Alcohol Does Not Define Me, It Simply Entertains Me

This past weekend I spent 4 days out of town for Girls Weekend. This was spent with my mother and her crew of friends, at a place called The Glen just across the border. It’s like camping for fancy pants people. There are nice trailers with add-a-rooms (a term just learned by me) complete with table lamps and hardwood floors, heat, toilets, showers and tarp covered camp fires. You eat, talk trash and make crude jokes, and most of all, spend time with your lady friends, drinking and being merry.

That is, unless you’re the first and only pregnant lady to ever grace a girl’s weekend at The Glen, and then you’re required to skip the drinking part.

Don’t get me wrong, it was still an awesome amount of fun. In a group ranging from the tender age of 23 (one of the other daughters to be invited) to the even more tender age of 53, it’s almost impossible not to. And when you see a fully grown, but slight woman prancing around in her friends bra, stuffed to the breaking point with socks to fill it out, while pretending to dry hump said bra owner from behind, you know you’re truly in a group of women not afraid to have a good time.

The flip side to this joyous occurrence is of course, what prompted said outward display, and many others throughout the weekend and that is of course our friend alcohol. No ladies weekend would be complete without a few beverages, but on this particular weekend, the shots they were a flowing.

Every woman (of which there were 12) had her own special concoction. This party has happened 2 times per year, over the last several years, and they all have their usuals. This being my first, and me being pregnant, I contributed only with food. However the other ladies MORE than made up for it. There were blowjobs and orgasms, bazooka joe’s and kimmy’s, and not to mention everyone’s favourites, tequila and Lemoncello.  If you don’t know what Lemoncello is, and I didn’t, it’s apparently an Italian liqueur which tastes like lemon pledge, and which will shine up your insides right.

And I’ll say again, it was a lot of fun, but with so much time devoted to shots and martinis, and the subsequent high pitched laughing fits that followed, I couldn’t help but feel a little left out. As I said above, alcohol may not define me, but it sure does its part in the entertainment.

I was of course able to join in, no worries, on all the fun. I rolled with the punches, kept my wit sharp and my fauxtini topped up, and even stayed up until 2-3am all 3 evenings. I was a trooper it was said many times, and I truly did enjoy myself, I just wished so hard I could join in the festivities, if even for an hour.

This is not to say I wished for even a millisecond that I was not pregnant. My little bean enjoyed the weekend as much as I, with a constant supply of tasty treats and the jovial laughing of 12 women enjoying each other’s company, who wouldn’t. I felt many a kicks and rolls from the bean, and if nothing else, I was comforted by the fact I knew I truly was carrying another life inside me. It can be easy to forget in this first half of pregnancy, with sporadic movement and the ability to still see ones toes.  But there the bean was, reminding me that mama you’re doing the right thing. And I knew it all along. However, that’s not to say I didn’t wish I had attended one of these events pre-pregnancy, as I am sure it would have been a blast to participate.

My husband has sometimes made the somewhat sick, but also intriguing joke that it would be nice if we could just put the baby on hold for one evening, so I could enjoy the better part of a bottle of wine. You know, if we could just pause time, or put the baby in some sort of external incubator for a short period, so mama could get her drink on. This may have been the only time I saw relevance in this idea.

I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about this. I’m not weak or alcoholic enough to truly feel sad about my inability to indulge in binge drinking. I do not for a moment regret being pregnant, and I would not ever consider trading in my bean for a bottle. It was just one of those times where you truly realize that some things are just better with a cocktail. I’ve spent copious amounts of time at parties, on trips and otherwise indulging in activities where alcohol is a prominent guest (can you say weekly ladies nights) and I’ve never once mourned the loss of my wine glass. But on this particular weekend, as my bean and I sat, cold and wet around a campfire plagued by northwestern October weather, I couldn’t help but think I’d be watching the clock less and letting my hair frizz more, if only I’d have a couple of drinks.

Of course the glass is half full side to this entire story is that, I never once woke up with a headache so bad and a thirst so voracious I thought I had been left to die in the dessert. I did not face the early morning wake up, where I laid there wishing I could sleep some more, but instead being kept awake by the increased sound of my heart beating. I did not face the bottle of Tums wondering if 2 is really the maximum I can take, or spend 26 minutes contemplating my ability to stomach a cup of coffee. I did not look haggard and worn (well comparatively, I was still fancy camping), feel like my mouth was made out of muppet skin or forget where I’d placed my watch. No, I woke up refreshed and alive, after a great night’s sleep in the quiet dark woods, ready to seize the day and hit the outlet malls. I woke up with a full memory of the night’s festivities (much to the chagrin of my fellow attendees) and the ability to breathe out through my nose, without tasting Vodka.

