Cirque du Bebe

So it turns out there is a baby in my belly!

OK, obviously I've known about this pregnancy for two entire months now, but I never felt this truly and honestly pregnant until yesterday when I went in for a 12-week ultrasound. I mean, last time we took a peek inside at 8 weeks, all I could see was a small white blob, which the doctor referred to as a baby. And I loved this small white blob, and I knew it was MY small white blob, but let's be honest ... how thrilling can a blob really be? 

Well, yesterday, the moment they put the scanner thing on my belly, ta-daaa! There on the screen was a freaking BABY. With fingers! And legs! AND A FACE! And oh my goodness, was it an active little thing. My tiny acrobat! I just felt so damned proud of it as it bounced and stretched and waved its wee arms ... it rolled over and twisted and turned ... one time it even stood on its head! It took my breath away. And then I saw Sal checking the Dodgers score on his BlackBerry, and I got it back again.

Just kidding. Well, I mean, Sal really did check the score. But in his defense, we had to wait quite awhile for the baby to be in the exact right position for this screening, so we had a lot of down time. Also in his defense, he was gleefully watching the Giants get pounded, and that plus hanging out with his on-camera baby is otherwise known as my husband's best day ever. And I'm SO not interfering with that.

It's like holding your breath for five weeks

One thing I have learned about myself is that if I can't speak freely on this blog about what's on my mind, it's hard to speak at all.

So when I found out I was pregnant last month, and we decided to keep a lid on it for awhile, it gave me a crippling case of writer's block. It sucks when all you can talk about, think about, fret about, dream about and beam about is a big, fat secret.

But now it's out, and I hope you'll allow me to finally take a few giant, gasping glugs of air here, while I remember everything I can about the past five weeks:

- I took the test on Valentine's Day, when I was three days late. I knew I was going to test that morning, but didn't tell Sal because I didn't want to get his hopes up for nothing. I tossed and turned all night because I was so anxious for morning to arrive, and as 5:30 a.m. rolled around, I couldn't take it anymore. I went to the bathroom, peed on the stick, and then watched the digital monitor flash a little clock at me for about a minute. Then it blinked, "Pregnant." I did this funny shriek-sob-gasp thing, clasped my hands over my mouth, and then stared at my face in the mirror for awhile. Then I checked the stick again. Still pregnant. I raced into the dark living room, then back to the bathroom to check the stick. Then to the living room, then the kitchen, then back into the bathroom to check the stick. Did a few more laps like this, not sure why, it just seemed like the thing to do. I finally made it into the bedroom to wake up Sal, who stumbled sleepily into the bathroom with me to check the stick. Still pregnant! These new digital tests are the best, because it actually has the word RIGHT THERE. So much cooler than pink lines.

- The first thing we did after this was go out to breakfast, where I triumphantly ordered decaf.

- We were both off that week, me for winter break, and Sal on furlough. So with nothing but time on my hands, I read everything I could get my hands on about being pregnant. Days later, I slid into a truly bitchy funk. I was worried, cranky and very unhappy. (Then I'd feel guilty for being unhappy at being pregnant, which made me feel even worse. It was one hell of a spiral.) Then I realized something kind of important: Most of the stuff written about being pregnant and giving birth is quite alarming. "Your hair will fall out!" "Your marriage will suffer!" "You'll never sleep again!" "Your finances are screwed!" "YOUR VAGINA WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!" I suspected I had just OD'd on the whole topic, so I put myself on reading restriction for a week or so, and that lifted all the clouds.

- Speaking of reading, Sal got a hilarious and very informative book called "Dad's pregnant, too" by Harlan Cohen. It kicks the crap of "What to expect when you're expecting." A sample passage from a section entitled "Tip #27 THE ME-TOO EXPECTANT FATHER: She Doesn't Give A Shi* If You're Tired":

"If your partner is complaining that she has a headache, don't say 'My head hurts, too.' If your partner is tired, don't tell her how tired you are, too. If she says she's nauseous, don't be nauseous, too. When she complains about aches and pains, don't talk about your aches and pains (even if you're a professional football player). If she says she can't sleep at night, don't tell her how you can't sleep, either. If she talks about her big belly and stretch marks, you can talk about your big belly and stretch marks, but only in an attempt to make fun of yourself (weight jokes about her are never never never never never never funny - she might laugh, but she'll kick your ass later)."

