Tag Archives: Los Angeles

Bacon Wrapped Pregnant Chicks- A Mea Culpa

I was driving home from my prenatal appointment yesterday morning, listening to the radio.  I had to go in for my 20 week check.  All good.  The kiddo’s heartbeat is there and strong, he was sitting down in the bottom of my uterus so there was a couple moments of nervousness while the OB searched around on my belly with the doppler and in the process got my whole tummy covered in blue goo.  Finally she found it and it was fine.  140 bpm, and strong. As suspected.  She measured my fundus, which just sounds dirty. I’m not sure why they call it a fundus. Why not just call it my uterus? It is, after all, my uterus the only difference is that it is full of little alien and placenta and amniotic fluid.  I guess that changes it from uterus to fundus. Whatever.  It measured right were it should for 20 weeks, so, so far so good.  Both me and the kid are growing at the correct rate and that’s swell.

Oh, while I was in the waiting room, I saw a newly pregnant, formerly over-employed, nicely dressed in 3 seasons old clothes, 30 something waiting. She looked uncomfortable.  She tried to keep to herself and not pay attention to the two homeless men who were talking loudly about the prison sentences they had served since they last saw each other and which half-way homes are the most lenient with regards to drug use and late nights while they waited to use the free showers and clothing exchange at the clinic. She’ll get used to it.

A side view of my belly.

The shower people wait pretty quietly and most of the time and they are indistinguishable from the rest of us except most are men and none are pregnant.

I also saw another woman I have spoken to quite a few times.  She is 39 weeks and was in PR. She’s 34 and has been unemployed for almost two years, since the company she was working for was bought by a media conglomerate and they canned all of the office except the owner of her firm.  We are kinda like kindred spirits, but we haven’t said as much to each other. We don’t speak much when we are inside. Outside, while we are waiting for the waiting room to open first thing in the morning, when our conversation is less likely to be listened on, we talk a little. We shared who we used to be. She, unlike me, is married, however, so she at least did something orthodox.  Too bad her husband is a writer. If she had had the good sense to fall in love with and marry a mechanic she wouldn’t be waiting in the free clinic waiting room with the men who are waiting for showers. So, we’ve welcomed another one of us into the fold in the waiting room.

When I’m driving during the day in LA, I almost always have the radio tuned to something with the news and traffic conditions. There are two AM stations that I go between.  One has traffic on the fives and the other has traffic on the ones.  I always forget which one is which so that means I end up listening to commercials and sports news while waiting for the ones or the fives to pop up. I find sports and sportscasters so annoying, I actually prefer to listen to commercials or nothing at all, but when I’m waiting to hear how long it’s going to take me to make it from Hollywood to Downtown, listening to nothing isn’t a choice. Yesterday, traffic was bad.  I hadn’t even jumped on the freeway because by the time I had gotten in the car, I heard the tail end of the traffic report and somewhere, the 101 was completely backed up but I didn’t know where the back up ended, so I was going to take surface streets the would give me easy access to the freeway until I could figure out where the stoppage ended. I knew it would be longer to wait for that station to tell me what the road conditions were, so I switched to the other channel and just had to wait it out.  It was commercials. Meh. I shut my brain mostly off and thought about food while I waited until I heard the middle of a Mike Diamond plumber commercial.

In the greater LA Metro area, Mike Diamond Plumber brands themselves as The Smell Good Plumber.  They change up their commercials on quarterly schedules so you don’t get tired of hearing them, but that doesn’t really work. They are always annoying.  This one their newest one. In the commercial they retardedly claim their plumbers will show up on time and smell better than a new car wrapped in bacon.  It was this point that I could feel the right side of my upper lip raise, Elvis-like, and my eyes roll and pull back to the right. Sigh. Bacon? Really? I love bacon as much as the next person but come on! I’m so friggin’ tired of bacon everything. I don’t know where it started.  But bacon is everywhere now and it’s so fucking annoying.  Yes, we get it! Bacon is awesome. Is it awesome enough to have it tattooed on you? Apparently it is as thousands of disgusting hipsters have it emblazoned on their skinny, pale wrists or their bony sides. I’ve even seen it on a neck. It’s like the Pokemon craze. Now, even the normals are raging about bacon.  I’ve found countless blogs that are bacon based. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a magazine dedicated to bacon and bacon related topics. It’s the new thing, the new thing that isn’t new and now it’s annoying. Am I the only one who is fucking tired of it? I can’t be. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones that is making me find this so irritating.

