Clubbing

Okay, I lied. I said I would take you with me to my glucose test and I didn’t. The office didn’t have wi-fi, well at least not wi-fi they would give to a jacked up pregnant woman.  So I live tweeted it. It was finally summed up with this:   And then I went to work, and slept under my desk for about 30 minutes. I passed it. It’s bullshit. I’m convinced it’s bullshit. Glucose tests have the same intrinsic value as the PSAT.  But, for what it is worth, I passed it. So suck it sugar. Suck it hard. Since then I’ve had a little side project that I’m enjoying quite a lot. Turns out there is something in the water here in Tampa because the whole damn world is getting themselves all Knocked Up. This realization brought out a characteristic in me that is worth explaining/exploring: I have a fascination with clubs. Not the sandwich with an extra slice of bread in the middle. Not the kind you kill baby seals with and not the kind you go with your girlfriends to so you can hook up with a guy that has the same name as a state and then find yourself at 5 a.m. sneaking out of his apartment and realizing, “Oh shit, I’m wearing his skinny jeans, not mine…” and you swear to stop hooking up with guys that have slimmer hips than you so that this can stop happening and how does this keep happening? I mean… Oh wait. I’m sorry, I went back to my “unhappy time” for a little bit. Let me take a moment to thank Mr. Forty again for saving me from myself and not having slim hips. I love you. Okay, so… clubs. I like the clubs that have a specific membership. I don’t mean “no girl’s allowed” exclusive, or  “the elite aliens that protect the President” secretive. I just mean I like groups of people who have similar interests or lifestyles or hobbies. When I was young I was forever creating clubs that I would force my poor childhood friend, Dena, to join. I would make her a membership card, and explain to her the complex dues structure, and my ideas for building a  2-story clubhouse out of refrigerator boxes in the backyard. (“But what happens when it rains?” she would ask. That Dena, no vision. I hear she makes six figures as an auditor for one of the big accounting firms. That’s… impressive. Perhaps I should have listened to her more). I wrote manifestos for my clubs, I priced out die casting decoder rings (very pricey on a 7-year-old’s allowance), I joined other clubs I found in the back of comic books (I still have my membership card to Cracked, back when they were a Mad rip off and had a papery thingy called a magazine). I appreciated the ideas of secret handshakes and passwords and clubhouses. In high school I excelled at clubs. I joined ALL THE CLUBS. When I graduated, I was an officer in no less than five clubs (Thespians, Youth In Government, Omega Service Organization, Latin Club, and National Honor Society – and yes, that made me super popular and really cool just as you might imagine).  Then I went to college and it kind of fell apart.  I tried. But it turned out I was kind of a shit sorority girl (I still maintain that Birkenstocks can be “dressed up” if matched and...

That moment…

That moment when the magic of pregnancy causes you to be able to sing to your wife the Spinal Tap-esque “Big Veiny Boobies.” Lots of rock falsetto, natch.

Ugh.

Mr. Forty and I have terrible colds. This is terribly unfair because it means I could give a shit about his needs (Although I did offer to make him tea this morning. He declined and I took that as a sign to roll over and go back to sleep).  And frankly, I think he has a worse case than me, so I feel guilty asking him for things like Kleenex, orange juice, and the remote control. He was stuck having to go give a presentation today for work, but I’m at home. He’ll be back around 2 and I have set a goal to be showered by then. I also am washing the sheets. These two things make me a big winner. Mr. Forty posted about my high-larious glucose test last week. And it might have been the most insane thing I’ve experienced since I learned about the wonders of Demerol while passing a kidney stone (I was unaware that I was passing a kidney stone, in fact, I was unaware of most dimensional issues and had become one with the breeze…).  The glucose test was what I can only imagine smoking crack is like.  You know before I get all hyperbolic for the sake of comedy, let me check on that.  Please hold. … … … Okay, yep.  According to the first crack site I found, these are the short term effects of smoking crack (I put my experience during the glucose test in parentheses next to each symptom): SHORT-TERM EFFECTS Because it is smoked, the effects of crack cocaine are more immediate and more intense than that of powdered cocaine. (Try drinking 8 oz. of pure cane sugar after 4 and a half months of clean living – that is immediate too my friend). Loss of appetite (Food was the last thing I was thinking of) Increased heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature  (I was sweating, my heart was pounding out of my chest and I’m sure my BP went up) Contracted blood vessels (well I don’t know – oh wait – they had to poke me TWICE to get the blood for the test, so let’s say, “Yes!”) Increased rate of breathing (Ha! I thought I was hyperventilating at one point and I couldn’t stop laughing and so that made it worse) Dilated pupils (I don’t remember, but Mr. Forty told me I was totally doing the “I swear I’m sober” walk through the doctor’s office) Disturbed sleep patterns (I guess, does sleeping for THREE HOURS after the test count?) Nausea (Sweet mother of Mary, yes!) Hyperstimulation (There was a four year old in the waiting room while I was allowing the crack  glucose to course through my veins. She was dancing and making a very high pitched shrieking sound. I TOTALLY got her vibe. I really wanted to dance and shriek with her. I also wanted a kitten and a Big Wheel very badly). Bizarre, erratic, sometimes violent behavior (See above) Hallucinations, hyperexcitability, irritability (Yes, Yes, and Yes) Tactile hallucination that creates the illusion of bugs burrowing under the skin (I got really itchy, so I’m totally going to say yes) Intense euphoria (IT WAS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE) Anxiety and paranoia (UNTIL IT WAS OVER AND THEN I JUST WANTED TACO BELL AND A HUG AND DON’T HUG ME TOO HARD BECAUSE YOU’LL HURT THE BABY) Depression (*sob* The Baby is unhappy, because there’s no more sugar) Intense drug craving (I made...