- I miss drinking. A lot. Nobody ever seems to write about this, because I guess you're supposed to feel all "Tra-la-laaaa! I'm a perfect and serene mommy-to-be who is thrilled to trade her martini glass for a nice, warm mug of pregnancy tea!" Surprisingly, drinking fruity non-alcoholic cocktails makes me feel tons better. Like I didn't get kicked out of the party. Also, for obvious reasons, one of the first people we told was my favorite bartender at my favorite bar, and he made it his mission to come up with interesting, delicious "cocktails" that he discreetly serves to me before I even have to ask. Awesome.

- Speaking of drinking, my husband is a genius. Early on, I was fretting about how I'd get through parties and dinners without people noticing that I wasn't drinking. Sal had an idea that must have pained him greatly, which was that he'd give up drinking for Lent. This took all the pressure off me, as everyone would stand around aghast at the diet coke in his hand, and they barely even noticed that I wasn't drinking either, to be "supportive."

- Except for the most debilitating exhaustion I have ever felt in my life and some queasiness that seems to have subsided in the past week, I am mostly feeling OK. I have only barfed once, and to be honest, I thought it was kind of cool.

- The first thing I read about week five of pregnancy was how the embryo was no bigger than an appleseed, and that's how we now affectionately refer to the baby. As in, "Uh, Sal? Appleseed's craving a nice cabernet."

Maybe that's all for now - oh, except to answer the big questions: I'm almost at 10 weeks, due Oct. 21, and we aren't going to find out the gender till the baby is born. And no, we do not expect Chickens to be thrilled about this.

Gussied up

Chickenbone slurps up his dad's face at the Fur Ball, last weekend's black-tie fundraiser for Humane Society Silicon Valley. Notice the chic faux-diamond-studded collar!

Despite the hairy, leg-lifting, yapping, slobbery, snarling chaos caused when you mix hundreds of dogs and people plus tons of delicious food in one big tent, a fine time was had by all. Except for maybe the woman whose evening gown Chickens peed on. Hey, he's EIGHT INCHES tall, OK? I'm sure he thought it was just a wall or something. Give a guy a break.

View more photos of the evening (check out Fur Ball Queen Kathy Griffin, whose hair is the exact same color as Chickenbone's!) here.

This and that

I'm totally overloaded with things to write about here, so you'll forgive a hodgepodge of updates, won't you?

First, the back yard is all better. Within two hours of my post on the broken tree limb, a very nice old gentleman who owns a tree service business arrived. He let out a long whistle when he came into the yard and said we have one of the biggest peppercorn trees he has ever seen. Then he walked up to one of the fallen branches and lifted it high. Leans over to me and makes a joke that seemed to give him immense joy, despite being told hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of times: "Do you know what this is?" he says, peering at me closely. "Um ... a peppercorn tree?" I ask. He grins and says cheerfully, "It's nature's way of pruning your tree!"

Oh! Ha! Hahaha! OK, now cut the crap and go get your chainsaw.

He really was terrific, though, and the very next morning he came out and tidied things up. He even chopped up a bunch of the wood and stacked it up for us to use in our fireplace.

Sal and I also went on vacation. Now that seems like a million years ago. And every time I went to write about it, something would happen, generally something at work, and generally something unpleasant. But I'm determined to tell you, though, about how our John Williams concert was nearly ruined by a disgusting, smelly cow of a woman who reeked like she hasn't showered in a month. Mere moments after Sal and I cracked open a bottle of cold chardonnay and unwrapped our hot dogs for a quick dinner before the show, this gal plops herself down in the seat in front of me and pulls out of her backpack a tub of hummus the size of her head. The moment Sal smelled her, his eyes darted in my direction, because he KNEW I was gonna freak.

