Not Entirely Changing the Subject

In summary: I am still mad.

I want to thank everyone for their comments...about 30 seconds after posting yesterday I did a full-on forehead slap and went, "Jesus God, girl, what have you DONE? The assvice, it will destroy you!"

But instead of dozens of I've-missed-the-point-entirely-and-want-to-lecture-you-about-mercury-levels-in-tuna-fish comments, I got dozens of thoughtful, supportive and unbelievably articulate comments. Would y'all talk to my doctor for me? Because you are like, SMART and shit.

(One note of anal-retentive clarification: I am not getting an ultrasound at a mall. No one ever said anything about a mall. I'm talking about a 4D "limited medical ultrasound" that uses the same equipment a doctor uses for a Level II scan at a very nice, reputable facility that in no way compares to some 25-cent blood pressure assessment at the mall right next to the Orange Julius.)

But your comments have inspired me not to do that right now. We're sticking with our original plan: extra-bonus 4D scan at around 30 weeks for our own entertainment, full medical ultrasound by 22 weeks.

My doctor just doesn't know that second part yet.

I really think my baby is just fine. While this whole situation has raised my (already admittedly high) anxiety level to an intrusive point, the anxiety stems from my somewhat-wretched ability to stand the fuck up for myself and a tendency to shy away from confrontation.

However, I'm also het up on the principle of the whole thing. And that principle is called: This is what I want, and you're not giving me a single valid reason why I shouldn't get exactly what I want, and in fact, you're not making any sense at all.

An additional EIGHT WEEKS seems like an awfully long time to postpone a diagnostic ultrasound simply because you're concerned about "picture quality."

This brings up the nagging fear that Rachel hit the nail on the head with her comment: "it sounds to me like having all of his patients wait until 26 weeks is an awfully convenient way of making sure everyone carries to term, regardless of what may be right for the mother/child."

Ohhhh. BAD DOCTOR. Do not even GET ME STARTED.

Look, Jason and I want this baby. This baby is the most wanted baby in the history of want. I love this baby with every fiber of my being and I loved it from the instant I saw those two pink lines. (Well, probably from the instant I saw those two pink lines on say, test stick number four, only because I thought the first three were fucking with me.)

So you give me some bullshit reason about delaying a routine procedure because you're afraid I might make some flip decision about my child's life if you let me have it sooner?

Dude, that gets me so mad I can't fucking SEE STRAIGHT. And it makes me say the word "dude."

Now, I could be seeing a sinister hidden agenda where there is none. I just won't know until I speak with him directly, most likely on Monday, and I can get a better grasp on his whole (whacked-out) (stupid-ass) approach to ultrasounds. We'll see how that goes. And then we'll either put this whole business behind us, or my next request for comments will be for the names of obstetricians in the Washington, DC area.

Either way, I'm getting the damn ultrasound referral from him. Oh, but yes.

Would you mess with this girl? No, I didn't think so.

Hate.

(Jason has all our Aruba photos on his laptop at work. I have requested a zip file or something several times and have not yet received them, and he's gone all idle on IM and something more important has come up and I can't do an Advice Smackdown because actually, I need some advice and also I need to calm down and BREATHE.)

I had a routine prenatal appointment this morning. I'm smack dab in the middle of week 18 or so, and I was expecting to get a referral slip or something for the big 20 week, midway-point ultrasound. (My insurance doesn't like paying for ultrasounds at the doctor's actual office, and will only refrain from giving me shit if I go to an outpatient imaging center instead.)

He didn't bring it up, so I mentioned it, all casual-like. "Soooooo, how 'bout them ultrasounds? Should be fixin' to git one of them soon, right?"

(My plan was actually to get the referral for a 20-week ultrasound, then speed-dial the imaging center from the parking lot and make an appointment for as soon as possible, because fuck that noise, plenty of people get them at 18 weeks.)

To my shock and horror and then more shock, my doctor told he wants to wait until 26 weeks.

Let me repeat that. TWENTY. SIX. WEEKS. That's two months from now. That's JUNE. That's a mere 13 weeks before my due date.

I pressed him as to why in sam hill I needed to wait so long when the Internet has CLEARLY done tole me that ultrasounds are typically done between 18 and 22 weeks, and he went on and on about picture quality and how six months is the ideal time and then he teased me a little about being over-anxious to find out the baby's sex.

And I, stupidly, agreed and pulled a pout and said I was dying to know and waaah, I didn't want to wait. Har har, silly pregnant lady, just be patient!

Oh, and then he complimented my shoes, which totally distracted me.

In the car on the way to work, my brain suddenly caught up with the conversation. HEY, WAIT A MINUTE THERE.

There are other reasons to get an ultrasound besides trying to catch a glimpse of your baby's privates. There's like, measurements? Head size? Making sure there's no vital organs growing where they shouldn't, like outside the body or something?