So I guess in the end, as much as I missed the parade of shots heading to the mixer in my stomach, churning there until morning when all the worst guests had to be evacuated in one gaseous form or another, I didn’t really miss anything and all.

And my bean and I? Well we’re just that much closer for it. 

Up 8 lbs, Down a Sense of Balance and Mastering the Art of Uncontrollable Irrational Crying...

So ya, pregnancy hey. Guess what else it messes with? Your centre of gravity. And you know, OBVIOUSLY, but stupid me, I thought this happened somewhere around the time I stopped being able to shave my own legs or see my feet. I didn't think it would happen so soon...or so violently. 


I fell down the stairs this morning...with a bang. And not only did I fall, I fell violently, with a vengeance. I fell with such force that it woke my husband up, he who sleeps through even the loudest of activities, and scared the crap out of the dog. I also scared the crap out of myself. It was early, and because summer has been sucked out of the sky the way my Dyson sucks up dust bunnies, it was pitch black. The dog was groggy, I had lied in bed since 445am, tossing and turning and just waiting out the ornery sound of the alarm, and I was tired. It was dark, I was tired and I missed the last 2 steps on my way down. 


Now, I have a habit of counting stairs. There are 9 from the yard to the door, 12 up to the second floor and another 14 up to my bedroom. With 37 chance to take a tumble, it's surprising this is the first time it's happened. I may be pregnant now, but I'm klutzy all the time. This morning, for some reason, I didn't count. I walked blindly down the dark stairs, and I missed a couple. 


So I crashed. And I crashed hard. As I lay there, in the dark, stifling my tears and listening to the dog shake and chattered in hiding, I tried to be quiet. Mortified, I didn't want my husband to come down to see what happened. I hoped I could move on, and pretend the crash hadn't occured. I neglected to realize of course that, when you cause a commotion of the proportions I did, you can't just hide it. He heard the crash, and the thump, and then he laid there waiting to hear me get up and move around. And when I didn't, he of course came flying down the stairs, completely sure he'd find me unconscious at the bottom of the steps. 


Instead he found me, in the dark, pretending not to cry. I tried to shake it off, but honestly I can't stop crying these days and seeing him there, concerned about me, just made it come on full force. Not to mentioned I was mortified and could feel my cheeks turning redder than the Canadian flag. 


I did eventually shake it off, I stood up, brushed my tears away and went about my day. I let the dog out, I walked up and down the stairs, from 1st to 3rd floors, in only the slightest amount of pain. I worried briefly about Herm (which is the term for my gestating baby  Him + Her = Herm. My girlfriend got Shim, and I get Herm), but soon realized that while I embarrassed and battered myself, Herm is safely wedge in there, surrounded by amniotic fluid, and likely just annoyed that he was awoken with such a thud. 


I thought I was ok. I thought, hey I fell but it's not so bad, I think I'll be ok. I drive to work, dropping off my husband and even walking the dog to my friends. I park the car and walk 4 blocks to work in the pouring rain, I go up and down the stairs 3 times to get coffee, and use the washroom and I am fundamentally fine. Feeling like a disaster, a disaster with a protruding belly and an ever increasing loss of self control, but a disaster that can walk none the less. 


Then I had a conference call, and sat for an hour without moving. I sat for an hour without moving, and when I stood up to use the washroom, I painfully realized I was not ok. I put pressure on my ankle and was shot back in my chair with the force of a shot gun blast. I couldn't stand. 


I cried out, and my friend who works with me came running. I was a mess. I was dizzy, I was in pain and worst of all, I just wanted to CRY. But I irrationally spent all of yesterday morning crying at work, so I was trying to refrain. 


After an attempt at icing and working through it, I had to go home. I had to have a coworker bring his car around, and take me home. I had to have my girlfriend wheel me from the office, to the elevator and out the front door in her office chair, and then hop and hobble my way to the car. And even better, when I got home, I had to have my coworker physically carry me up those 9 front stairs, so I could get into the house. I've gained 8 lbs and I had to ask my co-worker to CARRY ME up my stairs, so I could get in the house. 


I've spent the rest of the day, hopping around on one foot, driving my tenants crazy, and having to carefully consider how badly I need to use the washroom. I am starving and dehydrated, home without my car or my dog, and stuck with 1 foot in a house full of stairs. My husband isn't home, and he is legitimately out taking care of something so he can't even be here to help me. 


And did I mention, I can't stop crying? 


I love this little baby, I love this baby more than I can believe, but the combination of my cantaloupe sized uterus, the hormone induced loose ligaments and my ever raging hormones, has me falling down and in tears. And this further plays into the fact that I am never ever going to wear pregnancy with grace. Instead, I'm wearing it like a train wreck. 

