Little Rap of Delight

Untwist your panties, people, here I am. Backity back and in effect.

Sorry for my delinquent blogging, but I have been a virtual cocktail of Busy, Traveling, and, as per usual, Extremely Lazy. Do you know what happens when lazy people undergo the duress of extreme work hours in combination with international travel? We essentially implode with laziness, sleeping whenever we have two minutes alone, kickin up the feet and dropping the lids on the subway, in a car service, in airport restrooms.

I just got back from India, like 5 minutes ago. I apologize for worrying your pretty heads, because all appears well with E and the wee fetus. Her recent scan revealed the cyst on Le Fetus' brain is gone, which is what nearly always happens with these types of cysts, regardless of an underlying problem. But it was a relief nonetheless.

What's cool is that is that E feels her kicking now without having to lie face-down in public toilets. That's a major improvement.


So, In All Seriousness, thanks to my sweet lurking friends and others who expressed interest in my well being. You people don't know me and yet you took time out of your day to leave me some kind words. It was surprisingly touching to return home and discover that there are people in the world interested in my story, as boring and half-assed as it seems to me most of the time.

See how I'm like a loaf of crusty bread? My barnacly exterior shields a soft steamy interior.

Don't tell anyone.

Fear Lives In My House And Drinks All The Strawberry Milk

E has her 23 week check-up with the OB tomorrow. More than halfway through her pregnancy, her anxiety has only marginally improved. To give you an idea of her mindset, know that she lay, facedown, on the floor of the Jeep dealership bathroom last weekend in order to feel the baby move.

She prepares for the baby in fits and starts. One day she'll demand a trip to Target for baby clothes hangers, the next day I find her teary-eyed on the couch amongst empty glasses of strawberry milk, claiming "The Baby Is Dead."

As an aside, can you imagine my blood pressure levels in these moments? Arriving home from work at 11:30 to find my pregnant wife tear-streaked and moaning? I try to remain calm while gently interrogating her:

Why, baby, why do you think she's dead?

I haven't felt her in hours!

When was the last time you got up and moved?

(Sheepish) 4 hours ago.

Okay, well, let's go walk outside in the fresh air and maybe she'll wake up.

And, of course, we're not halfway out the door when E's face lights up as she exclaims, There she is!

But the time that elapses between the tiny rolls and kicks she feels is enough to spiral E into fierce anxiety and depression. The cyst on Lentil's brain may as well be a cyst on E's brain, worming into her conscience and silently destroying her experience of this pregnancy.

It's cyclical, of course. Her paranoia peaks the few days prior to her OB appointment. Hopefully her fears will be put to bed tomorrow, if not until June, then at least until the next appointment.


In more uplifting news, I've recently discovered the indescribable joy of learning the search terms that bring people to this website. A few of my favorites:

satan guitar fuckers,

boy in a dress,

hairy monster cyst,

and, my personal favorite, holy cunts.

No wonder I don't have more commenters.

The New Ride

Not exactly a monster truck, but I did feel slightly All-American when I bought it, and the 5-speed V-6 with shift on the fly 4 wheel drive feels like our old car on crack, so monster-truck or not I had the sensation I could crush everyone in my path on my test drive.

We are intensely happy with our car purchase decision making skills. The boring Toyota stayed on its stupid boring lot. We vowed to each other that this will be our last non-biodeisel vehicle, which eases the guilty pangs over the gas mileage. And we're praying to the God of Parking Spots that he will have mercy on us, as parking an SUV on the street in Manhattan is akin to sliding an Apple IIc into a manila envelope.

But fuck it. If I start heading down the straight and narrow path to parenthood, lined with Precious Moments and "Baby On Board" stickers, just take me out and shoot me.

And besides, driving home from Ikea with a diaper pail and changing table is way more fun when you're listening to Biggie in your pimped out monster truck.

Welcome to Misfitsville, Population: 1.

I'm not much of a mommy-type. I work a lot and I have no plans to stay home to wipe a butt, slice oranges and host playdates. Not that there is ANYTHING wrong with staying at home, it's just not the sort of life that appeals to me. Then again, neither does festering away in a cube, eyes running red before my computer as I slowly and methodically climb the ladder to the corner office. But I digress.

So I'm trying to get in touch with the mommy in me, in the only way I know how. This weekend I'm upgrading our vehicular transport to something that will accomodate a baby seat. This endeavor has progressed from researching a very reliable and responsible Toyota, to deciding that we SIMPLY MUST HAVE a V-6 with headlamps, just because how cool would it be to pull our little rocker baby out of a big black monster truck?

And besides, maybe I'll quit my job and race dirt bikes or perhaps become a living rock legend, and in either case the pimped out truck will be a necessary evil.

Not that it is really a monster truck. But it does have headlamps. And, by the way, it is RADICAL.

Anyway, we'll see which one we come home with this weekend. The car hunt has taken on a deeper meaning for me, obviously.


So lately the pressure is on to momify myself, and it's irritating as shit.

For example, I don't do babyshowers.

I never have. They are perhaps the most unappealing of all events that end in "shower." I've never been a fan of purse-related games, tea parties, or wearing a pacifier as an adult. I'm not generally even sociable at 11 AM on a Saturday, much less a willing participant in a retarded game involving a diaper and teams of three.

If I were to attend a baby shower, I'd be the hungover one who has slunk outside for a cigarette after downing my and my neighbor's mimosa. And no one wants that girl at her shower. They want fresh-faced, sundress clad marys at their baby shower. Girls who can't wait for babies of their own, with smiles that stretch their faces as they watch mommy-to-be claw open her gifts.

So baby showers aren't my style, BFD. All my gorgeous friends who love me enough to tolerate this aspect of my personality don't heckle me about it. But now that E is the one with the showering, I'm getting seven kinds of shit for not being in attendance. (And not from E - she loves me despite it all, oh, despite it all).

The crushing injustice! Were I a man, would I get the heckling? The evil-eye? The shrill demands that I simply must attend? No. Because men aren't expected to partake in any baby shower action. And I envy them that.

So I say to these hecklers, put your make believe hat on and pretend I'm her husband. And by the way, I will catch your ass later, because I'm going to the monster truck rally.