There was a time in my life, I time I know as “Before Knocked Up” when little things, like bacon love, didn’t bother me. I could stand in line behind someone who smelled of a heady mix of booze, stale cigarettes and B.O. and not retch. I could wait on hold with my bank for 15 minutes and not want to stab someone in the face by the time they finally answered the phone. I would rarely, if ever, yell at other drivers and tell them maybe they should consider public transportation because the streets are not for imbeciles. Yes, there was a time.  Now, I still have moments when I’m not crazy. Like a dementia patient who one moment knows who you are and why you are there. I breath a sigh of relief when I realize I am acting normal and nothing feels so wonderful. Sometimes, I can manage an entire day when I don’t feel like a harpy. Other days, something irritates me almost as soon as I wake up and I spend my whole day trying to push the reset button become myself again.

Ah, pregnancy hormones. I understand now. I didn’t before but that didn’t keep me from having many irritating opinions about how pregnant women behave. I will admit it. I was wrong. I was super, fucking wrong. You really can’t help it. Any time a pregnant chick is being patient and pleasant and smiling, she is working to be that way and to stay that way. I know it now and I wish I had been gentler on my sex and I wish I had shut my big, fat mouth up before. Sorry girls, I was ignorant and I was an asshole.


Out Of The Mouths Of Pervs

I don’t expect to get much special treatment because I went and came down with a case of the babies.  I don’t ride public transportation very often and this is Los Angeles, so no one else really does either.  I have rarely ever seen anyone standing who did not want to stand on the red line here.  I can say red line and have it do double meaning for metro or subway  because we really only have the one line.  We are about to have another. From Downtown to three miles from the beach. Yeah, that’s super smart, stupid Transit Authority. Oh, crap, where the hell did that come from?

I don’t expect to have doors opened because that I’m an incubator doesn’t affect my arms at all.  I can still move them with the same speed and skill as I could before. Which is quite speedily and skillfully. The only time I had doors opened for me before was when I was too little to open them myself (do you remember doors being too heavy to push open, I do) or when I was on the first couple dates with a new guy.  After a month the level of service would drop down and and I would be expected to open everything myself or risk looking like a prima dona. Sometimes, if I didn’t really like the guy so much (usually because he was not so stellar in the sack) I would just stand at the doors like my arms were broken until the door was opened by someone.  Sometimes, I even got called again by that very same guy. Occasionally. Ok fine, twice. Two times. FINE, it was one guy and I think he had a micropenis.

The one thing I would like from the population at large is to be able to walk about and not be oogled.  I know if I’m wearing something tight or mini and heels then I’m going to hear a few comments from seemingly very confident men.  What I don’t expect is when I’m visibly knocked up and wearing a loose summer dress (okay fine, it wasn’t exactly a summer dress, more like a long summer shirt, but it was loose) and flats is to be told what someone would like to do with my ass (eat it) or my legs (wrap them around their head) or my mouth (I didn’t hear all of that one because an ambulance passed by but the start of it was gross.) I actually even thought that when girls are pregnant things like that didn’t happen anymore.  They way you hear dudes talk about cherishing and respecting pregnancy because the miracle of life, blah, god’s miracle, blah blah, carrying my little homie or what have you, you would think they would leave the knocked up chick alone.

Shouldn’t the belly be a big sign that they are not going to get to do any of the fun suggestions they are throwing out there? You would think they would be repulsed by it.  Some other guy got there first and befouled the place. Shouldn’t that be gross for another guy? Don’t they think about this shit? I know the fellas I was talking to and kinda hanging around with took the fuck off when I told them I was carrying a little monster.  Actually, that is kinda a lie, one did call me to see if it was possibly his. I explained that would have been pretty miraculous for that to happen as the sperm would have had to move from the back of my hand all the way to my uterus and that would be amazing.  By the way, hand jobs are totally back for the mid-late thirties set.  It’s like we’ve regressed to Junior High.

The point is though, pregnant chicks should be able to walk around and not hear cat calls.  We should get just six months in our lives, the six months that we are visibly off the market, to be able to walk in peace. I will even give a bit of leeway in this request, how about, if it is nighttime and the girl in question is wearing dark clothing and it’s hard to see if she is preggers, then feel free to cat call, but once you notice that the girl is out of order you quickly apologize out your car window (this totally happened last Friday when I was on my way to La Cita to visit with a few friends and the worst bar tender in all of LA.  I was totally fine with it.  Once I heard the “Oh, fuck, she’s pregnant, SORRY!” I was okay.  Totally forgiven.  Not his fault.

I cannot be so forgiving, however, during the day, when I’m walking towards a non-homeless man, and wearing a flowy dress-type thing with the wind blowing towards me and my belly sticking out past my boobs and still get to have what type of lingerie I would look best in yelled at me.  I’ve always been completely confounded my this type of cat-calling anyways. What, exactly, is the response these guys want? Do they want girls to go up to them and show them with type of undergarments their are currently wearing? Do they want an intelligent discussion in fit and form? I have seen a hooker go up to a guy who had a remark like that and just strip down, but I don’t know if that would be appropriate in the afternoon downtown.

