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.
(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.)