The Thing About Assvice

"I know you hate assvice, but..."

"Just my two cents worth of assvice..."

"I'm not going to tell you what to do, but here's my completely biased opinion and some scary statistics that will mean death, destruction and doom if you ignore them..."

Okay, Internet. We need to Talk.

I'm not exactly sure who coined the word "assvice." I first saw it on the infertility blogs. And it was not a good thing. It was something to Refrain From Giving. It was a synonym for You Probably Should Have Kept Your Big Trap Shut. Urban Dictionary defines it as "The unwelcomed and unsolicited advice given to someone."

Get that? UNWELCOMED. UNSOLICITED.

But somewhere along the line, assvice has lost its meaning -- and its stigma. And this needs to stop.

It's not some kind of cute disclaimer. "Hee hee, I know this is assvice but because I label it as such, you can't be annoyed by it..."

No. You're basically admitting that you're butting in with advice that the other person probably doesn't want and definitely didn't ask for. You're basically admitting that you're being an asshole.

And that you're the type of asshole who lectures pregnant women at Starbucks and gasps in horror when you see a toddler without mittens in January. The type of asshole who, after overhearing part of a conversation between two people at the table next to you, feels compelled to tell them what YOU would do if you were them.

What?

You would never do that?

Then why do it on the Internet?

Obviously, this rant is stemming from some (SOME) comments and emails I received after yesterday's post. The offenders fell into one of the two following categories:

1) C-sections are awesome! You so want one! But make sure it's scheduled because all your biggest fears will come true if you attempt a vaginal birth and end up having an emergency c-section. Too bad you aren't actually planning a scheduled c-section, because I'm going to jump to that conclusion and scare the crap out of you!

2) C-sections are awful! And wrong and unnecessary! Your doctor is lying! Never mind that he never said you definitely needed one, just that it was a growing possibility, because I'm going to jump to that conclusion and scare the crap out of you with scary stories and links and also make you feel stupid in the process, because I'm assuming that you can't fucking think for yourself when it comes to making major decisions about your medical care.

(Bonus points to the emailer who managed to include the words "fetal death" in regards to elective c-sections. That was lovely.)

Perhaps I wasn't totally clear in my post when I said the following:

My doctor is certainly willing to let me try for a vaginal delivery, don't get me wrong. He's not claiming that it's impossible or pressuring me to schedule a c-section right away. Not at all. He just wanted to prepare me for the possibility that hey, this could happen, and in his opinion, it's a very likely outcome.

Translation: There is no scheduled c-section. There never was.

My doctor knows my wishes and wants me to have the birth I want. But he also wants me to be completely informed regarding any risks he sees on the horizon. And from his point of view (with thousands and thousands of births behind him and his hand full up in my vagina probing my pelvic bones), he thinks I need to prepare myself for a delivery that might not go exactly as planned.

I took this news hard. Probably harder than I should have. And then I ranted to the Internet before I'd fully calmed down and formulated a plan. Because that's what I do. Because I am Amalah, Queen of Drama and Working Shit Out Through the Power of Run-On Sentences.

However.

The plan (which my doctor wholeheartedly supports) is to hold out hope for a vaginal delivery for as long as possible. I am hoping labor will begin on its own, and soon, while there is still no question that the baby will fit. If that doesn't happen, I'm hoping next Wednesday's appointment will reveal enough cervical activity to 1) give us hope that labor will begin naturally soon, or 2) give us a shot at inducing.

If I go past my due date, I still want to attempt a vaginal delivery, and will opt for a c-section only if I run into problems. 

Yes, I know I am running the risk of an emergency c-section. Yes, I am putting a lot of faith in my body's ability to bend and stretch. Yes, I am aware that labor is hard and that you can tear and stretch and have a pointy-headed baby. Yes, I reserve the right to change my mind completely.

For now, however, I am at peace.

So everybody who felt the need to tell me about how horrible emergency caesareans are vs. scheduled ones?

And everybody who felt the need to lecture me on the horrible dangers posed by scheduled caesareans?

And everybody who decided that hey, while we're being all judgey about other people's birth choices, let's rant about Pitocin and epidurals?

Well...remember what I said about butting in with advice after only hearing half of the conversation?