If, God forbid, something is wrong, a 26-week ultrasound doesn't give you a hell of a lot of time to prepare or cope or learn about the ailments your child is facing. Or, God further forbid, if something is really, REALLY wrong, and your child is doomed to a short, painful life or imminent death, a 26-week ultrasound means it's too late to make that heartbreaking, yet ultimately compassionate, choice.

(Yes, I am very upset that I am thinking in such morbid, absolute-worst-case--scenario terms, but there you have it. If my doctor had just given me the damn referral, I wouldn't be all crazy like this.)

And COME ON. The images are JUST FINE at 20 weeks, don't give me that bullshit.

In short, waiting until 26 weeks seems absolutely ridiculous to me on every level imaginable.

So. Options?

1) Call the office back and be a bitch about it. Cry. Quote the internet and talk about all the other pregnant women I know who got ultrasounds at 20 weeks and how I would also jump off a bridge if they did too. Drawbacks: Am terrible on the phone and get flustered and easily cowed.

2) Pay out-of-pocket for an ultrasound at one of those yuppie 4D imaging places, like we were planning to do in July anyway for our back-up gender check and to get the cool video and wallet-sized photos. (I already checked for regular ultrasound places around here that will take you without a doctor's referral. Negative.) Drawbacks: Cost lots of money. Non-medical ultrasound. Will satisfy the peek at the private parts part of the problem but not the oh-my-God-you're-carrying-the-elephant-man part.

3) Wait until my next prenatal appointment in four weeks and present my case again, in person, this time without letting him make it all about the gender question. Drawbacks: Four weeks? FOUR WEEKS?

4) Get someone who is good and pushy on the phone to pretend to be me argue with the office instead. Drawbacks: Lame. And possibly illegal.

5) Suck it up and wait another eight weeks for ultrasound. Drawbacks: Infinite.

Help me, oh good people of the Internet. What would you do? Why is my doctor insane? When did he become insane? Or is it just me?

******************************************************************

UPDATE: Well, after it became clear that no one on the Internet was going to say, "Hey! I'm a freelance ultrasound technician! I'll wheel a machine to your house tonight!", I picked up the damn phone and called the office.

And great news! My doctor has left for the day! And for tomorrow! And Friday! 

I did speak to the nurse, who is Nice, and who I like, but seeing as she really couldn't write a referral herself or openly go against the doctor's orders, it was mostly an unsatisfying conversation.

Basically: For the gender question, they wait until 26 weeks, period, and frankly, don't care that plenty of other people find out at 20 weeks just fine, la la la, they can't hear you.

For the elephant-man-baby question, she reminded me that I had blood drawn for the triple screen this morning, which will tell us a lot more than an ultrasound could at this point anyway. If any part of that comes back looking suspicious, they'll immediately send me for a 4D scan.

The doctor will call me on Monday with the results, and she's made a note of my ultrasound concerns. (The note probably reads: HYSTERICAL HARPY. CHART PERMANENTLY MARKED AS "DIFFICULT." HOPE KID DEVELOPS COLIC.) If I still "really want" an earlier ultrasound, she's sure the doctor will let me go "a little earlier", but in the meantime, please "relax", your baby is "just fine".

So I am much more relaxed now. Although now? I'm totally just back to the pouting and whining of BUT I WANT TO KNOW THE SEX SO I CAN BUY THINGS.

(A five-minute "gender determination" session at the walk-in 4D place costs $89. Ha! I spend more than that in five minutes at Sephora.)

Pussy (Cat)

We got back from Aruba on Saturday night. It's been a blur ever since. I still have not uploaded any photos, nor can I find my good hairbrush.

I slept for many, many hours Saturday night, Sunday morning and straight on into Sunday afternoon, when it was time to pick up the pets from the Yuppie Pet Palace Hotel That Ended Up Costing As Much As Our Plane Tickets, Even Though We Supplied All Our Own Damn Food.

Ceiba was...confused, as usual, like she sort of remembered who we were and that occasionally we fed her turkey bacon and oh! look! floor lint!

She's a bit constipated and is having periodic yet dainty sneezing fits, but otherwise is doing just fine.

Max surprised us by not being a royal bitch about everything. He's never been boarded before...usually our neighbors would just come over and feed him but they moved away and our new neighbor is absolutely terrified of Ceiba so I'm not even going to introduce her to our 15-pound Gigundocat. Anyway, every time we come home from vacation he gets a prissy funk about it and ignores us for days.

I don't think Max enjoyed the Yuppie Pet Palace Experience, despite residing in a luxury four-level kitty condo with fresh lambswool bedding (changed daily) and the fact that I provided food from home AND suffered the embarrassment of presenting "Puppy" to the kennel staff, which they all totally laughed at, because Puppy is, without a doubt, the most pathetic-looking stuffed toy you have ever seen in your life.

