All Hail the Cooch Cam

THIS IS THE EVERYTHING IS OKAY ALARM. IT WILL CONTINUE TO SOUND AS LONG AS EVERYTHING REMAINS OKAY.

Back from the doctor's, back from the ultrasound, back with a picture of a darn cute little baby in hand.

Since our last ultrasound, the Tadpole has turned into a person. A person with wee fingers and toes and little limbs that kick and wiggle and a big gigantic head that looks like an alien when it looks right at you.

The Tadpole also sucks its thumb, is five centimeters head-to-butt and looks nothing at all like a tadpole anymore.

The fluids are clear, the placenta intact and my cervix is closed. Basically, we have no fucking clue where the bleeding came from. It could have been a fluke, a threatened miscarriage that pussed out, or a really nasty bladder infection.

Regardless, I'm on strict bedrest through the weekend, which means girl movies and ice cream (I lost another pound over the last two weeks, so ice cream is all but coming with a prescription at this point).

But still, EVERYTHING IS OKAY. I'm still having a baby, and man, it's the cutest baby in the entire world. With the thumbs and the toes and the wiggling.

So I'm forgiving it for scaring the everloving crap out of me, but hear this, Tadpole: the thumb and toe thing ain't gonna fly at age 15 if you stay out past curfew without calling your mother.

Well, Fuck.

Yesterday afternoon, I wrote the following email to Zoot:

I have to say, I think I am getting better about the doomsday scenarios. A few weeks ago I couldn't even FATHOM making it to the second trimester, and now I'm less than two weeks away from it. I couldn't imagine ever hearing the heartbeat on the doppler, and now I'm listening to it every day. So a lot of the negative thinking has to go away because this pregnancy keeps on amazing me by its mere ability to go on EXISTING.

"HAAAAAAAAA," said the universe.

I started spotting last night. Bright red blood followed by pinkish smears every time I went to the bathroom.

SCENE, STORCH HOUSEHOLD, 8 p.m.

Amy: *bolts out of bathroom* SPOTTING. MY GOD NO NO NO.

Jason: *hurls self off couch* OH MY GOD NO NO NO.

Amy: *curls self on couch, puts throw pillow on head* OH MY GOD NO NO NO.

We're very good in a crisis, no?

After a few minutes I put my head back together and got out the doppler. And of course, it took 20 minutes to find the heartbeat, by which time I was more than a LITTLE HYSTERICAL. But it was still there, and still at 160 bpm. The pinkish smears were clearly not causing the baby any kind of distress, UNLIKE ITS PARENTS, who were still officially Losing It.

We spent the rest of the night curled up on the couch, looking glum, calling our parents and wanting them to fix everything, glaring at the super-pregnant wife of the one boxer on The Contender who already has FOUR CHILDREN, which NO FAIR and me freaking out over every possible twinge or stomach gurgle that could possibly maybe sort of be a cramp. And of course, examining toilet paper.

(By the way, Jason and I are very private married people. We do not pee in front of each other, ever. It's just one of the million ways we keep the romance alive, you know?)

Not last night. Last night it was me peeing, Jason hovering, me holding out pinkish toilet paper for us to both stare at and sigh over.

I seriously hope to have the opportunity to guilt trip this child about this indignity someday.

Anyway. Fast-forward to today. The spotting seems to have stopped; no real cramping ever started. Heartbeat still thumping at 160 bpm.

I am still sooooo not buying it. I'm going to my OB at 2:20 ET today for a check and probably an ultrasound, and not getting out of bed in the meantime. Except for more peeing, hovering and examining.

(On the plus side, Jason is most certainly not going to Atlantic City this weekend. Hell freaking no.)

Although I'm feeling a little less sure about shopping for maternity clothes now. Damn.