A round-headed baby and a non-stretched-out cooch are not enough to convince me to pursue major abdominal surgery at this point. By the same token, if I end up having a caesarean, I will not have been "bullied" into it or deceived by the evil medical establishment. I'm sorry if you feel like you were. I hope to avoid it, but by gum, I will be so fucking grateful that a c-section was available to get us both through the birth safely.

Basically, those comments and emails upset me -- greatly -- although I doubt this was anyone's actual intent. But they did, and I got sucked up in a weird, circular pattern of whatever I do, it's probably wrong logic.

Oh my God, am I stupid for stubbornly holding out for a vaginal delivery when I know I'm risking an emergency c-section?

Oh my God, am I awful for thinking that I would totally schedule a c-section if my doctor changed his mind and said it would be my best and safest option?

Oh my God, am I evil because I refuse to attempt labor without an epidural and I would buy Cervodil and Pitocin at the Rite Aid if I could at this point?

I'll be honest -- my appointment yesterday left me reeling. I cried a little bit in my car afterwards and again in Jason's arms last night. I wasn't prepared for the emotional impact of being told to prepare for something that I didn't want to prepare for.

And I appreciated everyone sharing their experiences. I was overjoyed to hear of 0-60 labors and women who breastfed 30 minutes after a caesarean (that's insanely important to me).  I was comforted by the simple "I hope it all goes well, however it goes down" comments. And we can never be reminded enough that whatever our birth choices or experiences are, all that matters is that beautiful, delicious baby.

I know you all care. Thank you for caring.  I completely understand how the Internet makes it possible for you to care -- intensely -- for someone you don't know. However, if you care, just bite your tongue sometimes. Reread that comment before hitting publish. Are you assuming you know more than you do? Are you giving advice that was not specifically asked for? Are you possibly passing a little bit of self-righteous judgment? Don't you think that pregnant girl has probably already been told about sex causing dilation a frillion and one times already?

Yes? Then delete it. And then write something about Britney Spears and her early scheduled c-section which was so OBVIOUSLY done so she wouldn't lose the K-Fed love due to more baby weight and a stretched-out vagina. Whore.

P.S. Comments are closed on this entry.

P.P.S. We're circumcising the baby.

P.P.P.S. Any and all emails regarding the above P.P.S. will be summarily deleted upon receipt.

P.P.P.P.S. That sound you just heard? Was the sound of hundreds of militant assvice-givers spontaneously combusting in  horror.

No, I Am Not Off Having the Baby Right This Very Moment

It was nice of everybody to jump to that conclusion, but in reality I was:

1) Being told that I will probably not ever have this baby, and

2) Trying to figure out how to put the Wednesday Advice Smackdown on an impromptu hiatus, because people, I CANNOT WRITE ABOUT SHAMPOO ANYMORE.

I saw my OB this morning, FULLY AND COMPLETELY CONFIDENT that I was going to be told lovely tales of effasement and dilation, because...well, I've been getting these stabbing pains in the lady-business area and I read that this could be a sign of your cervix dilating. And I chose to believe this with my entire being.

So I laid back, smiled proudly when my doctor marveled at my sudden and rapid belly growth ("Yes! The Internet thinks the same thing!"), gritted my teeth in hatred when he told me that keeping my skin moisturized would prevent more stretch marks ("Liar! LIIIIIAARRR!"), and spread my legs for the cervical check.

"No change," he said, and furrowed his Christopher-Guest-in-a-bald-cap brow. "No change at all."

And I made some noise that can only be transcribed as something like, "Whhhaaatttthefucknooocraaap!"

Then he said, "We need to talk about your pelvis."

What followed was a long conversation about my narrow little pelvis and how by the time I hit my due date, it's very likely that I'll need a caesarean section because I am just not built for an eight-pound baby. I'm possibly not even built for a seven-pound baby, but considering my body is showing no interest in going into labor anytime this century, we'll probably blow right past that weight in the next week or so anyway.

And since I Read Things On The Internet Like How Vaginal Pain Equals Dilation And Therefore Know All, I immediately jumped in with the perfect solution: We'll induce! Today! While he's still small enough! We'll beat my pelvis at its own game!

Well, no. Inducing won't work when your cervix is all uptight and whatever. Basically, your body needs to give SOME INDICATION that it would like to start thinking about having the baby before pitocin will do a damn thing. And again, have I mentioned that my body is not doing that? Because it is not?