(Puppy once resembled a knock-off of the Taco Bell chihuahua, back when he had eyes and a nose and the ever-loving shit hadn't been kicked out of him on a daily basis. He has also been re-stuffed and re-sewn about a dozen times, and each time I ended up using whatever extra thread had come with my most-recent clothing purchase, which means Puppy has several oddly-colored seams that resemble gangrenous wounds.)

Max was very, very glad to see us. Max was glad to see CEIBA, and even curled up with her on my newly-diminished lap during the car ride home. But every once in awhile he'd stand up on his hind legs, put his front paws on my chest and stare frantically into my face, like, "IS IT REALLY YOU? CAN IT BE TRUE? OH, DAY OF GLORIOUS JOY!"

And he's been all cuddly and loving and clingy ever since. I'm thinking we need to dump his ass in the kennel more often. Perhaps we can board the baby at Yuppie Pet Palace Hotel too, since I'm still no closer to finding a damn daycare center than I was a few weeks ago.

Hell, they give them fresh lambswool bedding every day, how bad could it be?

Back, Jack, Ack

I'm back. Sort of. At work now, is crazy, am tired, outgrew another round of clothing midway through vacation. Look pregnant enough for fellow plane passengers to eye me suspiciously on ride home, as if I was about to give birth in the bathroom line to a screaming child who would kick their seat for the remainder of the flight, just like that three-year-old up in the third row with the weird hippie parents who never even once SHUSHED her or TRIED to stop the whining and screaming and whom I totally would have left behind in the airport's lost-and-found if she were mine.

What? Oh right. Real update and photos coming soon, just as soon as I come to grips with the reality of no longer being in Aruba.

Reason #4671251 Why I Need This Vacation

This entry is dedicated to Cathy at the Subaru Roadside Assistance call center.

Yeah, so I had a tire blowout on the way home from work yesterday.

Boom!

I was hoping by waiting a day or so to write about it I'd find a way to make it funny.

It's still not funny.

After it took my very slow brain to comprehend what had happened (What's up with the highway surface all of a sudden? Is that noise coming from MY car? That noise is not coming from my car. Oh wait, yes it is.), I pulled over to the center breakdown lane and timidly crept around to the right side of the car, praying that no insane driver (you know, like me) would clip my protruding belly and kill me while I inspected the tire.

Which was in shreds! Pop!

As I was trying to call Jason, a cop pulled up on the other side of the median and stared at me, like, WELL?  I calmly explained that I'd had a blowout and was trying to call my husband, and was also fairly sure I had some kind of roadside assistance card thing somewhere.

Cop: (looking fairly and clearly disgusted that actually changing the tire my damn self was not on my list of options) Okay, let me know if you can't reach anyone.

And then he drove off, leaving me to wonder, How the hell am I supposed to let him know that? By sending up flares? Smoke signals?

Now, at this point in the story I wish I could tell you that I do indeed know how to change a flat tire, and that I was dependent on help merely because I didn't think jacking up a car is an appropriate activity for a pregnant woman, particularly while crouched in a narrow breakdown lane with cars whizzing behind her in the far left lane that all probably deserve $150 speeding tickets.

But the sad, sad fact is that I do not know how to change a tire. I've had it demonstrated to me many times but lo, I do not know. Am girl. (To be fair, all demonstrations occurred on the quiet safety of a residential street while replacing a tire with a damn "slow leak" or something, not quite the same high-pressure whizzing-car situation I was in yesterday.)

And dudes, I'm PREGNANT.

I couldn't get a hold of Jason (but left a slightly frantic and crying-ish message on his voicemail that he would later MAKE ME LISTEN TO, the heartless bastard), but I did find my glorious Subaru Roadside Assistance card, which is how Cathy came into my life.

Blah blah blah Cathy very calming and helpful and DEEPLY concerned about poor small pregnant woman stranded on highway and not judgemental AT ALL as I tried to explain that I was indeed small and pregnant and didn't feel safe changing the tire from this spot on the highway and actually, Cathy, I can't lie to you, I don't even know how anyway.

Blah. Help would be there within an hour.

Blink. An hour? During which I just...sit here?

And so I sat. And I tried very, very hard not to think about my small, pregnant bladder. Or about the creepy pregnancy fetishist who emailed me the other day. Or about murderers or kidnappers in general.

I counted eight (8) cop cars and three (3) tow trucks that passed me by, and noticed an SUV pulled over in the breakdown lane about a quarter-mile ahead of me. I wondered if Sullen Cop would ever come back to check on me, or if my calmness meant he had alerted all over cops that I was fine, move along.

Like, what if each stranded motorist get ONE SHOT with a cop and unless you're really hysterical or cellphone-less or in the middle of giving birth your car gets marked as "Had her shot. Lame story."? What if that's the system?

(Did I mention that I was doing ANYTHING to keep my mind off my bladder?)

I finally got a hold of Jason by calling one of his other assorted work-only cellphones.

(By the way, this story would have been WAY more suspensful if, you know, my cellphone battery was about to die, which it totally was when I first called for help.)

