Ready or not, here comes mama!
Blogarella must look pretty good from behind. While grabbing some napkins and a straw at the coffee stand at the gas station, she was approached by a man. He said “Hey baby, how you doing?” I promptly turned face front and excitedly replied “I’m great! How are you?” To which he said “WHOAAAAAA! Look at Mama!” Yep, mama’s still got!
Do you know what it feels like for a girl?
Whats it like being in the home stretch before bambino? Hm, lets see…have you ever swallowed an entire Thanksgiving turkey bones and all? Imagine you did, and then you decide you need to bend over, but you have a wing sticking into your ribs. Or perhaps you need to drive somewhere and look behind you, but you have to rely on mirrors because your stomach is too big to turn around? (note: this may have resulted in me running over the neighbor’s bush in their front yard). Next, imagine the turkey in your stomach comes to life and starts rolling around like its looking for an escape. Its about as comfortable as sitting in a traffic jam on a hot day with busted air conditioning.
Alas, I have had to submit to the awesome power of the boppy. I didn’t want to do it! Stupid hype! Hype makes me crazy, especially when it revolves around a $45.00 pillow! However, one was given to me as a gift, and I was told that its for feeding the baby. Guess what, baby isn’t here, so its for supporting big momma! I’ve been wearing it around my back because I’m going around looking like an elderly woman with sans the walker (another note: my grandmother’s walker is pretty pimped out and I hope that I’m that bad ass when I’m her age). I boppy to the car, I take it to bed, and when I wake up to go to work and say goodbye to Mr. Blogarella, he is wearing it around his neck. Baby doesn’t get boppy, baby gets bupkis, its mine mine mine!
Walking sucks ass and when I see a person who has to use a mobility scooter, I get jealous. At work I asked if they would just wheel me around on a dollie and they laughed – I wasn’t joking! The worst is when you finally get yourself situated comfortably, well, about as comfortable as you could possibly be as if you were on a 5 hour car ride sandwiched between two family members, one has their head on your shoulder, and the other is sleeping so comfortably their legs are spread wider than an actress on the set of a dirty movie. So, you’ve finally reached that point where you move around and sort of feel ok enough to relax, but then something dumb happens, like your neighbor knocks on your door because he had another fight with his wife and he wants to use your phone to call 911 on her – again, not joking!
But I’m sure this is all worth it, false labors, mood swings, and all. Mr. Blogarella is told how much I hate him at least twice a day, and I’ve banned him from ever touching me again unless I get spayed or neutered. Or, I could just torture him and subject him to hours of annoying children’s programming. My goodness, having this much power is dangerous!
Contraction Blogging
And why the hell not! For over an hour my stomach has felt like I have something growing inside of it the size of freaking Godzilla. It hurts damn it! Ever see those commercials where they wet paper towels and squeeze them out to show you how absorbant they are? Imagine that, only in real time, and its happening in your freaking body!! I’m only able to type this stupid post because my stupid doctor hasn’t called my stupid ass back. I keep reading about “false labor” and I guess if a baby pops out right here, then it wasn’t a false alarm. I want to punch somebody, but mostly my doctor, well, my husband too for getting me pregnant. I’ll keep you all posted, you’d never know it, but I love my readers, but lets not make love to celebrate the love because babies are going around like the flu and I don’t want to catch another one this soon!
Elvis has not yet left the building!
Blogarella is told on a daily basis that she is lovely and absolutely glowing. What these people don’t see is that the offspring is exhibiting rock star-esque behavior. She might not have a hotel room to trash, but my internal organs and my rib cage will make a worthy substitute. A kick here, a punch there, and who knows, maybe something might get broken. I can’t bill her for the damage, but I can reserve it for punishments later in life. If she wants an allowance, I’ll simply send her a bill for the 9 months that I carried her.
However, thats not to say that mommy hasn’t had some rock star behavior of her own. Recently when a flight was excessively delayed, I said aloud “If this plane doesn’t come soon, I’m gonna have a baby!” Apparently there were several mortified looking onlookers and Mr. Blogarella asked me to refrain from making such statements again. But, I think the worst was when I had to call Mr. Blogarella after receiving an incorrect bill in the mail and I told him “I’m so pissed off I’m having contractions!” He’s smart enough to tell me to “breathe” when I’d rather “punch” but all and all, I think if he can survive my pregnancy, then he becomes eligible for the Husband of the Year Award.
The Evil Pregnant Woman and her “Prohibited” Flight Item
While travelling with my super sized tummy, courtesy of il bambino, I was screamed at by airport security. He came running over screaming “YOU HAVE A PROHIBITED ITEM IN YOUR BAG!” The woman next to me looked me up and down and said “but she looks so innocent!” The angry security officer reached into my bag and pulled out the prohibited item, which was not lighter fluid, WD-40, or even fireworks. It was a lonely bottle of Teddy Bear honey that I drink with my tea. Clearly I’m going to hell.
Irony
When your husband tells you he won’t go to your baby shower because its gay, and as you are opening your gifts, he’s across the street getting hit on by a man.