Blogger hates me, and I want some mother effing pumpking pie and chocolat milk...

Ok so it's time to have one of those pregnant lady melt downs I've heard so much about. 


First, let me start by saying I don't understand why technology hates me these days. I'm not insane, and I do have more than 1 brain cell, so I don't get why the simple things aren't working. It started with trying to load pictures to Facebook, then trying to update Twitter and NOW, trying to post to my blog. 


You see, I don't want it to be in mini-font designed for teenagers with good eyes. Unfortunately, the only other option Blogger is providing me with is made for the blind. My first 2 posts were posted using the "normal" font, which is also what the 2 more recent posts were posted using. See a difference? The Normal displays as Small now, but the Larger displays in type for the blind so I guess, nothing displays as "normal" anymore. And I hate it. It's ugly. It's too small and it's inconsistent. I hate hate HATE inconsistency like this, and I will literally lose sleep. I am about 2 seconds away from giving up on Blogger and moving to a more reliable platform. What's giving me the restraint not to freak out is the fact that there are only 4 people on the planet who ever read this, and I somehow doubt they spend much time stressing over the font. 


So fine. I'll drop it. Blogger hates me and I hate it.


That brings me to my next problem - pumpkin pie. I love pumpkin pie and I wait ALL year for it to come out. I've already managed to eat 1 entire store bought pie to myself, and have consumed more pumpkin scones and muffins that I care to admit. So not surprisingly, I was REALLY looking forward to Thanksgiving Dinner with my dads side of the family tomorrow, where I could eat grandmas hand made pumpkin pie! You know, the kind made with real pumpkin and spices, with love and care that you can taste. Opposite of the $13 store bought ones mass produced in pre-frozen pie crusts that use no real butter, but do use faux flavouring. These are also the ones that are so heavily preserved it's hard to know if they are even from this season. 


But my family changed plan on me in the last moment, and now I can't go to my dad's Thanksgiving, since they are now having it on the Monday also, and I don't want to mess my mother over like that. So, there goes grandma's pumpkin pie. 


Now, it isn't a complete catastrophe. I do get to go to my moms on Monday, and she will make a real pumpkin pie, even though she doesn't eat it. And it will be very tasty. And I will love ever creamy, spicy bite. But by my math, my REAL pumpkin pie consumption opportunities have been cut by 50%, and I'm not impressed. Sure we're in a recession, but I refuse to cut back on pumpkin pie the first and only time I've ever been pregnant during pumpkin pie season. 


I want some mother effing pumpkin pie, and damnit, I'm going to pout. 


Finally, I just came home from work to finish off the bottle of super tasty chocolate milk I impulse bought yesterday, and I've decided it wasn't enough and I want more. Now. 


So that's my first pregnant lady rant and freak out. I am not satisfied. And I don't know if I ever will be, unless Blogger smartens the fuk up, and someone makes me a goddamn pie! 

Glamourous Pregnancy? I don't think so.....

I wanted to wear pregnancy with grace and glamour. The way you wear a vintage scarf or that really cool necklace your great grandmother left you. I wanted to remain my stylish self, with the flare for accessorizing and the need to stay ahead of the trends. I had great plans to dress myself in flattering fabrics, bright and interesting patterns and this season’s hottest colour palate. I really did. And that was great, until I realized, I am no longer the fashionista I once was.

And this is not due to a choice I made. Well, I suppose it is. I did choose to impregnate myself with a miniature version of 50% me and 50% of my husband. I did choose to turn my body over to the scientific miracle that is gestation of another human, moving weekly through the various produce comparisons (I’m up to an avocado right now in case anyone’s in the mood for a sandwich) but, what I did not choose was to be forced into fashion victimization by this miracle taking up residence in my abdomen.

You see, as my little miracle continues to grow and develop (and I do fully enjoy each and every moment this baby spends in there, growing and developing – hopefully into an extremely good looking, well adjusted human being who is going to save the world with the invention of a new form of energy while simultaneously winning literary awards and cooking like a Michelin level chef), it also pushed my once flat tummy out farther and farther. Now this is not a rant about getting fat. So far, I’ve enjoyed watching my once svelte body turn rounder and change with the growth of my baby. It’s truly a miracle, and looking back at my weekly photos, it’s also not as slow a progression as it seems from the outside. But with this newly rounded (and sure to get MUCH rounder) belly, comes the challenge of dressing this new form.