(But then I found my car charger. So yawn.)

Jason: Hey! What's up?

Amy: OH NOTHING. JUST STRANDED ON 270 SOUTH WITH A BLOWN TIRE. HOW ARE YOU?

Jason: Are you kidding?

Amy: OH YES. BIG JOKE. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Despite what I bitch I was being, and the fact that help was on its way, Jason still decided to come out and get me.

Amy's Phone: RING RING!

Amy: Hello? Tow truck man?

Amy's Phone: Hello! This is the. Subaru! Roadside Assistance Automated. System! Your service. Is estimated to arrive in Four. Tea. Five. Minutes!

Amy's Brain: You know, I really like when the UPS guys start wearing shorts again.

Cop car #9 drove by and immediately turned on his lights, which, yay! Company! But he was there to protect and serve the SUV ahead of me, whose driver, I assume, had the good mind to appear hysterical during their one shot with the cop, as the cop stayed with them until tow truck #4 arrived.

Amy's Brain: So not fair! I could not be okay for all they know! I could be having contractions! Or kidnapped by pregnancy fetishists!

Finally, in a burst of excitement, Jason showed up right at the same time that I realized that the SUV's tow-truck driver was walking towards me, jack in hand, multi-tasking.

And that's basically, you know, the end. Jason handed me the keys to the other car so I could go home and pee while he waited for the tire to be changed. (He can change a tire, by the way, and could also probably do it while pregnant.)

Tomorrow we leave for Aruba. At 4 fucking a.m. I am not packed, I have not even begun to pack.

Except for this, of course.

The little preciousnesses are going to a super-nice pet "resort," yet because of their delicate little constitutionesses, I'm sending them each with individually-labeled meals for their entire stay. (Ceiba's meals are fortified with the extra power of Metamucil, which we hope will prevent another week of the infamous Puppy Projectile Diarrhea upon our return.)

Behave yo'selves while I'm gone. I'm leaving a babysitter in charge of comments and I promise to bring you all back something pretty. And that something will probably be me, and many pictures for you to be jealous of.

And for the love of God, keep your tires properly inflated.

Thurwednesday Advice Smackdown

(There will not be a Smackdown next week, due to the fact that the Smackdowner will. Be. In. ARUBA. I hope y'all will be okay without me, and will not go bolting towards the nearest Hair Cuttery and Maybelline display as soon as I leave.)

Dear Amalah,

I do not, for the life of me, understand Gwen Stefani's new song. What's  a Hollaback Girl? What track? What's not gonna just happen like that? Bananas? The hell?

Amalah

I have no idea. And to think, I was still pleased with myself for knowing what that milkshake song was talking about. So, so old.

Dear Amalah,

First off, I hope your energy improves. Though I should mention during my first pregnancy I think I was awake two of the nine months. I kept a journal and went back to read it a year or two ago and holy cow. I slept a LOT. Sending second-trimester energy boost vibes your way.

Secondly, I have hair issues. My hair is, for the most part, in the same exact style I've worn since at least high school, if not since infancy. I am attaching a photo which you must not share upon penalty of my extreme humiliation so you can see the extent of my problem. My chief complaint is the bangs. I've had bangs since the age of five and if you don't count that period in the late eighties/early nineties where it was fashionable (in what universe??) to have "half" bangs with the top hairsprayed into reaching dizzying heights. And I don't. I need to know what to do here. I have an enormous forehead, which if you can believe it, is actually paler and whiter than the rest of my body and could unintentionally blind people on the street. Should I nix the bangs once and for all? I know you've spoken about bangs growing out before, but I'm still not entirely clear on the best way to do this and retain a small amount of style. I like to keep my hair on the longish side, so I can put it back in a ponytail (which is how I most frequently wear my hair), but would like to remove some of the weight of it and add some interest. It's awfully thick and has a little bit of natural curl.

Thank you SO much. Your advice is always spot on. I'm just hoping you can help a helpless case like me.

CallistaWolf

Sigh. I would like to know exactly who these hairdressers are that keep cutting bangs like that. ("That" being the "thick, blunt, curled-under mall bangs.") Bangs have evolved, people! These are not your big sister's best-friend-who-took-a-night-class-at-hair-school's bangs!

Okay, advice for Callista (who, by the way, has the most gorgeous red hair ever that I sort of hate her for and I will personally hurt if she ever colors it). I think you should keep your bangs. No, really! Just not, like, THOSE bangs. I think you need to throw your curling iron out the window. And then run over it with your car.

I agree that bangs fit your facial shape, but right now those bangs are waaay too thick to be flattering. And too long. And too curled-under. (Have I mentioned the curling-under part already? Can I mention it again?)

You need to let a few parts grow out -- about a quarter-inch from each side (your bangs are wider than your face, which is Bad), and about a quarter-inch from the top (your bangs are not a fringe, they are a brick wall).