To make matters worse, the baby is still in the occiput posterior position.  This already indicates a difficult delivery. Add in the possibility that he might not fit under the best of circumstances, and again, I'm looking at an eventual caesarean after a lot of fruitless pushing.

(Assvice smackdown: I've done the whole "get on all fours and stick your butt up in the air" thing multiple times, and while he'll rotate temporarily while I'm doing this, he immediately flips back over once I move. What can I say? He's comfy. And stubborn.)

My doctor is certainly willing to let me try for a vaginal delivery, don't get me wrong. He's not claiming that it's impossible or pressuring me to schedule a c-section right away. Not at all. He just wanted to prepare me for the possibility that hey, this could happen, and in his opinion, it's a very likely outcome. Unless my body decides to do some kind of 0-60 labor in the next week or so, which HA.

I want labor. I want Jason to time contractions and feed me ice chips. I want to push my son out. I want to hold and feed him right away.

I don't want a c-section. I don't want to be heavily medicated and separated from the baby for hours. I don't want major surgery. I don't want to rely on other people to carry the stroller and car seat up and down our stairs for weeks.

But I guess, in the end, what I really want is my baby. And what I really don't want is for anything bad to happen to either of us. So I'll just get over myself.

And maybe if I stop thinking angry thoughts about my stupid fucking cervix it will fucking dilate already and we can talk induction next Wednesday.

(And no Advice Smackdown next Wednesday either, because I'm exhausted and have other things to rant about besides hair products. And I'm really, really tired of talking about hair products. Just stop going to the Hair Cuttery and buying shampoo at Rite Aid. That's basically the beginning and end of proper haircare, and it's become clear that no matter how many times I tell you people that Bed Head is a good product line, the Bed Head people are not sending me any free products. And really, what's the point in doing anything if you don't get presents?)

I Barely Even Thought About My Kitchen This Weekend...

...because the fabulous Diana came to visit.

Diana brought me spiced wafers and trashy magazines, tolerated my putting us on the wrong bus to Georgetown, ignored the fact that it took me 20 minutes to find all the pieces to my coffee maker and also walked my dog so I could take care of important things, like sitting down.

(Diana is now Ceiba's best friend in the entire world, and that dog was clearly and openly pissed when I returned home on Sunday afternoon without her.)

We took not one, but two trips to Lush, purchased approximately 97 bath bombs and openly abused a tester container of $78 moisturizer, spent forever in Sephora in search of Chanel lipgloss and the perfect green eyeshadow, decided that Paris Hilton's perfume smells exactly like filthy whore, and bought lots and lots of wee baby boy clothes.

Jason took us to a fancy restaurant like the divas we are, schooled us on why the 2002 vintage is the best for Burgundy, got wasted on said Burgundy and then broke our new wine glasses from Target by accident, which was really funny and this totally absolved Diana for knocking her water glass clear across the table at dinner earlier.

(It's very interesting being the sober one and realizing that your loved ones are hilarious drunks.)

After Jason done passed out cold, we stayed up to watch Gilmore Girls reruns, applied face masks from Lush and then poked my belly for a good 20 minutes to get the baby to move around and entertain us.

And we discussed Serious Issues, including:

1) Racism: The real thing vs. your friends just being assholes.

2) FEMA, suckage of.

3) The Food Network, awesomeness of.

4) Natural childbirth, batshit craziness of.

5) What it was like to be in DC on September 11, 2001.

6) Who is costarring with CuteDean from Gilmore Girls in Supernatural, and oh my God, it's not Freddie Prinze Jr., right? Please tell me it's not. (It's totally not, but we were Very Scared there for a moment.)

7) Celebrity couples whose divorces we would take personally (i.e. Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson).

8) What a perfume by Tara Reid would probably smell like (i.e. chlamydia and condoms).

9) How that's Dick Cheney's mansion right there, Diana, which she really didn't care about, especially since I totally interrupted an important story about her hair to point it out.

10) How starting sentences with the word "dude" is NOT lame, but merely a way of adding emphasis, as in, "DUDE, it is very important that you listen to what I say next, because DUDE, it's crazy."

Now, I ask you, could you imagine a better weekend? Because I, for one, cannot. At all.

