carry on with your lives.)

Finally, using a powder brush (about one size bigger than a blush brush, and less densely-bristled), apply the bronzer. LIGHTLY. GINGERLY. Start with just your cheekbones, but come closer to your nose than you would with blush. Think about where you would naturally tan and try to mimic that.

After I do my cheeks, I tap the end of my nose with the brush to be all sun-kissed and adorable. If you have a prominent forehead, feel free to apply a little powder there too, but be careful to blend really well (a flat surface tends to give you those ugly MY MAKEUP ENDS HERE lines more than the contour of your cheekbones and chin).

And ta-da! Now you too can be told that you no longer look like you are about to puke your guts out! By members of the medical community, even! Miraculous.

Dear Amalah:

Although I am still fairly youthful in appearance (hell, I'm 36), over the last few years I have noticed the size of the pores on my face is increasing rather rapidly. In fact, at the rate I'm going, my pores will soon expand and devour my entire head, body, pets and house. The solar system may be in danger. I am quite disturbed about this. I have spent a quantity of money equivalent to a car payment on fancy-ass creams, to no avail.

At one point should I accept the "new me" and move on? Should I simply try to find a good use for said mammoth pores, like 'pen holder' or 'nacho dip dispenser', or continue to fight the good fight?

Sincerely,
Stacy

Bah. Giant-ass pores. I'm sorry.

The problem with skin care is that skin is like snowflakes. Every epidermis is unique. The cleanser that works for me makes Jason break out like a pizza and the last masque someone recommended to me freaking burned my skin off.

But since wussing out and telling you to talk to a dermatologist means I don't get to talk about fun products, I'm going to talk about what I use anyway. And if any of it turns your pores into potholes, well, you should have talked to your dermatologist instead of listening to the Internet.

I have fairly oily skin, but more than "oily" I'd describe it as "tempermental." And "bitchy." It likes to reject products after a month of use and do this thing where one part of my cheek is breaking out while less than a centimeter away the skin is cracking and peeling like the Sahara Desert.

So the only success I've had lately has been from going with completely natural products. Things with fruits and vegetables in their name. And since most of the time large pores are a symptom of skin irritation, your skin might be trying to tell you that it's simply more sensitive than it used to be. So let's try to put together something super-gentle for you instead of blasting it with salicylic acid and rubbing alcohol and bleach or whatever.

Three brands in particular have my undying love (for now, stupid bitch skin): Burt's Bees, Ahava and MyChelle.

I use the Burt's Bees Garden Tomato soap and toner when my skin is being difficult in a zitty, angry pore kind of way. Then I follow up with Ahava's moisturizer for oily skin and eye contour cream.

If my skin is being difficult in a dry, flaky kind of way, I swap the Burt's toner for Ahava's gentler toner and add MyChelle's Pumpkin Renew Cream to the lineup.

Once a week, every week, I use Mychelle's Incredible Pumpkin Peel and spot-treat with the Clear Skin Serum.

But since, as I've already said, your skin is likely to be completely different than mine, it's probably not going to help anything if you rush out and buy everything on this list. The Burt's stuff is relatively cheap, the Ahava stuff is not, but it's the MyChelle product line that offers the best solution.

Trial. Sizes. Of everything they offer.

My mother-in-law sent me the most glorious box of tiny samples of pretty much the entire product line. Each trial size gives you about three to five uses (which, in my experience, is more than enough time to start seeing the results of this fabulous stuff). I played around, found what worked the best, and ordered my favorites.

(Also: Boys! Who are not reading this far anymore! They have men's products too. So...um...I'm still totally keeping you involved and in mind and shit.)

So anyone out there who doesn't like their current skin care products, is bored of their current skin care products, or who simply likes to hoarde and steal mini-shampoos from hotels should TOTALLY go order themselves a bag full of mini-cleansers and creams.

(Just don't do what I did and try to taste the Pumpkin Peel. Yes, it smells like pumpkin pie. No, it does not taste like pumpkin pie, you big stupid moron.)

Got a question? About anything? The meaning of life, perhaps? Send it to advice@amalah.com and check back next week where I will tell you the meaning of life and more importantly, where it can be purchased. (Although when in doubt, just check Sephora. It's probably available there.)

The Complaints Department is Full. Go Home.

Blah blah urinary tract infection blah vomiting blah blah tired.

Aannndd...that's my entry, folks! Thanks for stopping by.

Seriously, what else is there to talk about? There is puke, and there is pee, and there is general pissiness.

Tomorrow I will be 12 weeks pregnant, which means I should be seeing the beginning of end of the morning (HA) sickness.

(PRE-EMPTIVE ASSVICE SMACKDOWN: If one more person tells me one more story about one more woman who was sick for all 40 weeks I will track down your IP address and show up at your house to punch you in the face.)

In the meantime, I'm still throwing up at completely random times. First thing Sunday morning. Last thing Monday night. Tuesday at tea time. Whenever the bile strikes.

And magically, after hearing the words "You have a urinary tract infection," I became acutely aware that I have a urinary tract infection and it hurts like a motherfucker. So that's...been really fun, and whatever.