Tell your hairdresser (a new one, preferably, because some sins cannot be forgiven) that you want to "thin your bangs out." They'll know what to do and can transform that wall of hair into something more wispy and side-sweeping and textural. Remember: blunt, straight-down-to-the-eyebrows bangs rarely look good on people who are not Debbie Harry. And they look ESPECIALLY BAD on people with thick, wavy hair. (I did straight, blunt bangs for awhile last year and did not love them, not one bit, and my hair is about as thick as peach fuzz and as wavy as uncooked spaghetti. So trust me, it's a tough look to pull off.)

And of course, yes, you'll need to change the rest of your hair to accomodate the growing-out process. Some subtle layers that don't actually look like layers will work. Again, a GOOD HAIRDRESSER can fix everything just by hearing that you want to "get rid of some weight" in the longer parts of your hair.

I cannot stress the need for a good hairdresser, people. Walk-in salons are not your friends. Junior stylists who give half-priced haircuts on Sundays are not your friends. And mall salons cut mall hair. Yes, there are exceptions, but I've seen Callista's photo, people, and I cannot let her take that chance in good conscience.

Dear Amalah,

I am about to finish my master's degree. My husband got a new job and is moving. Therefore, I am moving and intend to go back into teaching. Overall, I look much younger than my (nearly) 28 years. However, I have dark undereye circles that are of the devil. (I'll try to get a good picture to show you just what we're working with here) These circles are so large and so dark they literally scream spousal abuse. I used to use an undereye circle lightening product from Mary Kay (I know...but it worked so well!) until they discontinued it. I have some left, but it's getting old and not as effective as it once was. Today I noticed that my concealer and foundation were actually creasing in the under eye area making me look like an abused 16 year old with wrinkles. It is bad. This is not the image one wants to project when applying for a new teaching position. They don't like to hire teachers in the inner city who are victims of abuse.

I have no problem spending money on this (the previous product was $30 for a very small tube). I've been told I should consider Benefit's Lemon-Aid for the eyelids (which are slightly dark) and Lyin' Eyes to cover the circles. Except my circles look much worse than the before picture on the website, leading me to believe that these are products designed for those women who just needed a few less drinks or a few more hours of sleep last night. So, dearest, I need help. I need a product to help lighten them and I need a concealer that will cover it up. And for the tough part? I don't like to wear thick makeup. I like looking fresh and dewey...natural, without actually being "natural."

Miss W

(Prepare yourselves, this maybe the most un-Amalah-sounding answer in the history of the Smackdown.)

First of all, dude, I used that Mary Kay eye stuff too. It was straight from heaven and I still have a tiny, tiny bit left for emergencies. I keep it in the fridge, next to the butter and these packets of yeast I bought four years ago when I totally planned to bake fresh bread for some reason.

Anyway. Keeping your eye masks and creams and such in the refrigerator extends their life and gives them an added cooling benefit. And it gives you an excuse to get a snack everytime you apply them.

I was at Sephora this weekend, where I bought not one blessed thing, but oddly enough, the two products you mentioned came highly recommended by the salesgirl when presented with the hypothetical eyebag problem. So I'd say you should give them a try.

BUT. I have two value-added solutions for you, neither of which involve makeup. The first one is Clean & Clear Under Eye Brightening Stick, which, I KNOW, cheap-ass drugstore crap. But I love this stick. It's no miracle-in-a-tube, or anything, but it's decent. And it's $6.49. And it just might give you the added brightness to make the Benefit and Lyin' Eyes products work better for you. And it's $6.49.

The second solution is old school, more than a little gross, and hotly disputed. And that's Preparation H. While many people claim that the ol' Preparation-H-for-the-under-eyes trick is just an urban legend created to embarass beauty queens and models, just as many people swear that no, it really does work.

Basically, I think it comes down to this: just how fucking desperate are you?

I'll admit it. I've been just that desperate. After long nights of boozing, salty bar food and no sleep, I've put the ass cream on my face.

Specifically, I've put the Preparation H Cooling Gel on my face. It's not as greasy as the original formula and barely smells at all. Put it on, let it dry, dab on your concealer and call me crazy, I think it works just fine.

And yes, I keep the tube in my fridge, hidden in the vegetable crisper.

Dear Amalah,

I am also a terribly white girl. I will be moving to SPAIN, SPAIN, YAY SPAIN!!! this summer and need a recommendation for sunscreen. Anything over SPF 30 usually gives me a stingy, red, bumpy rash (I know, yum) and I hate sunscreen that feels all gloopy and thick and strangles the skin (in other words, feels like sunscreen). Any ideas? I'm up for paying good money for this, as I will need to wear it everyday.

Thanks a frillion! I would trust only you, the lovely queen, with this humble request.

AmyKatrina

CLARINS.

CLARINSCLARINSCLARINSCLARINS.

I heart Clarins.

(Any questions?)

Hi Queen Amalah!