P.S. That first photo? Some random guy in the street took for us. And he claimed to be a "maternity photographer" and made Di put her hand on my belly like that. After he handed the camera back we realized that he snapped approximately eleventy hundred pictures and was probably nothing but a big weirdo perv.

P.P.S. BUT JESUS GOD IN HEAVEN, THAT BELLY IS GIGANTIC. How am I still walking upright?

In Which I Do Not Talk About My Kitchen

All week, I've been kind of waiting for someone to comment or email the inevitable how-dare-you-write-about-your-stupid- kitchen-problems-when-people-are-homeless-and-have-no- kitchens kind of thing.

I was actually surprised it took as long as it did, but yesterday somebody finally said it.

(Now, she has since apologized so I order everybody to lay off. I love the minion-like way y'all rush to my defense when needed, but this time? Not needed. Be nice.)

Of course, I'm going to harp on it just a wee bit. Then I will drop it. I swear.

There was the typical "have you not been watching the news?" aspect to her comment which always bugs the crap out of me, as if simply because I have not specifically addressed Hurricane Katrina here, therefore I must not even be aware that there is a national tragedy going on. Because I have only written about IKEA and kitchen mishaps, those must be the only things registering on my shallow plane of existence.

Which: Of course not, fools. And I'm not writing about my little problems with the expectation of empathy and head pats (which y'all have given in spades anyway), or to imply that oh my God, my life is so HARD, y'all, feel sorry for me.

I'm writing, basically, to ENTERTAIN YOU. Or at least myself, because haaaaa, I sat down on my couch last night and tried to change the TV channel with a spatula instead of the remote.

I have no words for what I've seen on the news. I have no eloquent rant or solution. Just sputtering horror and impotent rage.

I keep imagining some nine-months-pregnant girl down there who had to leave her dog, her cat and the nursery she worked so hard on behind. Who went from fretting about what to pack in the hospital bag to wondering if she'll give birth in a hospital or a squalid refugee camp. From whether Pampers or Huggies are the better brand to wondering where in hell she's going to find diapers at all. 

I don't know if she exists, but goddamn, she haunts me, and I wish I could make everything all better for her.

Anyway. That's all I have to say about Katrina.

Except that we Snarkywood girls put together a little campaign to raise some money -- just a modest $500 -- and would really like to blow the roof off that amount.

Oh, and yesterday? I totally wore my ugly dog-walking flip flops to work. BY ACCIDENT.

I forgot to change them after Ceiba's morning walk and didn't notice that I still had them on until I sat down at a company-wide meeting and realized that HI! I was wearing FLIP FLOPS to an office where SUITS AND TIES ARE REQUIRED, and also, Ceiba has chewed the everloving hell out of these flip flops, there may have been dog poop caked to the bottom, and HOLY HELL, I really need a damn pedicure.

Feel free to either 1) mock me mercilessly, or 2) yell at me because AT LEAST YOU HAVE SHOES, BITCH.

In Which I Start To Think That Maybe Remodeling the Kitchen Was a Bad Idea

My apologies for the lack of an Advice Smackdown yesterday. I was too busy not talking about my kitchen to write anything.

We are still not talking about my kitchen.

(Silence. Angry, terrible silence.)

Well, since there is clearly nothing else to talk about, I suppose we can talk about my kitchen.

When we last visited my personal Land of Make Believe Kitchen Progress, I had many cabinets in my dining room, minus two base corner cabinets that were mysteriously missing, and one small upper cabinet that was all busted to shit, or something.

The two corner cabinets were located, thanks to an Amber Alert and somebody deciding to maybe go check that there delivery truck one more time.

Wednesday, 6:30 am: We are reunited with our corner cabinets, and work can now begin, as these corner cabinets are the cabinets that, of course, need to be installed first and from whom all other cabinets and blessings flow.

Or something. It was early. Either way, our cabinets were going to be installed yesterday, just one day late. The broken cabinet was not essential and LORD, I DON'T CARE ABOUT IT, JUST INSTALL SOMETHING SO I CAN GET MY CASSEROLE DISHES OFF THE TELEVISION.