The Growing Insanity

(First of all, OHHHHHH MYYYYYYY GAAAWWWWD. There's a heartbeat over at Zoot's! I have been a curled-up little ball of anxiety on her behalf all damn day, and now? Bitch is all knocked up proper and shit. And she's just four weeks behind me, which gives me great joy from a someone-else-to-kvetch-with perspective. And to think how far we've both come from this dark day. JESUS GOD, ZOOT, WE FUCKING DID IT.)

Back when we were on Clomid, which was TOTALLY going to work for us, like, immediately, I bought a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting. I threw it out during a temper tantrum sometime after our fourth or fifth negative. I never bought another copy, but opted instead for The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy and a guide from the Mayo Clinic for all the technical shit that I never read about because GAH, episiotomies.

The Girlfriend's Guide is definitely better than What to Expect (which is more like What to Panic About When You're Doing Everything Wrong), even if it does fall into that your partner = your male-husband-whom-you-married pattern that most pregnancy books seem to fall into.

Although when I first read it, I was a little surprised to see an ENTIRE CHAPTER titled "Pregnancy Insanity." That seemed a little...meanly stereotypical, I thought. Especially since I had just recently been horrified when someone only-sort-of-jokingly asked, upon learning of my pregnancy, when I was "going to start acting all crazy."

(Answer: RIGHT NOW, BUDDY, NOW STAND STILL WHILE I THROW THIS PAPERWEIGHT AT YOUR HEAD.)

The chapter is mostly about 1) pregnant women doing stupid things like forgetting their phone number, 2) crying because there are no pickles left, or 3) becoming slightly hysterical when they don't get their way in a variety of scenarios.

Other than #2, I didn't experience anything remotely like this for the first two months of pregnancy. I'd say I was a remarkably easy-going pregnant lady. Once I got a little mad because Jason thought I was kidding when I told him to bring home Chicken McNuggets (Why would I kid about McNuggets? Why?), and then there was the Paneer Makhani Incident where Actual Tears Were Shed, but you know, that was the SECOND FUCKING TIME that restaurant had messed up my order and my order alone and I was kind of feeling like they had it in for me.

I haven't been so easy lately. I bawled while watching A Walk In the Clouds, which I left on for the express purpose of making fun of Keanu Reeves' horrible delivery, I swear to God. First I wouldn't shut up because the supposedly newly-pregnant love interest has absolutely no first trimester symptoms and is going around eating zucchini flower soup without barfing and being all sexy and seductive instead of gassy and bloated. Then the vineyard caught on fire and it was just SO SAD and I cried and then I got mad because GOD BITCH, YOU SHOULDN'T BE FIGHTING FIRES WHEN YOU'RE PREGNANT.

Then there's been this entire week, which has been one long experiment in Crazy. Jason is going to a bachelor's party this weekend, one that's been planned for months and fine and whatever. (I was supposed to go to the bachelorette's party in New York City, but opted not to, because damn, wouldn't I be the sober hoot n' a half who heads back to the hotel room to sleep at 10 p.m.)

However, I just learned on Tuesday night that the boys' party involves the words "Atlantic" and "City" and will basically be ALL WEEKEND LONG.

"Okay," I thought, "I'll just head up to Pennsylvania to visit my mom who will take me shopping and stuff."

Then I got a voice mail from my sister in Arizona, talking excitedly about dirt-cheap airfares from Phoenix to DC for the weekend. Would it be cool if she came to visit?

"Yay!" I thought.

Then Wednesday morning the bad news started rolling in. My aunt, who also lives in Arizona, had another stroke. A bad one that has pretty much left her brain dead, so they were turning off the life support.

Very sad news.

But then my mom started talking about how they were flying out to be with my cousin and help with the arrangements and they were going to stay with my sister and...

"Wait," I thought. "What? This weekend?"

Then I actually said it out loud. I actually had the gall to complain to my mother that no, SOMEBODY had to not be in Arizona this weekend and keep me company. They couldn't ALL not be available to go shopping for maternity clothes.