You see, there are many objectionable things in this world, but at the very tippy-top of my list are people who stink. I'm not saying that a little extra B.O. at the end of a long day (such as my nasty 12-hour shift yesterday) means you were born in a barnyard. I'm saying that folks who do not hose off their big, smelly bodies at least once a week or so really do need their own section at the Hollywood Bowl. MY GOD, I cannot stand the smell of B.O. And, I mean, we were outside! There was a breeze! And it was still so bad that I had to turn my head all the way around and take quick teeny gulps of air before facing forward again.

As the minutes passed, my temper boiled at the fact that this stench was going to ruin a concert we had looked forward to for months. So after about 15 minutes I marched over to one of the ushers and told him the problem. The show was sold out, so he didn't know how to help me. But he sent me over to his boss, who seemed to take pity on the crazy lady sputtering about showers and homeless people and garlic-flavored hummus. And in five minutes he had us moved to great seats that were even a little closer to the stage.

Oh! But the stench does not end there, my friend! Because just days after this concert, I was eating lunch with Sal, my aunt and my cousin at a pizza restaurant in Cambria when a disgusting unshowered individual sat right behind me. And when the stench wafted into my nose, I almost hurled. Again, I had to move. So you see, America, please just take a bath. I do not know what sort of nasal dysfunction keeps you from passing out when you smell your very own self, but perhaps you could try using your eyes: If you actually see folks RUN AWAY WHEN YOU GET NEAR THEM, it could be time to hop in the tub.

OK, let me post a couple of vacation photos, and then I gotta jet. These are from the Santa Barbara zoo:

This is Janine, a crooked-necked giraffe. Don't be afraid! She was born that way and the zookeeper says she is a happy giraffe, and that her neck doesn't hurt her at all.

When Sal walked up to this bald eagle, he solemnly sang the first verse of "America the Beautiful" in its entirety.

I was watching the toucans when I heard Sal hissing at me to come look at something. He's waving his finger and pointing wildly at two turtles who are MADLY going at it. I mean, you can actually hear the top turtle grunting repeatedly as he bumps and grinds with his girl below. Look close, you can even see his open mouth! And so before I know it, this little girl runs up to the tank and begins laughing hysterically. "MOMMY!" she whirls around, laughing. "Lookieeeee! They're playing leapfrog!"

No longer newly wed

Let's see, one year ago today I was running around town like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to finish umpteen-million last-minute wedding preparations. Meanwhile, Sal was at home, tasked with typing in and printing out place cards for our 162 guests. Therefore I was surprised when I walked in the front door and saw that, in fact, this had not happened. And by "surprised" I mean "ready to skin someone alive with my bare, but beautifully manicured, hands." The computer was dark, a bunch of ink-smeared, crunched-up labels were strewn about the room, and in the middle of the mess sat Sal looking slightly fearful of his wild-eyed bride.

But before I could go all waah-ooh-waaaah-don't-you-care-about-our-wedding on him, I realized what was going on: Evidently our printer hated the place cards I bought at Target. Chewed them up and spit them out. So realizing how likely I was to explode into full-on bridezilla mode if I came home to no place cards, Sal ditched the printer idea and began to write them out individually.

By hand.

In CALLIGRAPHY.

That, friends, is the kind of man I married. The kind of man who, two weeks after he proposed, bought a calligraphy kit at Barnes and Noble and spent hours at our kitchen table teaching himself the craft. I lost track of how many days it took for him to hand-address all our invitations. They were exquisite. And because he had ALL that practice, it was no trouble for him to crank out the place cards, too.

I married a man who saves the day, all the time, sometimes even saving the day multiple times in the exact same day.