So. Here is what we started with:

At first glance? Not such a bad kitchen. However, every corner cabinet was a black hole of inaccessibility and required me to fully CLIMB INTO IT if I wanted to reach something in the back. Also: saggy shelves, one too many coats of white paint, ugly-as-all-living-hell laminate countertop and peel-and-stick vinyl flooring that offends me on many levels.

So we thought, way back in May (MAAAY) that hell, let's remodel the kitchen before the baby gets here. We got a loan, picked a contractor and were promised Big Plans involving lazy susans in the corners and an honest-to-god pantry and so, so much more.

And now, in September (SEPTEMBERRRRR), our dreams are finally coming true!

Only not!

This is what was accomplished on Tuesday, The Day Everything Was Supposed To Be Done:

Well! That's quite a lot of progress! Why, I love it! Let's just call it a day.

So Wednesday officially became The Day That Everything Was Supposed To Be Done, Really, We Mean It This Time.

I came home last night and our contractor was starting to load stuff up in his van. He told me to go make myself a nice stiff drink and then we'd "talk."

I patiently reminded him that a nice stiff drink was out of the question for me, so why don't we just have that talk now so the killing could commence already.

This corner has a pylon/pillar thing, WHICH WE TOLD MANY PEOPLE ABOUT. The cabinet guy came and measured and witnessed the presence of this pylon and assured us that the pylon was not a problem, this lazy susan cabinet would fit.

This cabinet does not fit. Thus, one side of the kitchen, the side with our sink, dishwasher and my glorious, glorious pantry, cannot be completed.

The rest looks very nice, except for the old ugly countertop. But I suppose I should be grateful the contractors didn't sledgehammer it into oblivion since GOD ONLY KNOWS when the rest of the cabinets will be done and the lovely new countertop will arrive, especially since (AND I AM JUST GUESSING HERE) we're probably going to have a frillion problems with THAT too and perhaps the contractors will be able to give me tips on breastfeeding and proper swaddling techniques.

Living room? Still in shambles.

Diana is coming to visit me this weekend and I don't think this is going to work so well. Nobody wants to sleep in a room where there is an actual real chance of getting crushed to death by cans of Campbell's soup and a fondue pot.

I'd offer her the crib, but there's kind of a sink issue going on in there.

Don't ask. I SWEAR TO GOD, JUST DON'T EVEN ASK.

How to Drive a Pregnant Woman to a Sobbing, Hysterical Breakdown in Three Easy Steps

Step One: Deliver Pregnant Woman's new kitchen cabinets on a Friday. Deposit in dining room. Do not open, because what this place really needed was some more goddamn cardboard boxes.

Step Two: Tell Pregnant Woman you will demolish her old kitchen and install new cabinets on Tuesday. Which is today! Which means every item in her kitchen needs to move to the living room. Preferably, in boxes.

Step Three: Call Pregnant Woman and tell her that one of the new cabinets is cracked. And two are missing. Because the boxes? When they were delivered? Were not opened.

Begin discussing new-cabinet-ordering timeline that simply does not match up with her countdown-to-baby timeline and listen to her crumble in defeat.

For bonus points, tell her that her old cabinets have already been demolished.

You aren't blaming this one on me, bitch! At least you got your goddamn drawer already.

Love,
IKEA

He Said, She Said, They Said, You Said

Since comments for yesterday's post turned into an impromptu "guess the birthday" game, I figure it's time for the inevitable Official Guess When I Will Give Birth and What Size Child I Will Pass Through My Vagina Entry.

BUT FIRST:

Also from yesterday's comments: "you must share you pregnancy fitness plan with us."

Fit...ness? Plan? Pregnancy? HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

No, seriously, HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

My entire fitness regimen began and ended with the purchase of a prenatal yoga video in the first trimester. I put it on once, only to read a warning that said if "you are still in the first trimester and suffering from morning sickness, it is advised that you not perform these exercises." 

Well! Who am I to ignore a warning like that?  I gleefully stopped the tape and parked my ass back on the couch. And then never hit the play button ever again.

Basically: I haven't excercised at all beyond walking the dog and climbing the stairs to my condo, and I've eaten whatever I've wanted and as much as I've wanted, and most of what I've wanted has been doughnuts, ice cream and other evil processed foods high in carbs and trans fats. So clearly, that's the key to staying small and snowglobe-belly-like during pregnancy, and I heartily endorse this method.

