Dreams, Spoons & Pimpage

I am officially obsessed with my baby's sex. Even though it will be another four or five weeks before The Big Unveiling at the ultrasound, I cannot stop thinking about it.

("It" being the presence of a penis or a vagina and the answer to this question: Will I one day ruin all other women with my perfection in the mind of my son...or will I be the one woman my daughter fears turning into more than anything on earth?)

Last night I dreamt that someone gave us a jar of powder to sprinkle on my belly. If the powder turns blue, it's a boy. Pink, a girl. All very logical and realistic, as is so typical of my dreams.

The power turned blue, and then the dream took a much more sensible turn when I went to work and found that my office had moved everyone's offices around and wouldn't tell me where mine was.

(This could be stemming from my current anxiety over the fact that there are NEVER ANY PLASTIC SPOONS IN THE OFFICE KITCHEN ANYMORE. For the love of God, restock the plastic spoons! I brought pudding!)

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Okay, I wrote all that many, many hours ago. Obviously, I really had no idea where I was going with this entry and was just typing so I could enjoy the look of all my pretty words.

Then work got really, really busy and then I got to discussing home remodeling projects with Zoot, which was really important and time consuming.

(And consider yourselves warned: there will soon be much talk of kitchen cabinets, countertops, tile, hardwoods and the orgasmic pleasure of a brand new floor-to-ceiling pantry that will soon be mine.)

(Also possibly home equity loans.)

After work, we went out for crappy Mexican food because I wanted queso and nachos. You know, for the calcium. For the baby.

And for the second time today someone spontaneously congratulated me on the baby. Jesus God, I officially look pregnant. I can totally start responding with, "WHAT baby?"

Something I have ALWAYS wanted to do.

Anyway, that was my day. And that's my entry. Sorry.

(P.S. All D.C. area residents are cordially invited to listen to Z104 at around 8 a.m. tomorrow morning, because you just might get some really awesome restaurant advice from a local celebrity blogger with a really sexy voice.)

(P.P.S. And yes, we're both aware that Jason is giving restaurant recommendations on a drive-time radio program that is sponsored by McDonald's. The irony has been noted, moving on.)

A Post That Will Put Me On Social Services' Watch List

Hello! I have not updated since LAST WEDNESDAY. This makes many of y'all VERY MAD. And I am only VAGUELY SORRY.

Actually, I blame daylight savings, which stole a precious, precious hour from me (and me PERSONALLY) this weekend. An hour that I totally planned to spend writing, so direct your anger accordingly.

I actually was planning to do a photo essay this weekend about my Changing of the Closet Ritual, wherein I pack up winter clothes and haul out spring and summer clothes and curse over how nothing fits and then kind of gross you out by revealing just how many items of clothing I own. (Judging by the fourteen piles strewn across my bedroom: approximately 5,672.)

But here's the thing. My summer stuff still FITS ME. Me, the PREGNANT VERSION. Apparently I put on a little weight last summer, and coupled with the fact that last year was The Year Of The Lowrise Waistband, As In So Low Your Pubic Bone Is Visible, all my shorts and skirts hit below the belly and still fit.

So how could I do a photo essay of anger and rage at the INJUSTICE of it all when I was able to put together a nice little pile of clothes and swimsuits that will all be perfectly acceptable for Aruba in two weeks? Pleasant surprises do not make for fun photo essays.

Especially if I were to tell you that all these clothes from last summer? When I "put on a little weight"? Are size sixes. As in, boo hoo hoo, Amy has outgrown her size twos and fours, that BITCH.

So no, I don't think I'm going to do a photo essay about my closet and tell you about the size six thing. I think you will all hate me too much. I mean, I kind of hate me, because when I finally broke down and went shopping for real and actual and non-hand-me-down maternity clothes this weekend, I had to ask the salesclerks to find extra-smalls in everything.

I was the least-popular pregnant lady at the store, I will tell you that.

I'm sorry if this post sounds like a big love affair with my skinny bitch ass, because it's really not. I'm just so fucking FASCINATED with my skinny bitch ass.

The first trimester, of which we shall never speak again, left me underweight for my height, and yet my stomach popped out anyway. I couldn't button or zip anything, yet moving up a size in normal clothes meant I was constantly yanking at the waistband to keep my underwear from showing. My boobs have grown to a shocking, crazy voluptuous, almost-sort-of B cup. Which...christ, that's pathetic.

Essentially, I look like a toothpick that has speared a cocktail olive. If I were to wear a t-shirt with a big red dot over my belly, it could play the part of the pimento.

This is a shape that only maternity clothes allow for. (Except for the previously-mentioned ultra-mega-lowrise-shorts, but while they're fine for Aruba, I don't think my office would appreciate that particular look.) So I went shopping. And I spent many hundreds of dollars on pants with stretchy belly panels and dresses that are only fitted around the boobs. I look hella attractive, but I don't care because again, my pregnant body is SO FUCKING AMAZING TO ME. It's like a crazy science experiment EVERY DAY.

(Of course, we'll see how amazing I think it is in like, August and I'm carrying a gigantic beach ball and all those Chicken McNuggets catch up to my ass and I'm back in the maternity stores asking for size XL.)

In other news, I have decided that while little boys scare the crap out of me, teenage girls absolutely petrify me, and now I'm hoping the Babalah will be a boy. Because I'm feeling so fucking self satisfied about the 10 pounds I lost during the first trimester. Am I a mother who will impart healthy eating habits on her adolescent? No I am not. Should y'all just call Child Protective Services right now to give them the heads up? Yes you should.

Plus, have you seen the way teenage girls are dressing these days? Aping the unwashed Britney Spears look with the ratty ponytails and the stained sweats and the Urban Outfitters t-shirts while wearing $1,500 worth of Tiffany's jewelry and carrying twee LV purses?

Mama Amy: Damn girl, put on some makeup!

15-year-old Babalah: Whatever, I want to look like I just rolled out of bed.

Mama Amy: Right, because nothing makes more sense than showing a boy exactly how awful you're going to look the next morning.

15-year-old Babalah: Mom!

Mama Amy: At least put some spray shine on your hair before you go?

15-year-old Babalah: I hate you.

Mama Amy: What about these cute lowrise shorts instead?