Apparently, in my mind, Life, Death, Loss of My Father's Older Sister and Last Immediate Family Member pales in comparison to Clear Your Schedules, the Pregnant Girl Wants You to Take Her to a Movie.

I would say this is vaguely insane behavior. Especially the part where I sniffled a little bit after hanging up the phone because no one in my family loves me.

The week of Crazy continued to this morning, when I stopped for a bagel and cream cheese on the way to work. It was the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted and I ended up throwing it away once I got to the office.

And I nearly cried again, because all I ever wanted in my WHOLE LIFE was a nice bagel and cream cheese. I honestly fought back tears.

I ended up eating a brownie that was left over from some meeting instead. Even though it was left over from a meeting YESTERDAY.

It was the second most disgusting thing I have ever tasted, but I ate the whole thing. Because I'm INSANE and PREGNANT and either get the fuck away from me or I will start throwing more paperweights.

Unless you offer to take me shopping. Then I might cry and hug you a little bit.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

All right, enough with the song and dance. It's Advice Smackdown time, and let's not waste valuable bossing-around time and just get right down to it.

Amalah,

My fiancé and I are planning a trip to Aruba this May so that we can finally make it legal. What were your impressions (or drunk, hazy memories) of the island? Any suggestions on where to stay or what to do? I saw your pictures, and I understand that the “what to do” involves a whole lot of drinking, and I’m fine with that, but what to do WITH the drinking? We’re hoping for a lot of laying around on the beach, but I realize that I will fry to a crispy finish within 5 minutes of setting foot on the island, so we need some options here. Thanks!

The Soon-To-Be-Mrs.

Wellllll, what excellent timing on this question. (Which I did not make up, as all questions DO come from actual live people. I'm not sure why but apparently everybody thinks I make Advice Smackdown questions up. I really don't, unless the signature is "Amalah," which yes, that's just me talking to myself, pay no mind.)

Guess what! We're going BACK to Aruba. In a MONTH. We just booked it and dude, ARUBA.

Never mind that we need to buy baby furniture and baby gadgets and furniture for all the stuff currently cluttering up the baby's room and new flooring for the upstairs because the pets have destroyed the carpet with their wicked excrement and filth and a new mattress because of my aching pregnant back and oh my God, we're going to have to pay for daycare too. Is that expensive or something?

(breathes)

Yep, we're going to Aruba instead of getting all that stuff. The baby can sleep in a dresser drawer or something. We have priorities.

I also have lots of opinions about Aruba, most of them having to do with how fantastic it is. We'll see if those opinions hold, however, after a visit where I cannot drink or do about half of the activities I did last time.

THINGS I DID LAST TIME IN ARUBA THAT I CAN'T DO THIS TIME, WHICH IS SAD:

1) Horseback riding.
2) Party bussing.
3) Swim-up barring.
4) Drinking + Watersports = Awesomeness.
5) Parasailing and other assorted dangerous things.

And drinking. It was really all about the drinking.

We stayed at the Marriott resort last time (this time we'll be a couple doors down at the Radisson), where you should be sure to mention it's your honeymoon on every possible occasion so you get free things, like bottles of champagne delivered to your room. I recommend sticking to the big resorts for your first visit, as EVERY POSSIBLE THING you'd want to do can be arranged from 1) your room, 2) the concierge desk or 3) from just wandering out to the beach and mentioning to someone that hey, you'd like to rent a jetski today, and boom, there will be a jetski waiting for you within 15 minutes and don't worry about it, we'll charge it to your room.

Everything can be charged to your room, from banana daquiris to sunset dinner cruises. 

Definitely try to do a horseback riding tour (don't fall off), one of those half-day sail-and-snorkel cruises with the open bar, the party bus thing (don't forget your stupid camera, like we did), a dinner at El Gaucho's and a dinner right on the beach at sunset (most big hotels offer this).

Anything NOT to do? Well, renting a car ended up being kind of a waste, as driving to the famous Baby Beach was kind of boring and there was no bar and four frillion children. If you do rent a Jeep or something, remember that gas prices are in the Aruban currency (everything else is dollars) so you don't get totally ripped off like...some friends...of ours...did...they said.

