polyopia

GB and I have been coming up with lists of first names for the li’l parasite (yes, I’m going to eventually need a pseudonym too…first things first, though). We have a short list we like, and then longer lists that we’re kicking around. It’s quite the responsibility, this naming business, and we’ve already given all the good names to the cats. So there’s some work to be done.

But I’m amazed, really, at how much easier first names are. The last-name issue is the one I dwell on.

Obviously, we’ve talked about this. A lot. And we’ve come up with a solution we think will work for us…I’m not 100% on it, but it’ll do.

The last name thing is important. Vitally important. It is, in fact, probably the biggest political issue we will deal with regarding this child.

GB and I are both solidly against the patrilineal-descent standard of naming. We have no arguments there. Neither of us believes for a minute that a baby “has to have” or “needs to have” or even “ought to have” its father’s name. Yeah, we get the whole thing about “including” the father in the birth, and “marking” the child as his own, and all that crap. But, frankly, I think that’s what it is–crap. The kid’s got two parents. Both parents have names.

Part of the problem, though, is that GB is so solidly against the patrilineal model that at age 18 he took his mother’s last name (his mom had gone back to her maiden name, and GB’s dad had decided to create a new last name for himself. I told you they were hippies). So “Bob” is actually a (somewhat) matrilineal last name for him (though of course, his mom got it from her dad, so it only goes so far).

A lot of my friends have told me that they gave their children the father’s name because it was “easier”; because “he cared and I didn’t.” Well, of course he did. And of course they didn’t. We’ve been taught our whole lives that we (as women) shouldn’t care about that–and men have been taught that their last name is important. No big surprises there.

(Despite the way that sounds, I don’t mean that as a knock against anyone who’s decided to give their kids the father’s name. I’m not knocking your decisions. I’m knocking, obviously, the cultural expectation that men should care about their last names, and that women shouldn’t.)

So, okay. Here are the options we’ve considered:

• Both GB and I change our last names to an entirely new name, and give the kid that name. We like this idea. We have a name picked out that we love. The name is possibly, maybe, potentially just a little flaky, though it is a real last name (I mean, other people really have it). We have been solidly behind this idea for a couple months, but we’re kind of chickening out now…first, because the name *might* be a little too flaky; second, because it’s a ton of work; third, because I’m not positive if I want to change my last name now, as I’m just starting to get a smidgen of professional presence. I think we’re putting this on the back burner for now; we might do it eventually, but probably not before the baby’s born.
• Baby gets my last name. This is okay, and was GB’s original suggestion…but it feels to me like GB is being excluded from “the family”.
• Baby gets GB’s last name. Yeah, not so much. See above.
• Baby gets my last name, GB’s last name as a middle name. (Vice versa doesn’t work, because, again, it’s important to me that the baby’s last name not be *just* “Bob.”) This is okay, but still not quite right.
• The dreaded hyphenation. Why does everyone hate the freaking hyphenation? Everyone’s first response: “The name will be too long.” You know what? People have long last names. That’s just how it is. I have a friend whose last name is 17 letters–no spaces, no hyphenation, just 17 letters long. So fucking what? The other response is, “What if the kid wants to hyphenate when *they* get married/have children?” Well, you know what? Then they’ll have to figure this shit out too. Clearly, I think this is what we’re going with.

I don’t love the hyphenating. I wish there was a simpler, more elegant answer. My last name is three syllables, and GB’s is two, and yeah, that is a mouthful. And our names don’t sound fabulous together–not bad, but not amazing. And you know, the kid can decide, when he or she is older, to go with one or the other of its names, or to do something entirely new–GB and I would both totally back that.

For now, though, it looks like it’s going to be Li’l Parasite Buzz-Bob.

And people are just going to Have. To. Deal.

(Any of y’all come up with creative solutions to the Name Issue?)

Hmm. I know that your brain shrinks during pregnancy, but I had no idea it had come to this. Maybe I should write more about the dissertation?

(Then again, I think my dissertation’s reading level isn’t much higher than this.)

As seen at Addy N.’s, whose blog is much smarter than mine.

(No actual work yet, but I’ve run some errands, put together the top-secret thanksgiving mix I’m making for GB–who’s not reading the blog lately, obviously–and napped. I feel like ass. Everything hurts. I think this is from not sleeping well in the hotel and walking miles yesterday dragging my suitcase and carrying a heavy backpack…at least, I’m hoping that’s all it is. Tomorrow I will kick ass at the working.)

I told my mom that GB will be working all around Thanksgiving, so we’ll just be staying here instead of going to GB’s parents’.

Mom said, “You should just find a restaurant that’s open to have Thanksgiving dinner. You know, so you don’t have to cook.”

(My response was to get unbearably grumpy and snap, “Of *COURSE* that’s what we’re doing! I’m not going to *cook*!”)

My mom’s comment is not *actually* the most annoying thing you’ve ever heard, right? Yeah. I’m thinking it’s the hormones.

Poor, poor people who have to deal with me everyday.

