Times Are A Changin’

My husband recently started a new job. One that requires him to leave the house daily. When he told me the news around my eighth month of pregnancy, I nearly had a nervous breakdown. Up until that point, we both worked from home and were together a lot more than your average couple. And I liked it. I had already envisioned and planned our daily life raising Wito- tag team city.

So you can imagine how freaked out I was to hear that I would be home alone all day with the baby. All day and frankly, all evening as well. His new job requires him to spend a decent amount of time at client’s homes hobnobbing, drinking vintage wines and shopping in Los Angeles, so it isn’t surprising if he walks through the door well into the evening.

Last week, he didn’t get home until very late on both Monday and Tuesday. That was hard, especially since the mastitis was kicking in and I was feeling completely overwhelmed. D’s main job with the baby is to put him down at night. Wito isn’t too fussy, but sometimes it takes a couple of tries to ensure his slumber. As a separate entity, putting Wito down isn’t a huge deal. However, putting Wito down after 12 hours of taking care of his every need ALONE becomes a daunting task. A lady needs a break. Can I get a hell yeah, moms?

Long story short, last week sucked. I felt completely drained from taking care of him on my own and dealing with the fever and nuclear boobs. And as mature as I try to be, when the husband comes home after an evening of intelligent adult conversation complete with wine and incredible views of the Pacific Ocean, I can’t help but feel snubbed. Especially when a) I’d like to drink some wine, and b) the extent of my conversations during the day consist of “Ohh,bobobobobo” and “Who’s da beeeg boy, who’s da beeeg boy?”

On the other hand, I completely understand that his job will be the ticket to me staying home with Wito at some point. And as much work as this is, I want to stay home with him so badly. I don’t even allow the thought of returning to work after Thanksgiving to enter my head at this point. Total utter denial. And trust me, my job is a cakewalk compared to what I’m doing on a daily basis now. But my job means nothing to me…Wito means everything. Annnnd, cue the violins.

However, once in a blue moon, D is able work from home. Like today! Woot!

And you know what?

All I want is for him to get the hell out so he’ll quit walking around the damn house, loudly creaking the wood floors with every. single. step. DON’T YOU REALIZE THE BABY’S ASLEEP!? IF HE WAKES UP, THE WRATH OF SATAN WILL EMIT FROM HIS HOWLS!

You just can’t win.

Disgustamundo

As you may have noticed, my Flickr photos are now private. Well, at least the ones with my belly, my face and my friends.

While I completely understand Flickr is an online public photo community, lately it has been acting a little more “MySpace” than “photo community” in my opinion.

Starting a few months back, I noticed a couple of strangers adding my belly photos to their favorites. Not a big deal, didn’t really pursue their intent, moving along. Not until I was added by a member called *iwannabewithaprego* (or something similar), did I put two and two together.

Ohhhhhh, I get it. Followed quickly with Ewwwww.

So I started my own little screening process. Whenever I received notification of a member adding me to their contacts, I would read their profile, look at their photos, and the kicker- look at their “favorite” photos from around the Flickr community. That’s usually where you find the good stuff. And of course, 90% of these people had tons of pregnant women’s photos (especially the breasts and bellies) saved. Plus, most of these members didn’t have any photos of their own on Flickr- obviously just seeking out photos of bellies.

Man, there are some lonely blokes out there.

I laughed it off, blocked their request and continued with my weekly belly posting. I guess these photos have been well-received considering some have over 2,000 views (huh? that in itself is bizarro). Well, in the past month or so, my “contact requests” have jumped from a few here and there to 20,30,40 and counting. And unfortunately, the majority are from members whose saved photos range from pregnant bellies to fully-dressed attractive girls to naked wanna-be-porn-stars to skanky hos getting it up the poop chute.

I shit you not. No pun intended. Poop chute photography.

Apparently, anal sex and pregnant bellies are like two peas in a pod! I don’t know whether I should feel complimented or violated that my bare belly evokes the same response as driving the Hershey highway. And the worst part, ya’ll, I mean the WORST PART was when I clicked on this one guy’s “favorite” photos, all I saw was a nappy-ass chick getting the poop chute serviced by the skinniest-thighed, palest little man I have ever seen. EWWWWWWWW! I could just envision “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake playing in the background. Probably on a cassette tape! EWWWWWWW! And the bedspread, don’t even get me started on the flammable polyester bedspread.

Hold me.

I know Flickr touts itself as an online sharing application, but c’mon people, no need to share that.

So, no more public bare belly photos for this chica. However, they are still available to my designated friends, so shoot me an email or leave a comment if you want me to add you to my “friends” list. I will certainly add you, given you pass my twelve background checks. Peace.

Huh?

Kenny Rogers?

SERIOUSLY. Kenny Rogers?

Who comes up with the “star” appearances on American Idol? Is it because the producers are British? Is Kenny Rogers popular in England?

I’m perplexed.

French Clothing Great Bernard Lacoste Dies

Why is this so important, you ask? Well, my husband has a slight obsession with Lacoste shirts.

It’s a sickness, people.

Don’t believe me?

Thank you, Mr. Lacoste. Thank you for outfitting my husband 365 days of the year.

Purple Haze

Remember long, hot summer days at the pool as a kid? Playing Marco Polo or Jump/Dive off the diving board? My personal favorite was the Olympic diving re-enactments…slowly walking to the edge of the board, making the proper wave to the American fans and executing the perfect jack-knife.

After all the diving and games, you would be famished so Susie’s mom would bring out hot dogs, lemonade and potato chips for the group. YUM. After eating and waiting the proper time before re-entering the pool (cramps, people, CRAMPS), you would jump in, only to realize that familiar sensation sneaking up on you. Tinkle town was calling. And then you would ask yourself the burning question,

Did Susie’s mom and dad put the scary pee chemical in the pool?

You know the one- the chemical that supposedly turns urine red so that all can see and mock appropriately. I never actually saw this chemical in action; in fact, I now wonder if it was an urban (or suburban) myth. But boy was I scared of freaky-red-pee situation.

You’re probably wondering why in the hell I’ve been thinking about this. Well, last night while sitting on the couch farting my brains out (oh shut up, I’m fucking pregnant and prunes are lethal), I thought, “what if they made a fart chemical that surrounded the farter’s body with a certain color?” Kind of like an aura, but smelly. I can envision it now, walking around the city, people everywhere surrounded by colors. A simulated acid trip. This invention could change the way the public views farting in general- it’s not just stinky, it’s an art! And if you could choose, what color would you be? Green? Purple Haze? Is this what Jimi was singing about?

I’ll tell you one thing, if this pregnancy gas doesn’t subside, I’m going to have a veritable rainbow coming out of my ass really soon.

Huh?

It must be the end of the world because it is HAILING OUTSIDE, y’all.

I know, I know…what’s the big deal? Hail Smail. And trust me, growing up in Oklahoma, I’m all too familiar with lovely hailstorms. BUT PEOPLE, I am 5 minutes from the ocean. This shit does not happen around here. All of my neighbors are looking around in utter bewilderment…this is definitely as close as we get to snow.

Screw the snow angels. Hail angels, here I come! WOOT!

Wondering…

Why every time I pick up The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy to look up a specific question, the subject is never listed in the index?

Girlfriend, you aren’t helping me out at all.

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