….for one drop of sweet beer June 22, 2007

Before I got pregnant, I heard all the beer stories.  You know the ones.  The ones where women say “Oh, when I got pregnant, I didn’t even want beer.”  Or “When I was pregnant, just the thought of beer or wine would make me nauseous.”  “You won’t even want it, so you won’t miss it at all.”

They lie.

Perhaps these women were not pregnant during baseball season.  Perhaps they didn’t have a bunch of lushes for friends and co-workers.  Perhaps they just want to trick everyone into their little cabal of breeders.  At any rate, I most certainly do miss beer.  And wine.  And bourbon.  In the last week I have been in numerous situations where a beer (or 6) would have been lovely.  Joe and I went to visit our friend in Iowa, and really what else is there to do in Iowa?  I ended up designated driver for a carload of drunks all weekend, feeling queasy from the greasy hangover food that we ate at lunch rather than from the actual hangover.  Tip — greasy hangover food really is not as tasty without a hangover.   There was also a minor league baseball game involved, which didn’t help matters.  Watching baseball without drinking a beer is downright un-American.

And then this week, there was yet another baseball game — this one paid for by work, where they rented a sky box at Sox Park.  All you can eat, all you can drink.  Or all you can watch people drink, as the case may be.   I made the hostess bring me a 6-pack of Sharps.   But, as everyone around me grew more and more hilarious in their witticisms (at least they thought so), and the shots came out of the cupboard, I became more and more bitter.  I know it’s small, and petty, but I just couldn’t be around a bunch of happy drunks while I was drinking my near beer.  I mean, it’s not like I’m an alcoholic or anything (one hopes), but a nice 3-beer happy place on a beautiful afternoon in a fancy pants skybox while the White Sox are losing and people are making stupid jokes would sure be nice.  Instead, I took out my gluttony on the dessert cart.  Helmet sundae!  Bulk bag of Whoppers!  Peanut butter cookie!  Iced brownie!  Bring it on!

From there, I went to yet another bar that night, to hear another friend sing with her cabaret class from the Old Town School of Folk Music.  I didn’t stay for the karaoke afterwards, because much like baseball, karaoke without beer is kind of boring.  Last night I went to a fundraiser for AIDS awareness at a club, where again, there were light appetizers, and and open bar.  Sigh.  Again, I was the first to leave.  Every time I leave someplace, people say “Kelli, it’s so great that you’re a cool pregnant lady who still goes out and doesn’t just sit at home.”  Um, I guess. But really, if the measure of lameness is if I sit at home watching TiVo and never leave the house, that’s a pretty drastic measuring stick.  The fact that I leave at 9:00 pm to go home is also kind of, well, un-cool, to say the least.  Especially when I leave saying things like “I have to get out of the smoke.  It’s just not good for me, I think.”  And look longingly at the glowing cigarette and bottle of beer before heading home to soy milk and prenatal vitamins.

In a way, I think that more than the actually drinking, I miss myself 10 years ago.  The silly drunken escapades, the drunk flirtations, the carefree lifestyle that can only be lived when you don’t have a mortgage and live in an apartment with 3 friends and bad carpeting.  I know those days won’t ever come back.  I will NEVER again be able to stay out drinking until 2am and still come to work the next day on time, and actually get work done.  I will never again think that the lead singer in that band really likes me from across the room.  I will never again be a size 8.  And before I got pregnant, at least I could fantasize that I might, this weekend, find my inner co-ed, now I look forward to a future of planning outings 4 months in advance so I can line up a sitter, never coming home drunk because I might drop the baby, and worrying that my breastmilk will send the kid to AA.   I’m glad I enjoyed it while I could, however, it sure would be nice to be 25 again, wishing I could be 35 and have a loving husband,  life all figured out (ha!),  and a baby on the way.  Sigh.  I guess the grass is always greener, and the beer is always colder, on the other side.

Junk in my trunk June 13, 2007

So, I was doing my weekly goody-two-shoes volunteering at Blind Service Association, reading to someone I read to fairly often. He’s partially sighted, but still needs help reading his textbooks, since there’s so much reading.  When he found out I was pregnant, he said “So, you were pregnant back in February and March when you were reading to me?”  I answered that I sure was.  He then said “Yeah — you was already starting to fill out!”  I told him that my belly just keeps getting bigger and bigger.  He laughed.  “Naw.  Not your belly — your butt!”