The casinos sort of suck, too.

And for the love of crispy fried bacon, get up early to secure a palupa hut or umbrella or whatever your resort offers for shade on the beach. And don't even bother with whatever strength of sunscreen you use in the States. We went down there with SPF 30 and were chicken-fried by day two. Don't let your fiancé say he doesn't burn or just wants a "nice base tan" or will "be fine" with SPF 15. He will die.

The sun down there is vicious, and we pasty Americans are no match for it. Buy the highest damn SPF you can find. Jason and I were unable to stop the scorching carnage until we bought a bottle of SPF fucking 70 and four gallons of aloe vera gel.

Also, pack as many bottles of sunblock as you think you'll need, and then go out and buy about five more.

And have fun! I'll report back in late April with how we liked the Radisson and also what Aruba looks like when you're sober.

Hello, Amalah!

First off, congratulations on the long-awaited pregnancy! Yay you! And Jason! Yays all around!!

I guess I'll just get to the advice question thingy.

This is my question. (That has taken me weeks and weeks to get up the nerve to ask, and is probably stupid anyway, but here goes.) I am a very pale girlie. Very pale. To demonstrate: Remember the Snarkywoods where Nicole Kidman's and Renee Zellweger's milky vampire whiteness was mentioned? Had I been standing next to either of them in those shots, they would have looked like bronzed swimsuit models from the 80's. Really. A dermatologist once called my skin "truly translucent". Anyway, while reading your past posts, I was shocked to discover that nude pantyhose have at some point become gauche, perhaps while I was at the grocery store. I have always donned nude pantyhose when I wear a dress or a skirt, just to, you know, cut down on the glare. A little. But now I can't. Amalah deems them icky, and I bow before her superior knowledge. So...what do I do now? Do I only wear pants, forever? Do I really just go au-naturale and blind the populace? I can't do self-tanners. I have tried. Many times. They don't work. They turn me orange. (A problem I also have with most make-up.) And I don't get brown in the sun or tanning beds. I burn, I turn red, I peel, and that's the end of that. Please help?

Thank you very very much for even reading this far, because I know you have things you would much rather be doing than possibly answering questions about my legs. But maybe it will take your mind off of puking for a minute. Maybe.

Yours Truly,
mrsatroxi

Wait. Did I deem nude pantyhose icky? Are they out? I had no idea.

Did I sound drunk when I said that? Because I totally can't remember. I'm certainly no great fan of nude pantyhose, but I wear them. To work anyway, as I am a Professional Woman and my office has an "Appropriate Hosiery" clause in our company dress code.

(And I totally buy the cheap ones from the grocery store. Yes. I destroy hose like nobody's damn bizness, so until my paycheck starts including an "appropriate hosiery stipend", I refuse to spend more than a few bucks on something that will mostly likely be ruined by my pinky toe within five minutes.)

But while I see nude hose as a necessary evil of Corporate America, I can't get behind the wearing of them in a non-office setting. (I've been known to shed my stockings on my way to lunch, wad them up in my purse, and then put them back on in the lobby restroom.)

So your options are to 1) Embrace your whiteness and just try to avoid the black-hair-red-lipstick-Goth-look that Renee Squintweger is currently sporting, or 2) Buy some fun hosiery instead, like nude fishnets.

On second thought, those options really aren't an either/or scenario. Do both. And take it a step farther and try to avoid anything having to do with that Zellweger chick. She scares me now. With the bones and the visible tendons and cartilage. Natural weight MY BIG FAT ASS.

Dear Queen Of Everything And Boss Of Me,

I just came across your blog and have to tell you, I haven't laughed this hard in YEARS! Your Anna Nicole snark almost made me soil myself in front of several co-workers.