The strange questions

I’m finding myself asking a lot of weird questions about the baby. For example, tonight, while holding one of the cats in a facsimile of a burp position, I asked, “So, how hard are you supposed to beat the baby?” I mean, I’m not advocating beating babies. Beating babies is bad. But at some point, you have to give the baby a bit of a whack to make it burp. How hard? A light pat? A solid whack? Something between? Intuitively, I know I shouldn’t be hitting the baby very hard, because beating babies is bad. So my primary concern is less about hitting the baby too hard than it is about not hitting hard enough. What if my baby sits there in great discomfort from a persistent gas bubble because Dad was being too gentle? What a weird thing it is to ponder babykeeping without an actual baby to run tests...

Random Thoughts

Glucose tests are inSANE. Doctors need to do a better job of not freaking out patients. Ms is currently resisting the temptation to chase a little girl around the waiting room because she, Ms, is so sugar-smacked. But at least we seem to have moved on from Ms’ competitive compulsion to cut any other pregnant women who are, in her words, “beating me” (that is, further along in their pregnancies). I don’t know if this is permanent or a temporary detente. Ms just told me she can feel her pulse in her butt. Well, a pulse. I asked “yours or his?” Hers, apparently. Glucose tests, y’all. I’m pretty sure Ms could scale this building using only her eyelids right now. Babies are small targets. For the ultrasound, freaks. If they don’t find the baby right away, think about how hard it is to aim a laser pointer at something from a distance. Ms is totally about to go dance with this six-year-old in the waiting room. I think the soothing music in here is counterproductive. It sounds like a weepy scene from a French drama. A bad one, not a weird artsy...

Merry New Year!

Well 2013 has been a helluva year. As I sit here, with wet hair, wearing Mr. Forty’s t-shirt and telling myself I should go get ready to go out and visit some friends at their annual NYE party, I look back over the year. I also remember we have no Bloody Mary Mix for the NYD party we are throwing tomorrow afternoon. Hell. Let’s focus on everything Mr. Forty and I managed to do this year: January – I got a huge promotion at work and began building a brand new department. Over the year I’ve hired some people who aren’t just my coworkers – they’re my friends.  Mr. Forty and I celebrated our one-year anniversary by having a lovely dinner in Atlanta. We looked real nice. February – Mr. Forty visited and began to meet folks around Tampa in order to make the transition to moving here. I began to clean out my closets and my dresser and try to make room in my tiny bungalow for another human and a cat. I tried on a wedding dress. It was the only one I tried on. I bought it. It was perfect. I wish I was wearing it right now. I travel to Colombia. I could tell you why, but then I’d have to kill you. March – I escorted Mr. Forty and his cat to Tampa, along with all of his stuff. His house in Atlanta remains for sale. It is very nice. Please let us know if you’re in the market, we would love to sell it to you. “We have a vacation home in Southeast Atlanta,” doesn’t work – even for liberals. April – Mr. Forty, myself, about 60 of our closest friends, and some family got together at a big old house on the water, roasted a pig (named Amy – don’t ask), said some really nice things to each other, and were declared married in the eyes of the great State of Florida. We get away for as long as my job will allow and sneak off to Key West. Mr. Forty loves it as much as I always have. This is a good thing. May – After less than 45 days of co-habitation, we asked a realtor to please look for something in our price range that was slightly larger than a shoe box. She sent us several listings the next day. We liked one house in particular. We went and saw it that day. We made an offer. We now live in it.  Mr. Forty informs me he is taking the Florida Bar. I inform Mr. Forty that I like to be a part of life decisions. He promises to remember that. We take a trip to NYC and Mr. Forty gets to spend real time in the City for the first time in his life. June – Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I get rid of furniture we don’t need. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I spend time with my friends at the pub. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I clean around him. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I go for long runs. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. July – My very sweet old terrier with one eye passes away in her sleep. We are very sad. Two weeks later, sad from being sad all the time, we take our other bat looking terrier to the Humane Society and she selects her new bestest friend...