HiveWatch 2005 began last night with my first dose of antibiotics, which means I started getting hysterically itchy and and twitchy within 20 minutes of taking the pill and spent most of the night yanking up my shirt in front of the bathroom mirror to look for the hives that would soon engulf my respiratory system.

It was just dry skin. And the crazy. Luckily I started throwing up at some point and this took my mind off the itching.

I'm so tired of writing about being sick. And I'm actually tired of writing about being pregnant. Two months ago, I assumed that occasionally, I'd have something non-pregnancy-related to write about. A quick perusal of my entries since then say otherwise. Pregnant, freaking, still pregnant, puking, miserable, freaking, puking and also, pregnant.

I like to think that's preferable to drippy love letters to my fetus and blinkies and nursery color paint chips and photo essays about booties and shit, but it's probably not.  Y'all probably wouldn't mind reading about a pregnant woman who's actually able to muster up some goddamn HAPPINESS about the whole process and who doesn't bitch all the time about what it's like to puke up undigested Spaghettios.

(SHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT. Hive. On my stomach. Not imaginary in the slightest.)

Okay, so the rest of this entry was going to be about the things I do love about pregnancy and be this whole dramatic slow build up to a dramatic reveal but clearly, I need to go obsess over whether or not I'm about to go into anaphylactic shock or whatever.

So here. Go visit Jason's site and take a listen to our baby's little heartbeat. I do love that.

Mystery Solved

It's a urinary tract infection.

Or, to quote my nurse (whom I love so much I might make her a godparent), it's a "really nasty, really major urinary tract infection."

So nasty, I'm lucky I wasn't pissing blood all weekend.

So nasty, I have to go on antibiotics, which raises the alarm for two reasons. 1) I'm pregnant, and therefore trying to remain in a drug-free state of Zen-like purity lest I poison my fetus* with one too many Tylenol geltabs, and 2) I am allergic to just about every antibiotic known to man.

*Yes, it's true. I am harboring a full-on fetus now and am feeling all nostalgic for the sweet embryonic days. They grow up so fast.

The rest of the phone call with my nurse was a frustrating back-and-forth about the loooong list of antibiotics I cannot tolerate and cannot spell (I have them written phonetically in my wallet in case I get in a car accident and the EMTs want to give me "ah-rith-ra-my-a-sin" or "see-clore" or "a-mox-a-sill-an.") The only ones I know how to spell are "Cipro" (due to the anthrax scare of 2001...it's still in my wallet as "sip-row") and "Tetracycline". (No idea where I learned to spell that one. Am gifted.)

After a second consult with the doctor and my pharmacist, they've decided to let me try one that I don't think I've ever taken and they don't think will kill me. I'm to take one dose tonight and then obsessively watch for any hives or swelling. Which could be a problem, as I can break out in hives just by thinking about breaking out in hives.

(I'm not going to name the drug I'll be on because I'd like to spare myself the agony of reading comments about somebody's friend's mom who went on said drug and totally died or lost her hair or gave birth to a two-headed baby and why are you taking antibiotics at all? Don't you know that some cranberry juice and voodoo talismans will cure a UTI? Do you really care about not peeing fire more than your unborn child? You dont deserv to be pregnate!!!1)

(Can you tell I've gotten slightly defensive regarding my comments section? Most of y'all are lovely and funny and such, but the assvice people make me cranky. Cranky and tired.)

Which is pretty much what I told the nurse when she asked how I was feeling today. Tired, so tired, so very very tired. I certainly don't feel like I have a raging-wildly-out-of-control UTI, but hell, I've been peeing every 15 minutes since January so how would I even notice?

I did notice this weekend (on bedrest) (for spotting) (pee-related spotting) that I'm unable to go more than five hours without falling asleep. Part of this could be because I spent the weekend watching the following things on TV:

* A show about a $2 million recreational vehicle, complete with a custom-made, one-of-a-kind tree-shaped table made of plexiglass and illuminated with blinking rainbow-colored LCD lights. Classsssy!

* Hour after hour of the World Poker Tour.

* In the Womb on the National Geographic Channel (which I did not realize we even received), that while extremely informative, went so heavy on the water/womb symbolism and the watery/womby sound effects that it's impossible to watch for more than 10 minutes before you succumb to the urge to curl up in the fetal position and sleep for nine months.

* 300,000 instances of that weirdly surreal Burger King ad with Hootie dressed as a cowboy that absolutely destroys everything I held dear back in 10th grade. And that damn jingle has infiltrated my brain in a way no song since Elton John's Tiny Dancer has infiltrated my brain.

Amy: *in shower* Tendercrisp bacon cheddar raa-aanch.

Amy: *in car* something something lotto tickets pay, there's a king who wants you to have it your way...

Amy: *at work* Tendercrispbaconcheddarraaa-aanch.

Amy: *peeing for 700th time* Hold me closer, tiny raaa-aaancher...

Yes, I'm going to pick up my antibiotics now.