I am a fan of yours, cos I think you're very pretty and funny. A winning combination, and then add to that your selection of bags and shoes... well. Amazing.

Right well I am a reader in London, so you and your world seems very far away from me and mine, but I love reading your blog because it makes me laugh and I like you. A lot of the reason I'm writing to you is because I have started to feel a bit strange that I have read your whole website (I don't do much work) and therefore feel a bit like I know you, but I have never actually introduced myself. So, er, hi, yeah, great website. My name's Léonie. Feeling a bit coy now.

Also you and Dooce and Martha and Miss Doxie, all of whom I read lots as well have inspired me to start my own blog! So I've written some entries (http://leoniekate.diaryland.com) but now I am scared Amalah! That it isn't funny, that I can't work computers well enough to make it pretty and soft and warm like yours. Also I don't have a digital camera and I want pictures to show. I am worrying, Amalah. Concerned. Please give me advice. Or maybe a camera.

Thank you oh Queen of All that is Nice.

Love,

Léonie 

Dude, you live in LONDON. And you talk like you live in London. That automatically makes your blog Cool and Quirky and people who read it are going to be all, "Cheerio! She's so cute! And clearly so superior to us Americans, who go to the Hair Cuttery and eat breakfast burritos from 7-Eleven while she's shopping at Harrod's and having a spot of tea."

And you totally don't have to actually shop at Harrod's or have spots of tea, but we'll assume you do, because all we know about England is what we learned from that Pride & Prejudice miniseries and from the Confessions of a Shopaholic books.

IN OTHER WORDS, I'll stop rambling, because I haven't eaten lunch yet and my blood sugar is dropping and I'm making no sense. Your blog is JUST FINE. Your blog is you, right? Don't write to entertain an Internet-rock-star-sized audience, or even a small-modest-blogger-sized audience. Write to entertain YOURSELF. Tell stories, rant, bitch, and endlessly amuse yourself. Don't be fake, and don't be afraid to look or sound stupid sometimes.

If you want readers, get out there on other blogs and start commenting and start linking and pretty soon you'll get linked somewhere and people will come and it'll be just like Field Of Dreams: The Internet Version, Without All The Daddy Issues.

And yes, a digital camera is a great tool for any blogger. You can post pictures instead of saying anything intelligent! Buy a cheap one or get someone to buy you one for your birthday. That's the English spirit!*

*I have no idea what the English spirit is, or if it even exists. I am also not usually this into stereotypes either.**

**Oh, but I am.

That's all I have time for today, chickies. Apologies if your question didn't get answered this go-round. I could be still pondering its complexities or waiting for the person on whom I ultimately dumped it to write me back with their answer. I cheat like that sometimes. Got another question? Or would just like the benefit of some free linkage? Write to advice@amalah.com and tune in week after next.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Good lawd, what a day.

Super-extra-mega apologies, but the Wednesday Advice Smackdown has been pre-empted until tomorrow because work is crazy and it's a friend's birthday and we have plans after work and then at some point I need to watch Lost and then I will need to go to bed. Don't send me hate mail.

Actually, none of you would send me hate mail, because you love me, apparently, and will kick the ass of any troll who dares dump a guilt-trip worthy of my mother on me.

For the record, the crazy speeding ticket email actually made me laugh, what with the specious logic that I was clearly someone who was also going to strap my newborn into a recalled car seat in the front passenger seat while putting on mascara in rush hour traffic. Yep, speeding is the gateway moving violation, kiddos.

(Type A added: you forgot that babalah is also holding your cigarette and drinking coffee all the while.)

Anyway, in summary: I love you all more than my brand-new Coach sunglasses. And that is more love than the human heart can ever fully understand.

But I'm still not doing an advice column today.

(OH! WAIT! I forgot! Britney is pregnant, y'all, along with me and Punky Brewster. And I'm obsessed with finding out her due date because I SWEAR TO GOD, she better not give birth on the same day as me, is all I'm saying.)

(Yes, the new greatest fear in my life, replacing all other anxieties about impending motherhood, is that my child will share a birthday with the Federfetus. THAT IS NO WAY TO START OUT IN LIFE.)

In Which I Go Through An Awful Runaround About Posting Belly Pictures

I get a lot of email every day. No, more than that. I get an insane amount of email every day. I read them all, respond to almost none, everybody wins. Except for the people who write expecting responses and then get nothing from me, the snobby whore who is really just kind of scatterbrained.

And most of the emails I receive are lovely -- people write to say I'm funny and entertaining and we have such-and-such in common or could I please help them transfer many millions of dollars out of Nigeria?

Every once in awhile I get a non-lovely email -- usually from full-on asshats with poor reading comprehension -- and that's fine. It comes with the territory. And since I'm mostly non-controversial around here (someone once described this site as "bunnies and rainbows with a dash of the f-word"), I don't get the rampant trollism that others seem to suffer from.

Yesterday, however, was a banner day.