I have a hair dilemma, and feel that only you can help. I have had the same hairstyle since 1989, and there is photographic evidence to prove it. Remember when Lady Diana was introduced to the world as Prince Charles's financeè? and she had that adorable layered haircut?! I, like everyone else in my freshman dorm, ran out & got my growing-out-shag cut into the Princess Di. Here it is, sixteen years later, Princess Di dead & buried, and I STILL WEAR HER HAIR. Oh I've tried to change it a few times .. permed it once (never again). Tried it with no bangs. Nope. Tried growing it long & down my back (nope nope). It actually looks good on me, and my hair's the right texture for the layers, and my hairdresser gives me a flattering cut & highlight. I just haven't changed my look since 1980!! Should I stick with it or try to get on one of those "extreme makeover" shows?? Be honest, Amy. *sigh*

Your new friend and convert,
Jennifer in Podunk, Kentucky, USA

(After receiving Jennifer's question, I asked for said photographic evidence of said hair so I could best assist her hair-related needs. Do see how much I care? And how hard I work?)

(After receiving Jennifer's pictures, I realized that I may be in a bit over my head. So I consulted with several other experts from the blogging universe, each chosen for their impeccable taste, style and pretty hair. And also because I was desperate to pawn this sucker off on somebody else.)

Jennifer, you probably aren't going to be surprised that the unanimous consensus is that yes, you need a new hairstyle. Immediately. STAT. ASAP. Etc.

You are a very pretty woman with delicate features, but you have Mall Hair. 80's Mall Hair with big bangs and too many layers. This must go away.

Now before I get to the comments from our very own Fab Five, please imagine this as the beginning of a makeover reality show when all the stylists say harsh things that might be hard to hear but really, they are only being harsh because they CARE and you know by the end of the show you're totally going to be hugging them and making toasts about how they unlocked your inner self and yada yada yada.

Here's what the Team America Hair Police had to say...

Martha: Her hair is a pretty color, it's just so BIG.  And she's got a pretty face. The bangs and tons of layers that she's got rule out a lot of options unless she wants to embark upon some serious growing-out, though.  Her face is a nice shape -- I think she could really pull off a short-ish haircut.

Dawnie: The bangs need to go.  If she insists on still having them, they should be thinned out, and a bit longer. Like, longer and sweepier? And put the curling iron down, for one thing.  Experiment with the blow-out, everyone's doing it!

Real Girl: Ok, so first of all? That round brush she's using with her hair dryer every morning? The one that curls the bangs and lifts the shortest layers at the top? (And then pulls the hair away from her ears?) Yeah, that brush needs a vacation. In Siberia. The easiest way to de-80's-ify your hair is to let it actually touch your face. Or at least let it reside in the same zip code.

Your Devoted Reader will need a hairstylist who either specializes in or is known for great layers. Because right now her layer-proportions are not super. The ones at the top are too short (and pulled too high), and she's got too much weight at the bottom, and so the overall effect accentuates the length of the face--and usually people with bangs want to de-emphasize the length of the face. About the bangs? You've given great advice about sweeping them to the side. Which will look great when we get a side part in there. As for length, given her face shape, the best idea is to keep the hair no longer than chin-length, using layers rather than that overused round brush to create volume. Did I mention the side part?

As for color, she'd definitely benefit from some softening highlights that would give depth to her brunette--a lighter shade of brown eased in there as naturally as possible.

Granola: The answer to this is not one that perhaps she wants to hear. For it requires a cut. A pretty big cut. A cut which will leave our subject with little residue of the over-layered fiasco going on here. And plenty of smoothing serum (but that comes later). The cut will rid her of the number one mullet-defining characteristic; long in the back. For once she's done, her hair will be a party all over!  I'd also suggest lots of pretty chestnutty highlights to display the short hair as chunky and give it more body and movement.

Miss Doxie: Where does she live?  Is she close enough to the Atlanta area that I can send a team of gay men to kidnap her and make it all better?