So guys, how about it? How about you give me a few months of peace? I probably won’t be having anymore children so all I’m really asking for, in my whole life is less than one year to walk about without hearing creative ideas of what you would like to do with my vagina and what you would like to put in my mouth. I promise, as soon as I have the kid, I won’t feel disgusted by you anymore.  I may even flip you off when you holler at me or even, if you’re lucky, tell you to go fuck yourself. Okay guys? Deal?

Whore Clothes Make Great Maternity Clothes

I’m 12 weeks 3 days now.  Finally, I am starting to have more energy, although last night I did crawl into bed around 8 pm, but that was mostly because I was bored and it was a little cold in my warehouse.  I am no longer taking a nap around 4 in the afternoon till around 10 at night and then going back to sleep around midnight till 5:30 am.  I guess that is progress. I’ve spent the last few days going through my wardrobe to see what I will be able to wear for the next few months. Luckily, most of my clothes involve Lycra so they can do double duty, for a little while at least. Also, I’m really glad almost everything in my closet is black. I have had to make some dresses into shirts and I ,for sure, must wear tights or at very least fishnets with all of my skirts, but hey, it’s winter anyways.  My incredible increase in size seems to have settled down a bit.  I had gained 12 lbs by the time I was 11 weeks.  I was a little underweight, I suppose. For Los Angeles, I was the acceptable weight for a girl about town, but my mother insists I had no body fat.  I have twice assured here that I did, in fact, have some body fat; even enough body fat, as clearly I was still menstruating. Was.  I’m not anymore, obviously.  After dealing with nearly monthly cycles for 20 years, it is kinda pleasant. Alas, that is neither here nor there, on with the post.

I have been holed up in my room for the last month or more.  I don’t feel weird about being out or anything like that, I’m  just tired.  But, I had a birthday party to go to at a fancy lounge above Besso Tuesday night and I didn’t want to miss it.  I had announced my case of the babies to my little facebook world Sunday and some people were at least curious to see what had become of me. Like when you slow down for an accident. I had 7 pm dinner reservations, and it would take me 30 minutes to get from downtown to Larchmont at that hour (if I were lucky, but I always count on luck to move traffic along for me, which may be why I’m always late for things.) Normally, it takes me 45 minutes to get ready but I hadn’t done the whole make-up and hair thing in at least a month so I gave myself a little more time to do it. I had a new pair of lashes to size and put on as well and even when I am current with my make-up routine, that still takes some time.  I added an extra half an hour. I found a dress that was a bit too big when I bought it and was fitted, sort of. It was a little more fitted on the butt than I would have liked but it had an empire waist and was comfortable enough.  It would do.  My boobs were a little big for it, but they were not smooshed like Elizabeth Hurley likes to do, so I went with it.  No one will complain that my boobs look too big.  Not in my crowd. I found a pair of fishnets that were not “ruined” and then slapped on a pair of heels.  It was okay.  I looked good. I looked pregnant, but good. After fussing with my hair, who’s cut I still am not sure about, I was out the door. It was 20 till 7.  So much for the extra time I budgeted.

Dinner at Girasole was excellent.  It was a whole lot less boozy than dinner with my girlfriends normally is, but it was still fun.  Because I’m following the Weston Price Foundation diet for pregnant and nursing women, I got the pasta with clams. Pasta doesn’t really fit, but at least it was made in house, but the clams do and it was loaded with them.   I wish I had known the chef loved garlic so much before I ordered that though. That turned out to be a problem later. After a leisurely  dinner filled with talk of babies and stretch marks and speculums, I bid Sharon adieu and headed to the party.

I got there early, of course.  Ten on the nose.  The birthday girl was happy some people showed up at the beginning. I was happy to get a chance to chat with her early on, so she would remember it and I would be able to slip out after a reasonable amount of time. Because of the garlic, I would be leaving much earlier than I had thought I would.  As the lounge filled, I was having a hard time finding a discrete place to blow my garlic burps so as not to offend anyone’s olfactory nerves.  It was killing me.  By 11, I was yawing and starting to get a headache.  My friend was being annoyed by some man who smelled like tempera paint and modeling clay and was wearing payless shoes and a poorly fitted suit. He was clearly snorting the good stuff and not sharing with my friend, although she didn’t ask.  Probably a good thing.  She had to work in the morning.  After 11.30, we were able to find everyone knew and say goodnight.  We were in the car by quarter till and I was home by midnight.

Going out without drinking is nothing new to me.  When I had a shoot, I wouldn’t drink a drop for two weeks before and my social calendar never lets up so I had to go out anyways. I would just order water with lots of lemon or lime and call it good.  It was new to me to be leaving the party before midnight though. I’m not sure how I feel about it.  I guess it’s being responsible.  I guess it’s being a mom and having someone else to think about. It’s not though as much as I would like to think it was something reasonable like that. I was because I had a headache and because I wanted to go home and take those fishnets off and let my belly expand and burp in peace.