• I still can’t believe I did the Big Damn Conference completely sober. I’m feeling kind of proud of that, but I repeat: never again.
• Fancy-Ass Conference Hotel overcharged me every day of my stay. I spoke to multiple people about this, and yesterday I spent about an hour standing at the front desk while they tried to figure out what to do–it was on a debit card, so apparently they couldn’t just give me my damn money back. Whatever. Long story short: I rode home on the Greyhound last night (my original plan, though now funded by mom) with 50 cents in my pocket and a very large negative balance in the checking account.
• As of today it seems that the negative balance thing might be fixed…fingers crossed.
• I came home to discover that GB’s very late paycheck from his last job had arrived. Can you say “nick of time”?
• GB started work yesterday at a temporary contract job that pays enough for us to actually live on. The job is only for about a month, but they’re offering him *lots* of overtime. Which is great.
• Although this means we’re staying here for Thanksgiving, since GB will be off on Thursday, but working Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday…
• I miss him already.
• The meeting with the Advisor went much better than expected. Not only did he not break up with me–he was very nice about how difficult the move’s been, very supportive of the baby thing (I played the pregnancy card early in the conversation), fine about my plans to push finishing back to 2009, and pretty much okay with the fact that I *still* haven’t sent him a damn thing. He thinks that forging ahead with the Press thing is a good idea, too–though he did ask that I please send chapters to him before I send them to the editor. Seems fair enough.
• For my presentation, I wore black pants, a black jacket, and a kind of lavender-y shirt in some kind of slinky synthetic blend. I think I looked pretty good. Thanks for all the help on that.
• And, like I said, not passing out was an awesome achievement.
• Okay. I should work. This is my first day having the house to myself all day…and so far I’m not doing so great with it. Will I get ANY work done today? We’ll see….

I lived through my presentation. Whooohooo!

I really, honestly, literally almost passed out about 2 minutes into it…but apparently no one noticed me gasping for breath and wobbling at the podium (at least, according to my very kind friends Margie and Mr. Squirrel, who swear they couldn’t tell I was in trouble). And it ended, eventually, and a few people told me the paper was interesting, and a couple journal editors told me to submit it. So I guess that’s a success.

The editor meeting went okay too–it was short, but I told her more about the project and she said they’re interested. Obviously, now I need to get some writing done. I may have more questions for y’all about this stuff soon.

I go home tomorrow night, so more regular posting should resume after that. For now, I have Indian food in my dinner plans. Yippee!

(Oh, and the sober conference thing? Is much less fun. I really want this to be my one and only sober Big Damn Conference.)

So, I broke down and rented a fetal doppler. I keep seeing people talking about them on message boards, and I thought, you know, what the hell…pretty much anything that makes me freak out more is probably good, right?

So we tried it this afternoon and couldn’t find the Buzzlet’s heartbeat…though, happily, mine seemed to be beating just fine (and all over the place). We figured maybe it’s too early to hear anything yet. But then I tried it again tonight, and right away, as soon as I set it on my belly…

We heard the li’l parasite’s heartbeat!

Dude. That was really freaking cool.  It’s super-crazy-fast—I didn’t get the doppler with the display, but by my count it was about 175+ bpm (which, if you buy the lore about this stuff, means it’s a girl).*

Wow. So cool.

*For the record, I have no opinion on the gender thing. The Chinese Gender Prediction Chart says it’s a boy.  GB’s parents both think it’s a girl. GB told me recently that he thinks he *might* be feeling like it’s a girl. Me? I’ve had one dream about a baby, and it was dressed entirely in yellow. So go figure. What do y’all think?

(Yes, it’s another whine. Just keep on walking if you’re sick of my shit already.)

It was 80 freaking degrees today.

I know. I just heard the collective sigh go up from all of you: “Is she really whining about THAT?” Yes, friends, I am. I am a rain-girl. A fog-lover. I am Fall’s greatest fan. And you know what? I totally freaking love snow.

80 degrees. In November. I am not down with this.

Now I’m depressed, sad, lonely, stressed, worried, tired, hungry, AND hot.

I believe–I want to believe–that things will be better after this weekend. GB gets his Bar exam results on Friday. I present my crappy paper on Saturday, and I will probably also see The Advisor, who I am pretty sure is going to break up with me at this conference. I meet with Editor-Person on Sunday. Sunday and Monday nights I get drunk off my ass hang out all sober-like and enjoy having my scary parts of the weekend over. And then I come back from Giant Conference in time to go have Thanksgiving at GB’s parents’ (which is good, though if you know me, you know that not having Thanksgiving with friends? Sucks ass, in my world), then we have a doctor visit/ultrasound/sequential screening, which will hopefully put my mind a bit more at ease–and will mark the end of this goddamn first trimester. So yeah. I’m thinking that by December I should be feeling better.

And the average high temperature here in December is supposed to be 69 degrees. It better be.

Yes, okay, everything makes me cry lately. And yes, also, I have a really bad problem with nostalgia–I start to miss things, people, times in my life, and I convince myself that I will never, ever be/feel/act that way again, and I find it heartbreaking. This is despite all evidence to the contrary, and despite the fact that every time I’ve moved across the country (this would be time number three) I’ve felt this way for awhile. But this time, it’s harder.

I’m happy with the choices we’ve made (mostly). I’m happy with the decision to have the li’l parasite (mostly…uh, I’m sure I’ll be happy about it in the long run).

But God. Damn. Do I miss getting drunk on martinis with Bad Idea and making out in the doorways of closed liquor stores.

(I uploaded a Whiskytown song into the box.net widget over there, for your listening/weeping pleasure.)

(This post brought to you by pregnancy hormones, three months of sobriety, and MaggieMay’s vicariously delicious story.)

This made me laugh.

O luckybuzz! O gentle luckybuzz!
Nature’s soft nurse, how I have frighted thee.

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

Although then, of course, I had to reload, and I liked this one even more:

When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in luckybuzz?

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

(As seen at Dr. Crazy’s)

Is it even statistically possible that I could be wrong ALL THE TIME?