So off we go to Southern California to celebrate one year of matrimonial good times. We're headed first to Los Angeles, where we'll see John Williams and the L.A. Philharmonic perform movie music at the Hollywood Bowl. And the Dodgers. Then we'll enjoy a few sunny days in Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo before heading home. When we return, I'm sure I'll have many fine vacation tales to tell, and hopefully this time they won't end with a syringe in my spine. See ya!

P.S. Thanks, Gamy, for the hilarious anniversary card!

Breakfast with dad

He'd very much enjoy a refill, please.

Taking a little trip

Tomorrow I'm getting on an airplane and flying to Dallas. Every time I tell somone I'm going to Dallas, they cringe. But truly, lots of fun things await me there!

I'm going to attend a conference for the Association of Women in Sports Media, otherwise known as AWSM, and cheesily pronounced as "Awesome." I'm really looking forward to it, and not just because it's a break from office and home-buying chaos. It's also because I get to ride in a race car! Seriously. On Friday night we're going to Texas Motor Speedway, where I'll take a ride in a race car at 150 mph for four laps. I also get to wear a "fire suit," which I presume is to keep the barf from getting on my clothes.

The conference itself should be neat, too. Dave Barry is the keynote speaker at the gala Saturday night, for one thing. And for another, I hear Christine Daniels will be attending. Do you know Christine Daniels? She is the L.A. Times sportswriter formerly known as Mike Penner, who last month wrote in the newspaper that he is changing his gender. I have been following this story closely, mostly because I have always been mystified about transsexualism. I'm not against it, I just plain don't understand it. But Christine explains it in a way I can digest. And the story of her struggle, which she is still telling on her blog, is quite gripping.

Then there's the matter of the hotel. I just adore staying in nice hotels. Last night I was reading the description of this one, and my toes curled to read about the Crabtree & Evelyn toiletries, the down pillows, the 250-thread-count sheets. I don't even know what an "ion hair dryer" is, but I'm sure as shit glad I'll have one in Dallas. And I am trying to enjoy all this anticipation as much as possible now, because I know what will happen when I'm actually there. I'll climb into in that big comfy bed and realize that sleeping without my husband, and my little dog curled up under the blankets next to my stomach, pretty much sucks. And even something called a "Serenity Bed Super Topper mattress pad" won't help.

He also kills the spiders

I was already running late this morning when I peeled the little piece of foil off the top of my new deodorant and started twisting the dial that pushes the gel up to the top.

And twisting.

And twisting.

Nothing comes out. I start spinning the dial furiously, staring at the three little dispenser holes, but nothing happens. I moan in disgust.

Sal - who, I'd like to point out, was TWO ENTIRE ROOMS AWAY - hears this and asks what's wrong. I tell him my new deodorant is broken. "Give me that," he says.

Thirty minutes, a hand towel, a screwdriver and probably several swear words later, he has performed this crazy husband magic and transplanted all of the gel INTO THE OLD EMPTY CONTAINER.

And if you think this was the moment I realized again how deeply I adore this man, you'd be wrong. That didn't happen until he looked at me worriedly and said, "My hands smell like women's armpits."

Sometimes you have a bad week.

But then your husband e-mails you an adorable picture of your sleeping little puppy, and that makes you feel a little better, because he is so damned cute all snuggled up in his blanket (which he pulled over his body all by himself, using his teeth - his TEETH!), and also because you can use it to stop being a lame-ass who doesn't give her three cherished and loyal blog readers anything new to look at in almost a week:

Pillow talk

Me: I love you.

Him: I love you, too.

Me: No, I mean, I REALLY love you.

Him: Oh. ... Yeah, that's not what I meant.

Making his point

Him: Good night.

Me: Night!

...

Me: I'm not tired. Are you?

Him: Yes.

Me: Do you have a busy day tomorrow?

Him: Yes.

...

Me: Don't you want to talk about "Lost"?
Him: No.

...

Me: What do you want to do tomorrow night?

Him: How about I get a stick and beat you in the head?