Now, this is an African-American man, so I could tell myself that he perhaps, with Sir Mix-A-Lot, likes big butts and he cannot lie.  However, it wasn’t really said in a complimentary way.  And I surely don’t think that my ass was supposed to be growing when I was only 4 weeks pregnant.

I will try to console myself with the fact that the guy is legally blind.

Oxytocin Overload June 12, 2007

Holy moly. I am bonding with the world. The trees. The flowers. The rain. Even drivers on the Dan Ryan. I think that I must have an overdose of oxytocin, the hormone that makes you bond with significant others, babies, and cab drivers (in my case). Jeez. It’s kind of nice, really. Much better than being grumpy or crying at everything. JoeKim can do no wrong right now. I find myself looking at him with big moony doe-eyes, and saying “I’m so glad we got married,” and “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” in a dreamy voice. Usually he looks over at me and we both bust out laughing, because who am I? It is all very strange, but strange in a good way.

Overall, this stage of pregnancy really does seem to be the “honeymoon” that everyone talks about. I’ve got the good hormones going on, so I feel like I’m bonding with the baby (I am training myself to say “baby,” and not “fetus.” People look at you funny when you say “I am bonding with the fetus.”), and the flowers look especially lovely, and people are just so nice, etc, etc. I imagine this is very fleeting, and soon I will be waddling around in Chicago July humidity with weird haris growing from strange places from growth hormones. So, I am going to enjoy this while I can.

It really is like a honeymoon — between Joe on a pedestal and the, ahem, “blood engorged organs” I have, that make me want to have sex about every 20 minutes, it’s just like when we first started dating. So, maybe I am exaggerating about the sex a little bit, but I think I’m just like a guy. I think about sex an awful lot, and even thought I don’t necessarily try my come hither look often, I sure wouldn’t turn down a roll in they hay just about any time.

And, this might be too much information, but you’re used to that, right? I have been having with weirdest sex dreams. Dreams I am having sex with people I really would rather not have sex with. Ogre from Revenge of the Nerds. A gay male friend who, if you were going to pick gay male friends to have sex with, would definitely not pick this one. Even an old wrinkly woman. That one was weird, because I was actually in love with her, and kissing her whithered neck, thinking, “I hope that she isn’t self-conscious, and thinks I want someone younger, with no wrinkles, because I wouldn’t want to kiss anyone else.” It is quite odd. I’m so worried I’m going to have some sex dream with a co-worker or something, which would just be too weird. And eww. And now I’ve gone and done it — planted the seed (no pun intended) in my unconscious. Who knows what tonight will bring.

Don’t worry.  I’m sure I’ll be back to my usual grumpy, emotionally-unstable self anyday now.   Something to look forward to.

Sticking out June 6, 2007

My boobs and my belly are both vying for the title of “most protruding feature.”  So far, boobs win, but not by much.

Vive la renovation! June 3, 2007

We talked with the neighbor who was worried about everything in our renovation, and it turns out that she is just a JoeKim.  She just needs to know exactly what’s happening, and how it will affect them, and then she’s OK with it.  So, letters have been sent registered mail, and the permit can be gotten June 12.  Hopefully, shortly after that, the walls will come tumbling down (but only the ones we have designated.  But “the designated walls will come tumbling down” sounds kind of wussy.)

It’s a good thing that they agreed, actually, because this morning the caregiver for the elderly mother who is staying with them couldn’t get in, and ended up going home, so the mother was there all by herself, since the neighbors were out. They called us, and we went over to help out.  Luckily, another neighbor came over too, so we didn’t have to change Depends or anything, but the neighbors still felt pretty bad about it.  Of course they were gone being social justice superheroes — the woman is a lawyer for the Illinois Coalition for the Homeless, and had something to do for that, and the man was visiting a death row inmate.  So, I suppose I could give up communion assitant at church to help them out.  But at any rate, it’s a good thing they gave us the green light on our renovation, or else they’d feel pretty awful right about now.

Now, we just have to see if anything will be FINISHED by the time this baby pops out.  Or if there will be asbestos and lead paint and dust pollutants hanging around for our newborn.  Sigh.