Real Girl, Again: She lives in Kentucky? Uh-oh. I overlooked the obvious advice. Get in the car and drive, woman. Drive to the nearest slightly cosmopolitan location near you. If you look left and right and see even one mullet, you have not driven far enough.

So. The consensus is that an over-layered, out-of-date hairstyle can certainly be fixed, but that it will require some patience, a new stylist, a somewhat drastic cut (at first) and a lot less hairspray.  But you can do it! We're all here for you, sipping martinis in our big ass loft while watching you on a plasma TV and cheering you on.

Be sure to send us an updated photo to guarantee your spot on the reunion show, tentatively titled, "After the Smackdown: Bruised But Beautiful."

Okay, that's enough for one day. If your question wasn't answered this week, don't worry, it's in the queue and will be answered in the order I feel like answering it in. Or maybe it's because you didn't actually ask me your question. If that's the case, just email it to advice@amalah.com and tune in next week for my always-perfect advice. Unless you're that damn spammer who keeps posting the tranny porn links. Then my advice is to GO TO HELL, ASSHOLE.

Thumped

Originally, all I could think of to post today was puking. More puking.

Trust me, I'm as sick of hearing about it as you are. Possibly more so.

I left work around 2:45, because honestly, once you've spent over a half hour in the office restroom hunched over the toilet while praying that no one walks in to hear you throw up the orange juice you drank this morning because MY GOD, THAT'S ALL THAT'S LEFT, I'd say the day is pretty much toast, right?

Right. So I left. And while I drove home I tried (in my head) to compose an entry about puking that went above and beyond your usual entry about puking. Bonus points if I was able to refrain from mentioning Ceiba's diarrhea.

But then! When I got to my front door I realized that joy! joy! my rented Doppler had arrived. Instead of an entry about puke and poop I could write about heartbeats and the weirdness of lubing your stomach up with ultrasound gel on your living room sofa! About how all the misery is worth it when you hear that little sound! Brilliant!

But then I couldn't find the heartbeat. All I could find were the sounds of my miserable heaving stomach, assorted whooshing sounds and some static whenever a cop car or ambulance drove past my building.

So I started recomposing my entry. And it wasn't funny. It was all sorts of panic and fear and betrayal that here I've been, consoling myself that while vomiting Spaghettios is certainly a low point, at least it's a sign of a healthy and progressing pregnancy, MEANWHILE, my baby has clearly died at some point and it's all fucking pointless.

Then I decided to try again. I relubed the probe (dirty!), and instead of slowly scanning around my belly button, I mashed the damn thing directly INTO my belly button.

whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh

OH THANK GOD, I thought, and I started thinking about the sappy, sweet post I would write about how every time you hear that little thumping, it's a bloody damn miracle.

But then I made the mistake of popping in the CD-ROM that came with the Doppler and listening to the assorted heartbeat sounds it contained...

...including the sound of a mother's pulse picked up through the device.

OH SHIT.

So now? I'm totally confused. I think I might be picking up my own pulse and not the baby's. The whoosh I'm hearing seems too slow and doesn't seem to match the 10-week-old heart rate on the CD, but I'm not sure. I might not be counting right. (Every time I stare at a second hand on a watch and try to count at the same time? I end up counting the seconds and not whatever it is that I'm actually counting.)

So in summary: haaate.

And if anyone out there is pregnant and considering renting a Doppler unit and would like to make me feel better, rent it from BabyBeat.com and enter referral code 12953. If you keep it for three months or more, I get 10 WHOLE DOLLARS.

I could buy a lot of onesies with 10 whole dollars. Or beers, depending on whether or not I'm even pregnant anymore.

And may you have better luck with the stupid Doppler thing and not end up throwing it across your living room where it leaves a big, sticky lube-stain on your rug.

UPDATE: Y'all rock. I was looking up too high. Stupid printed doppler directions that I follow to the letter. LIKE A SHEEP, I am. Houston, we have a heartbeat, and it makes the heartbeat on the sample CD sound like SHIT. Clearly, this baby is a genius, which is great, because his/her mother? Is freaking retarded.