The Double Lines

It’s been 10 days since I saw the double pink lines in the 99 C store pregnancy test I had reluctantly purchased.

I hadn’t had my period for a couple months, but that was THAT odd, it did sometimes happen.  Not usually to me, but there were plenty of stories from women (on the internet) who skipped periods for nothing more than a slight hormonal problem so why not me? Maybe I would get lucky and have an ovarian cyst that was stopping up the works.  Huge tender breast can come from a cyst right? Right. I checked it on every medical website around.  They totally can.  Moodiness happens from being premenstrual so that was covered, I was very premenstrual. Cravings can come from that too.

The night sweats were harder to explain.  I immediately assumed that as a 32 year old it was perfectly reasonable to add pre- menopausal to my list of possible ailments. I looked it up, it can happen at 32. It can happen younger for Pete’s sake, so why not?  Well, at least if I was about to enter menopause, at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the ovarian cyst any longer.  I could get used to the hot flashes.

Sleep disturbances are totally normal for me, so I wasn’t even really trying to figure out why I wasn’t able to sleep till 8 am and why I was sleeping till 5 pm.  Those were pretty close to my normal hours anyways. The only thing was I found myself too exhausted to go out. This is truly a shocking development, as for the last few years of un or under-employment I had become almost a professional partier. But now,  I couldn’t even be bothered to take a shower. I would be on the guest list +2 every night and  all I wanted to do was layabout and read and nap.  I had become a house cat. It was this that led me to believe I had sunk deep into depression or maybe I had Chronic Fatigue.  The CF self-diagnosis was convenient because the diagnosis is so vague anyways.

I always have to pee so that also wasn’t such a concern.  I drink tons of water, but that is mainly to deal with the tons of bourbon I (used to) drink. The only nausea I experience was when I was my bartender friend poured me a shot of Wild Turkey because I was in the bar dressed as a turkey.  Yeah, that’s a long story.

Alas, I was beginning to not fit into much of my clothing.  I was eating like a manatee after all, so that would make sense. But, really it was more than that.  I may have been in denial, but I’m not stupid.  I knew what it all added up to.  I just didn’t want to know.  I was hoping my patented Immaculate Intervention method would work for me and if I didn’t really confirm it, I could miscarry and not be sad about being a poor vessel.  Once I knew, for sure, I would have to make a decision.

Abortion seemed to be the obvious answer. A single, 32 year old, party animal who lives in a ware house with three guys and four dogs and is living by the seat of her pants is not exactly what one thinks of when they think of a good time or person for motherhood.  I’m not at all pro-life. I mean, sure, live. But, I’m not even pro-choice. I would say I’m more, well, not pro-abortion, because that just seems wrong, but pro-planning and pro-doing the right thing for all parties involved. This was not how I had “planned” my journey into motherhood starting.  God, “journey into motherhood” sounds so ridiculous. But, what is this? My abrupt transition? My sudden realization that this is what is going to happen? My one thing in life I can’t procrastinate about? Fuck it. I don’t know. It is what it is.

Maybe adoption was the way to go. After searching around the internet for a bit, I knew couldn’t possibly let some bible-thumping weirdos from Temecula or Salt Lake City raise my child.  Oh no.  Not this kid.  I decided it would have to be a nice gay family.  I had a lot to choose from.  I read hundreds of stories. I read their websites and looked at their pictures.  I was the first time I cried about my pregnancy. Reading the stories of how they met and how much they wanted to raise a child together made tears stream down my face.  I felt for them. I really wanted to help them, but it made me feel so callous.  I was carrying this one thing that so many people would be willing to mortgage their houses for or fly around the world for and I was going to just give it away.  Actually, that’s a lie.  I was hoping to make some money on it.  Trade it for a new car.  Yeah, I know, it’s horrible. I’m not proud of myself for that, but like all of this, it is what it is.

It was that experience, the looking for adoptive parents experience that made me realize I was an ass. Here I was, at the perfect age for child rearing, carrying a child that would no doubt be beautiful (as I’m a looker and so is it’s dad) and smart (daddy’s super smart and I’m pretty bright) and it was here.  It was healthy because it was still there.  After 10 weeks of partying it was still there.  After the hot tubs, the smoking, the drinking, the coffee and being cinched into corsets it was still there.  I was even lucky enough to have relieved myself from my very high pressure, high stress job a while ago and had learned to cut my expenses and live cheaply.  I no longer needed to make tons of money, I could be even happier with less. I was at least in a good situation to have a child and actually get to raise it myself instead of plunking it in daycare or with a nanny.

I decided to do it. To keep it. I notified the father via text message. I quit drinking. I quit smoking and I switched to half caff. Those double pink lines had just changed everything.

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