Held Captive: Week 30 (or 31, or something like that)
Yes, I’m still pregant, and I’m beating the bars of a prison with a tin cup! All foods result in severe and extreme heartburn. I’m thinking that a strange man could possibly lure me into his bedroom at the promise of an endless supply of Tums…or perhaps an erotic massage using Phillip’s Milk of Magnesia? Not that it matters, because my tummy is so big, I can no longer see my va-jay-jay. So if anybody has any advice on one handed ”grooming” pre-doctor’s visits using a lipstick mirror in the shower, I am all ears!! Oh, and if there is any way I can relieve that incredibly sexy “I’ve just swallowed John Goodman” feeling, please let me know!
In other news, I got on my high horse, got out my lasso, and roped Mr. Blogarella once and for all. I made an “honest man” out of him on June 28th.
My First Maternity Pants
I grew up in a time when clothing for fat kids was called “husky” and there were special stores for tubby tykes. My older brother was pleasantly plump until the day he discovered the ladies, and I was my usualy skinny bitch self tagging along for the ride. The particular store that my brother had to shop in was called “Little Folks” and I can remember walking in and looking up to catch a glimpse of a rotund little man with dark hair running around with a big measuring tape around his neck. Being little, I didn’t really understand the difference between husky or skinny, I just remember being pissed off that my brother got to shop at a special store when I was stuck having to shop at Sears. I could guarantee I was going to walk out of Sears everytime looking like some freakish child drowning in a sea of ruffles that was assaulted with a color pallette strait from the Easter Bunny’s basket. Well, my time to shop at a special store has arrived, or at least a special section of the store. Thats right, the maternity section.
Off I went to the maternity section of my local department store and the first cute thing I found was a size 24W – not that there is anything wrong with that, but I was confused. I quickly discovered that maternity clothes were somehow intermixed with clothes from the plus size section. This certainly made the experience more interesting. Instead of seeing something cute and gravitating towards it, I had to search like I was stranded on an island in the Pacific in search of fresh water to survive. Eventually, I had a carriage full of clothes, and when Mr. Blogarella came to check on me, I decided that I hated them all and put them back. So the next day, I tried a different location of the said store, and found it to be much better organized. Yes maternity was “next” to the plus section, but at least I could find things more easily and try them on. First up where the maternity jeans with a big elastic band – something I never imagined myself wearing before age 65. As I got into the dressing room and disrobed I caught a glimpse of my ever expanding waistline, and coaxed myself into trying these on. Taking the pants from the hanger, I held them up to my face, and was mortified at the size of the waist band. Just then, my phone rang and it was my friend who is a model that just returned from a photoshoot in Los Angeles telling me that she was bloated. Our conversation continued as I tried on the jeans, and the level of comfort I felt as they sat upon my hips was almost obscene. I briefly imagined a world of long shirts with elastic wasit pants for all, and then I snapped out of it thanks to my insatiable hunger for Wendy’s. So I departed with my new maternity jeans ready to take on the world, and the drive thru. My evening ended with me sitting alone in the dark corner of the parking lot quietly consuming my sacred delicacies. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t have “another man” in my life, but there is a woman, her name is Wendy, and if my car is ever seen in a strange parking lot with hot steamy windows, you can guarantee that it has nothing to do with erotica, unless of course you think eating a bacon double cheeseburger is sexy.
Food Related Rampage
This is the only opportunity I’m going to have in my lifetime to behave like a diva. I’m not Mariah Carey, but we all deserve to have our moment. But, I always dreamed that when I had a diva moment, it would happen backstage at an awards ceremony. I never thought it would be at a McDonald’s drive thru.
My lunch break is 30 short minutes, and when you have an errand to run, you can figure in about 5 minutes of actual food if you’ve strategically planned ahead. I sat in the bank going over transactions from when my card was hijacked for use at a gas station when I suddenly wanted ice cream. I’m no crazy ice cream lover, I don’t even keep any in the house. However, for some reason, just as a wolf salivates at the sight of a lesser life form, I was overtaken by an unknown will to seek and destroy ice cream for my own personal gain. Now, I don’t think I need to explain to anybody that there is very little to “gain” by eating ice cream, which makes this story even more absurd. My exact time in the bank was 20 minutes. From there, I got in the car, peeled out of the parking lot, and headed to the nearest ice cream, which was McDonald’s, about 5 minutes away. I did 50 MPH through a residental area the whole way, and when I saw the drive thru was clear, it was as if the clouds had parted and the angels started playing their horns to honor me. Sweet! As the woman at the window said “Welcome to McDonald’s may I take your order?” I replied “Yes please, I’d like a McFlurry.” What happend next would be the equivelent of the said wolf having his prey stolen out of its paws by a predator with large talons. She replied “I”m sorry mam, our ice cream machine is down.” Oh no you didn’t!! Sadly, I didn’t take this news well, and in uncharacteristic behavoior, sans the swearing, I said “$hit! I’m pregnant, I NEED ICE CREAM!” At this moment, the woman at the microhpone is thinking to herself “psycho.” Its true. I’m a complete psycho, a psycho with no more ice cream than she had 20 minutes ago. Ashamed, yes. Satisfied, not even close. I think I’ll go cry now.
Just Remember Ladies…
When at a BBQ with dirty old men, it is far better to have them molesting your stomach than other body parts. Especially when one comes back for a third tummy rub and says “I’m enjoying this way more than I should.”