Cheez Whiz Inc.

Update: Pants stayed up. Pizza stayed down.

Took me long enough to tell you that, didn't it? Damn, I'm so lazy.

Actually, TypePad locked me out of my blog this week because of some boring credit card thing that is so boring I'm not even going to bore you with the boringness.

But I am indeed, so lazy.

Tonight I am sitting at home alone, spooning Pepto Bismol to my poor dog who is still shitting foul black sludge at every possible occasion and watching Monk. Jason is out drinking.

Do you know you can't take Pepto Bismol when you're pregnant? And that you can't go out drinking? All you can do is sit at home and watch Monk. And eat string cheese.

Mmmm. String cheese.

Anyway. I meant to write this whole hilarious entry about our whirlwind weekend in Philadelphia, but it really wasn't very whirlwind at all. It was mostly about napping in expensive hotel rooms, not drinking at rock concerts while your blogging friends pity you, getting handed small bricks of hash on random sidewalks, and eating various kinds of food drenched in cheese.

Like...cheesesteaks! Whee.

Behold, the glory.

A Whiz Wit Onions for Jason. (Whiz Witout for me, because GAH, ONIONS.)

Any cheese on a cheesesteak that is not Cheez Whiz is a crime against nature.

We're just trying to be responsible parents here. The baby needs Cheez Whizzified calcium.

(I am NINE WEEKS pregnant in this photo. Nine. Weeks. SAVE YOURSELVES FROM THE SPAWNMONSTER FETUS.)

SpongeBob PukePants

GAH.

So I owe you a "Weekend, Part Two" entry, a photoessay about cheesesteaks, and an Advice Smackdown. I know this. Y'all pay good money to read this site, and I'm totally letting you down.

Except that you don't pay shit, so technically I don't owe you shit, which means I can freak out about my pants instead.

Today I must speak in front of my entire company as I am recognized and congratulated for not getting fired. Monday marked my three-year anniversary with my company, and today I get to make a speech about it and bask in the glow of my colleagues' forced attendance and polite golf claps.

Usually when one is expected to speak in front of the entire company, one dresses accordingly. Like in a suit with a jacket and neatly pressed pants and you'd probably even comb your hair.

Now, aside from the fact that my suits were the first thing banished to the back of my closet for the duration of this pregnancy, I also completely forgot about today's festivities until I arrived at work. I dressed with the idea that I would be confined to my desk all day and am wearing non-maternity dress pants with a Bella Band.

What's a Bella Band? Why, it's the greatest thing ever. It goes over your unbuttoned/half-zipped pants at the waist and creates the illusion that you're wearing a tank top under your shirt -- a tank top that happens to cover, smooth and hold up your wide-open-too-small-but-dag-gummit-I'm-still-wearing-them pants.

Brilliant, right? Except that I am completely rattled by the realization that I will be addressing my entire company while my PANTS ARE UNDONE.

Also, I didn't get much sleep last night. Or the night before. So I may very well get up there and make a huge ass out of myself, pants issues aside.

Since we got back from Philadelphia, I haven't been able to keep any food down. I started throwing up Sunday night and it continued until...nowish, probably. I stayed home on Monday and spent most of the day on the bathroom floor -- starving, exhausted and headachey because I couldn't even keep a goddamn Tylenol tablet down.

And then Ceiba decided to upstage my misery and has had projectile diarrhea for the last 24 hours, complete with farts so loud they woke us up in the middle of the night.

Guess which Storch Girl Jason stayed up with all night to comfort and pet and research home remedies for.

Hint: NOT THIS ONE.

On the bright side, there will be free pizza after today's Great Open-Pants Speech, which DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, PLEASE ALLOW ME TO EAT A SLICE OF PIZZA WITHOUT HURLING.

ALSO PLEASE KEEP MY PANTS ON. AMEN.