First, I got an email chastising me about my speeding ticket. Speeding while pregnant? What if I'd been in an accident? Did I not know what airbags could do to a fetus?

The email went from annoyingly assvice-y to disturbingly creepy in just one sentence: Your lucky i wasnt the cop who pulled you over becuase if you stuck your stomach out at me i would have put you in jail insted of reducing your stupid fine.

My response, which I totally would have sent if I ever responded to emails, would have been something like this: Who the hell said anything about speeding? I was actually pulled over for driving in the carpool lane with an inflatable sex doll in the passenger seat. And the doll was not wearing her seat belt.

Then I got another one.

Hi. I know you don't know me but I've been following your "story" for awhile now and know that you are friends with Zoot. I was completely shocked to see you posting stuff about your belly and feeling the baby move on the SAME DAY zoot is going throgh HELL right now. Is that what you consider being "good friend"? Because i sure as hell don't. It's great that your pregancy is going peachy keen right now but you seem awfuly quick to forget that others are not so fortunate.

There's no snappy comeback to that one. Just me frantically spinning the wheels of defensiveness and futility.

I didn't know about Zoot's crisis at the time I posted yesterday. I didn't check my blogroll until sometime in the late afternoon. And then my car broke down and my dog ate the more-sensitive post that I planned to write and then aliens came and then...

Fuck it. I'm an ass. I didn't know.

I don't know how many readers who found me via Julie's Incredible Index to Infertility on the Internet are still reading at this point...a lot of infertile women tend to turn away from pregnancy journals once the roller coaster of the first trimester is over and the reality of holy shit, she just might have a baby at the end of this sets in. It's a protective instinct, and I understand it completely.

Since this was never an "infertility journal", I've never felt guilty about immediately launching into an all-pregnancy, all-the-damn-time format until...well, now. Have awful have I been? Am I a Smug Pregnant? Is it okay to be happy? Should I only write about how terrified I still am? Should I change the subject completely?

And most importantly, where in the living hell am I going with all of this? Well, this has all been an elaborate and rambling precursor to the one pregnancy blog feature that has been almost unviversally panned as self-absorbed, gratuituous and completely insensitive: The Belly Photos.

Most of my readers seem to want (nay, DEMAND) belly photos, yet I always feel really guilty about posting them. And basically, this whole entry could have been that one sentence, and should have been, had I any actual talent.

So. Ta-da?

Five Weeks:

Sixteen Weeks:

(NOTE: This picture fails to adequately portray the new football shape of the belly. [For Kalisah: A HORIZONTAL football.] It's all beachballish out front, but is making great strides out towards the hip area. Although why am I even discussing this in detail as I firmly believe that all old wives' tales about gender predictions are bullshit, as my mother was told by every random person in the world that she was carrying a boy when hello, I am not a boy.)

(NOTE NOTE: Christ, I certainly got over my crippling guilt easily enough there, didn't I? Shut up, self.)

More Random Crap Masquerading As An Entry!

Scene, Last Night, Out at Dinner:

Amy: You have to take a picture of my belly tonight. Don't let me forget to make you take one.

Jason: Okay.

Amy: Because I have NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT and at least if I throw a belly pic at people they will shut up and not be mad at me for not updating.

Jason: Okay.

Aaaannnnd...we forgot to take a belly pic. Which is a shame, because the belly is looking pretty cool these days. Waaaay bigger than it should be at 16 weeks, but I'd totally be lying if I said I minded. I mean, I sort of mind the duck-waddle I've adopted, but it's simply goddamn fun to actually look convincingly pregnant. Your friends gasp and want to wait on you hand and foot! Your husband wants to pet the belly! Strangers smile at you everywhere! Cops reduce your speeding tickets!

Yeah, I got to test that last one out this morning when I got pulled over on the way to work. $150 fine bumped down to $75, baby, and I SO TOTALLY deserved that $150 fine. I will not lie. But I will push my belly out at opportune moments.

(By the way, all the your-belly-looks-like-a-basketball-you're-so-having-a-boy people? The belly now resembles a football. And it is changing shape JUST TO FUCK WITH YOUR MINDS. Ha! I love my belly.)

*****************************************************************

To: Amalah
From: Pregnancy Newsletter #238947356439527594

"Most" women feel fetal movement (quickening) at 18 weeks if it is their first baby. Some multiparas (those who have already carried a child to term) feel movement earlier, simply because they know what it feels like. The normal range is 16 to 20 weeks.

Amy: Heh. Not me. Wake me up in another month, Babalah.

Scene, Saturday Night, Lying In Bed:

Amy: What the hell was that?

As unbelievable as it sounds, I'm vaguely feeling the baby move already. Only at night, and only when I'm lying on my side and being very, very quiet. Then suddenly: tap tap tap tap tap. It's the slightest, ticklingest sort of feeling that vanishes just a few seconds after my brain registers that hey, I don't think that's gas.

