Let's Get It On

Ok, here's the thing. For many pregnant women, the lovely pheromones will kick into overdrive during their second trimester. I've been anxiously hoping this would happen, because lets be honest, morning sickness hasn't bode well for that. So yay for me that I got my first kick of it, but not so yay when it happened smack in the middle of a business trip, while I am sitting in a meeting. It surely was not the topic of top priority value drivers in software mergers and acquisitions that got me hot under the collar, but there I was during a death by powerpoint presentation with my legs clenched together. Then I get into my rental car at the end of the day to take myself out for some sushi, and Muse is playing on the radio when I turn on the car. That was so not fair. To explain, Muse is to me what Barry White is to normal people. Is someone trying to torture me here? Why don't you just parade in front of me the luscious David Beckham wearing nothing but underwear while you're at it?

Crazy Bread (or Crazy Me?)

If you've never had Little Caesar's Crazy Bread, it alone is worth a trip to heartland. It is puffy, buttery, garlicky heaven, dusted with a substance resembling parmesan cheese and served with a vat of sauce. I've not eaten Crazy Bread in years, but when a pregnant childhood friend of my husband's emailed me from Michigan about her insatiable Crazy Bread cravings, that was it. I had to have it. I morphed into crazy pregnant monster, like the transformation of the incredible Hulk. The problem? There are no Little Caesar's in this county. I think I will have to talk to Mike Illitch, Mr. Caesar himself, about this problem. But in the meantime, what is the Hulk reincarnate to do? Why call her local pizza joint and as sweetly as possible, explain her craving and ask if they can assist. The chef obliged, and while this version did not contain the fake butter that always seeps through the bag and won't come off your hands, it was pretty damn fantastic if I do say so myself. Upon sharing my triumph with our friend, she asked if I told the pizza people that I was pregnant. That probably would've been a good idea. Crazy pregnant lady is much more justifiable than just crazy lady.

Is It Really That Complicated?

During my OB appointment today, I was asked to give a urine sample. On the bathroom wall was a huge poster with step by step instructions for both men and women on how to properly urinate into the little plastic container, complete with anatomy diagrams. Am I missing something? Don't you just, I don't know. pee in the cup?

Promises

Pregnancy is like rehab, in that one is forced to detox during participation. Similar to a rehab facility like Promises, my kitchen is now devoid of cheap wine and cases of Labbats. I imagine that a communal TV is also the focal point of activity at Promises, except for maybe when Linsday Lohan stops by.

So what did I do this Saturday night, you may ask? Why, watch TV of course. I almost peed myself when I saw that the Bay Area PBS station was broadcasting the Crowded House set from the Austin City Limits festival earlier this year. This summer, I flew to NYC to see them play two shows, then the following week flew home from a trip to LA on a 6 AM flight to catch their show that night in Chicago. They were three of the best shows anywhere ever, and there was me, each time, in a tight shirt, jumping up and down in true House of Pain fashion. A beer in one hand, waving frantically at the stage with the other, I screamed at Neil Finn like a teenager, hoping he would pull me up on stage to dance with him like Springsteen did with Courtney Cox in the Dancing in the Dark video. Now fast forward a few months, and there was me, at home in my yoga pants, a lemonade in one hand, holding my chest with the other because it now hurts to bounce, singing with Neil on the TV.

Good times.

BYOP (Bring Your Own Pillow)

I finally acquiesced to my growing size, which I will blame on Two Lines, but really should blame on the copious amounts of food I consume these days, and went to a maternity store. While trying on maternity jeans (the un-sexiest article of clothing imaginable), I noticed that hanging from the hook in the dressing room was a round pillow with a velcro strap. The overly cheerful sales woman explained that I should put the pillow around my belly so I can see how I will look in these pants in three months. I laughed, but apparently she wasn't kidding about her oh so sanitary and inviting idea. Oops. There are certain types of things I enjoy putting in my pants, but, ahem, this was not one of them.

So I left the store without maternity jeans, but instead bought a very sparkly purple dress on sale that I could try on sans pillow. It totally makes me look like an eggplant, but at least an eggplant can conjure up the image of yumminess, say smothered in garlic sauce. The maternity jeans, not so much.

Bring on the Dyson

Upon consuming a giant dark chocolate peanut butter cup, almost entire family size jar of pickles and salt and vinegar potato chips in one sitting, I complained to my husband that I didn't feel well. He smiled and gave me the following cheeky reply:

"You are not a vacuum."

It made my stomach hurt even more to laugh.

I think the fact that I, the class act, am using a rubber band to keep my pants closed when my {stupid} books tell me that most women do not gain much or any weight in their first trimester, indicates otherwise. I would say that my being a human vacuum was a one time thing, but I will take the realistic route, which is an overdue shopping trip for some dreaded maternity clothes. And more pickles.