ANYWAY. NOW THAT Y'ALL PROBABLY HATE ME VERY MUCH NOW:

Let's play the guessing game thing. Leave a comment guessing the baby's birthdate, time of birth (am/pm) and weight. At some point, I assume this child WILL be born, and then I will figure out who came the closest with their guess and send them a prize of some sort.

(And unlike the Focking Swag contest that I never, ever picked a winner for because I accidentally lost all the swag, I promise to actually FOLLOW THROUGH ON THIS ONE, although probably not promptly, because HELLO, there will be an infant attached to my boob for awhile.)

To make it easier, I'll share the official opinions of a whole fleet of various pregnancy experts:

MY DOCTOR SAYS:

My due date is September 26.

I SAY:

Unless this was some kind of immaculate conception, my due date is September 28.

THE INTERNET SAYS:

Less than 5% of women actually deliver on their due date.

OUR WAITRESS THE OTHER NIGHT SAYS:

Wow, that kid must weigh nine pounds already.

MY COWORKERS SAY:

Do you think they'll induce you early? Because he's so big?

MY MOM SAYS:

I weighed 7 pounds, 13 ounces.

JASON'S MOM SAYS:

He weighed 8 pounds, 5 ounces.

MY DOCTOR SAYS:

I'm measuring completely average and that I just look big because I'm carrying out in front and am overall, quite wee. The only way I'll have a huge baby is if I go late, which he promises he won't let happen.

MY MUCUS PLUG SAYS:

Am. Not. Budging. Can't. Make. Me.

MY UTERUS SAYS:

Time for a contraction! Ha! Painful motherfucker, huh?  And here's another! Or is it just gas? I'll never tell! Whee!

MY OB NURSE SAYS:

I've dropped.

MY MAILMAN SAYS:

Girl, that baby is LOW. Shit, you gonna have him any day now.

MY BLADDER SAYS:

GET THIS CHILD'S SHOULDERBLADES OFF ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

THE INTERNET SAYS:

OMFG! You've totally dropped! He's coming SOON!

GUY IN LINE AHEAD OF ME AT STARBUCKS SAYS:

You go first! And then go sit down! I will bring you your Frappuccino! When were you due? Yesterday?

JASON SAYS:

You are so not lasting another four weeks.

MY DOCTOR SAYS:

Dropped? No. His head is still way too high and your cervix is closed and not effacing at all. Calm down.

I SAY:

Oh my God, I'm going to be pregnant until Halloween.

36 Weeks. And Also, Poop.

I was out walking Ceiba last night when I noticed a DC United van was pulled up in front of the building next door. And various soccer-player types were out and about, unloading furniture from this van and carrying it inside. In their soccer-player arms. Flexing their soccer-player legs.

Flat-screen TVs, stereo equipment and expensive modular furniture: the calling cards of a teenaged professional athlete blowing his signing bonus.

Even though I could not tell you the name of a single player on the DC United roster, I still stopped and stared and gaped like a damned fool. And those nice young men all smiled and waved at me, which is right when I realized that Ceiba was taking a huge dump.

And struggggggling with this dump. Straining. Wandering all over the place, dropping turds left and right.

Which I then had to squat down and pick up, one by one, lest the soccer players label me as the neighbor who lets her purse dog shit all over their new lawn, but really, that might be preferable to being the neighbor who huffed and puffed and finally managed to bend down to the poop's level only to have her ill-fitting hand-me-down maternity pants slide down off her ass.

Which is soooo not what actually happened. Oh no.

And that's the only story I have to tell today. Because there is nothing interesting going on, unless you count my new bathroom vanity and sink, and even I realize that posting photos of my new bathroom vanity and sink is really pushing it in terms of entry content.

So instead, some self-portraits taken in my bathroom.

Not Pictured: my new bathroom vanity and sink, which is so pretty, even if it did lead to an unfortunate nesting incident last night involving me mopping and scrubbing the bathroom floor at 11:30 pm. (SCRUB, Christina! SCRUB!)

Amalah: Stretching the limits of maternity wear beyond all good reason and dignity since August 2005.

Ceiba the Inconvenient Pooper and her little brother-to-be who, in fact, weighs at least two pounds more than she does already.

Run for your lives! It will destroy us all!