*****************************************************************

And in the only non-pregnancy news I have to report, I am pleased to announce that I am a genius who was awarded a prestigious $5 gift certificate to Krispy Kreme by my company during Corporate Rah-Rah Lovefest Day on Friday.

How did I achieve such lofty heights of recognition? By correctly identifying Portia's "measure of mercy" speech as coming from The Merchant of Venice during the trivia contest.

(Yes, there is always a trivia contest during Corporate Rah-Rah Lovefest Day. I don't know either, but the prizes are always food-related and since the Lovefest starts at noon and the free pizza and salad is withheld until the end, we are all VERY DETERMINED to win those food-related prizes.)

Anyway. I gave a shout-out to my English professor father as I accepted my prize, and was then beaten by MERE MILLISECONDS in naming the "friends, Romans, countrymen" from Julius Caesar, and then embarrassed my English professor father by getting Twelth Night mixed up with Much Ado About Nothing.

I bring shame on my household! And $5 worth of donuts.

Now, after the Lovefest was over and we were all lining up for our free pizza, I was teased just a bit about being such a colossal brainiac dork who's all Shakespearean and shit. (Yes, my office could double for your average middle school cafeteria sometimes.) And I felt the need to point out that in my more than three years with this company, I have only answered ONE other trivia question correctly. And it was about The Simpsons. The prize was two $5 Ben & Jerry's coupons that, I believe, are still tacked up on my fridge.

So there you have it. From Shakespeare to The Simpsons, I know absolutely nothing in between.

(Update! From searching my archives for Corporate Rah-Rah Lovefest Day entries, I have discovered ANOTHER trivia win from my past. In the interest of full disclosure, I also correctly identified Adam's Sandler's animated Hannukah movie and won a $5 Panera gift card. I bought soup and a brownie. My apologies to all who were misled by my previous statements regarding my catalog of useless knowledge.)

But What About the Placenta?

(The Wednesday Advice Smackdown seems to have settled into an every-other-week sort of schedule. I don't know why. I'm only the writing instrument through which the Smackdown flows. I don't ask questions. The Smackdown is firmly in charge and sometimes makes me feel not so safe in my own home but oh my God, please don't tell the Smackdown I said that.)

Did everybody see Lost last night? Holy living crap on toast.

Although I must say, the show DID help me make up my mind about one particular question that I've been pondering for awhile.

I have definitely decided not to give birth on a deserted island. I may not have my full birth plan mapped out yet, I may have only realized today that daycare waiting lists are seventeen months long, but I'm pretty sure I've ruled the whole birth-in-a-jungle option out.

Especially if the island's doctor is going to be too busy contemplating leg amputations and stuff so the baby gets delivered by a really whiny bank robber who cries a lot. And also, why didn't Jack tell her about the placenta? Kate probably didn't know about the placenta.

(Now you know what it's like to watch TV births with a pregnant woman who will literally ask about the placenta five times.)

Jason: I'M SURE THEY KNOW ABOUT THE PLACENTA AND IT WILL BE DELIVERED SAFELY OFFSCREEN.

Amy: BUT JACK DIDN'T TELL THEM ABOUT THE PLACENTA. ALSO, THEY NEED SCISSORS. IS CLAIRE GOING TO BREAST-FEED? WHAT IF SHE NEEDS STITCHES? THAT BABY IS EIGHT WEEKS OLD. DID KATE WASH HER HANDS?

(By the way, in case y'all missed my husband's rocktastic radio debut on Wednesday, he's got an MP3 of the segment on his site. And it's a weekly gig, because they love him and he's hot and he taught them all the word "foodgasm.")

(I am trying to bribe him into taking me to the studio one of these weeks and let me like, rate the bathrooms of the restaurants we visit or something. If there's one thing about the D.C. metro area that I'm a total expert on, it's where to find a clean toilet, preferably one that doesn't make you purchase anything to use it.)

(I just realized that about 75% of this entry has been written in parentheses.)

In other news, I am completely freaking the flying freak out about daycare. A dear friend of mine with two wee ones in the World's Most Perfect Daycare Center informed me this morning that I am officially cutting it too close if I hope to get my baby placed by January 2006. Which...shit. 15 weeks along and I'm already fucking up.

One place I blindly called today told me that while I certainly "could be in worse shape" in terms of their waiting list, there was no guarantee that I'd get a spot, but hey, we'll put you on the list (for free!) and keep you updated.

And I, so happy to hear anything vaguely encouraging, thanked them profusely and totally kissed ass and then hung up and realized that I have no idea how much this place costs or even if the infants are routinely caged up at a neighboring kennel for police dogs. It doesn't matter, because they said I was certainly calling sort-of early enough to give myself a snowball's chance in hell of getting in! I love them! They're perfect!

I'm so sorry, Babalah. Perhaps my job will let me keep you in a box under my desk for awhile. You just have to promise to be quiet and not be too smelly.