I had the misconceived notion that the move from regular clothes would be both seamless and swift. However, I neglected to consider what is known as the “in-between period”. You see, my regular clothes are getting tighter and less comfortable. All my sexy, nice ass, skinny jeans are now tucked away in a drawer I hope to once again need access to. There is just no way I can justify cramming my baby into pants that only just fit before I got knocked up. So one would think I was free to move onto the few pieces of maternity clothes I purchased 45 seconds after peeing on the stick. Unfortunately, this is not so. Those clothes are still too big, and that pants give me worse plumber butt than a gangsta rap wanna be. The shirts fit nicely everywhere, except the stomach, where they hang lifeless, like a half inflated balloon looking for air.

So I’m stuck between a hot and a cute place. A place known as buying stuff one size too big and wearing an invention known as the belly band.

I am sure belly bands are where it is at. Everyone says so. You just put it on and voila, you can walk around all day with your pants undone, and it is considered socially acceptable. What it doesn’t do is make me feel like I look good. I just feel like I look like my pants are too small and I’m trying to hide it – which is exactly what is going on. Also, I take issue with the fact that I'm walking around with my pants undone. I don't know why, I guess I've just been trained not to parade around half dressed in public (private is a different matter). 

Now the one size bigger clothing, this seems to work. Except, while it fits the belly, it looks a little ridiculous everywhere else. My shoulders and ribcage have not expanded, and neither has my ass. Just my belly. So draping giant pieces of fabric over the bony features I’m so used to flaunting does nothing for my glamour level. Except maybe kill it deader than the skunk I saw on the, road this morning. To boot, I’m still wearing leggings and such that used to fit me perfectly and stretching them out. This has the unfortunate side effect of creating what I like to call the front wedgie. I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.

Finally, to my stretchy wonderful skirts and dresses, which I love so dearly and can still comfortably wear, the problem with you is your length. Now I suppose that’s not YOUR problem, but my bellies. Because since the belly sticks OUT farther, the fabric pulls up, making the front of the skirt Paris Hilton short, which is not appropriate for a 29 year old any day, let alone a pregnant one.

And you know, it gets better.

I don’t know if anyone has spent any time LOOKING at maternity clothes in stores these days, but I just have one question – what the eff are they thinking?

Seriously? Since when does being pregnant mean I instantly need to graduate to washed out mom jeans that give you flat ass, and patterns and fabrics that must have been purchased at a Dress Barn inventory sell off sale. Not only do I have to go from chic to eeck, I have to do it in floral pattern blouses and flannel tops (and I’m not talking the cute ones that are all the rage these days, I’m talking get yer plow out, we’re bailing hay flannel). I also have to do it in layers of smelly acetate that will only work to accentuate the fact that the pants under the shirt are threatening to sever my body in half.

Now I supposed I could go boutique maternity shopping, buying $300 jeans and equally pricey tops and jackets, but I’m no Duggar and I don’t plan to be pregnant for the next 3 years let alone 19, so why would I need to spend so much on my interim wardrobe? Let’s face it, I don’t spend that much on my regular wardrobe?

So I’m stuck. I’m stuck here; waiting to find the mecca of mat, hoping that one day things will once again fit or look like they do, and I can get back to the glamour I once dreamed of. I see cute, well dressed pregnant ladies all the time, but I’m convinced they make their own clothes. And I don’t know how to sew a button on, let alone a giant lycra panel into a pair of old pants.

I really did think pregnancy and glamour could work together in tandem, taking me through this journey in my life, to motherhood, while allowing me to maintain an ounce of my former self. But I am starting to wonder if this cruel and unusual punishment of cheap ugly tops and ill fitting pants is designed to force my life to change in advance of the arrival of my little one. And I mean change more than the fact I have not had a beer or martini in well over 3 months time.

It’s a small price to pay for my child, and of course I’m doing it without an ounce of regret. But I can’t help but wonder why it is this way? I’ve theorized that maternity clothes are made for the masses, the ones who live their lives in suburban trailer parks and identical planned community row homes, pumping out baby after baby in an attempt to build there own soccer team. And if this is the case, then it’s probably ok, because those people like to shop at dress barn anyway. But for us city dwellers, the hideous options for this 10 month period (yes, pregnancy is 10 months, they lie) are a little harder to swallow than those peanut sized pre-natal vitamins I am taking twice daily. 

And to my horror, I’ve recently learned that many women’s feet grow an ENTIRE size during their pregnancy (and they don’t shrink back), which means, I’m not only giving up my stylish clothes, but also my ENTIRE shoe collection….which I’ve spent YEARS amassing. Much longer than it takes to gestate this baby!

So, if you see me on the street, (I'll be the one in a giant sweater dress that is too short in the front, limping painfully down the street in my stylish, yet snug knee high boots) feel free to question my choice of outfit. I may look like I let a blind donkey dress me, but it's the only thing I can wear.