it’s not the hormones–people just suck.

The kid’s not even here yet, and today my parenting was called into question by a fast-food employee.

I stopped at McDonald’s for lunch. Yes, I realize that that’s my first problem right there, but I’ve been on a bit of a fast food kick lately. I usually just get a freaking Happy Meal, so it’s not like I’m super-sizing it or anything. I feel fine about that part.

But I also ordered an iced coffee. Now, I was a gigantic caffeine addict before this pregnancy. My doctors are pretty conservative in general, and they suggested I switch to decaf. Whatever. I avoided caffeine almost entirely during my first trimester, and drank about a cup a week during my second. Now, I’d say I have a caffeinated beverage maybe 3-4 times a week. As far as I’m concerned, that’s basically like not having any at all–I’ve done enough research to know that at levels that low, caffeine isn’t really an issue to a 3rd tri fetus.

(And never mind the fact that GB’s mom is consistently horrified that I cut out coffee at all–she keeps reminding me that she drank all the coffee she wanted while she was pregnant and breastfeeding. In turn, I keep reminding her that *might* be the reason he didn’t sleep, ever, as a baby. But whatever. He turned out okay. Though he’s still a crappy sleeper.)

Anyway. So I order the iced coffee, and the cashier looks a little shocked and says, “Do you want a LOT of milk with that? Because you’re pregnant. It’s strong coffee. [Uh, it’s McDonald’s…] Can you really have coffee? Are you sure? Do you want to change your order?” I assured her that I did, in fact, want the coffee, but said sure, go ahead and put a lot of milk in. But was that enough to satisfy her? Oh no. “Are you sure you can drink that? Really?” Yes, really, bitch. Give the pregnant lady her coffee, already. Jesus. Do some people have no self-preservation instinct at ALL?

She finally hands me my coffee, and dudes, it’s white. I mean, it’s got kind of a tannish cast to it, but for the most part? It’s sweet milk with a few drops of coffee.

(I do like the super sweet, super light coffee, so whatever. But as it was, I still only drank half of it.)

Whatever. Not a huge deal. But I am incredibly offended by the idea that my food choices are anyone’s business but my own.

(And yes, I know this will continue, and will likely get worse. I’m going to have to work on getting my snark back.)


I loathe jazz.

Maybe that makes me some kind of Philistine. I don’t know. I don’t care. I utterly detest it. “Smooth” jazz, classic jazz, jazz fusion–it all gives me a giant headache.*

This is despite–or because of?–the facts that 1) I was once, at least a lifetime ago, married to a guy whose dad used to play in Woody Herman’s Thundering Herd. (I know–who didn’t, right?) We’d go over to my ex-father-in-law’s for dinner and he’d play Woody Herman records all night and I’d leave with the only migraines I’ve ever had; and 2) for about six months, in my early-early 20s, I “dated” a jazz bassist 20-some years older than me. “Date” is a strong word for what we did; I went to see his crappy jazz band every Tuesday night at the local bar, got super drunk, and then went home and had mediocre sex (and absolutely no conversation, ever) with him. What can I say? Winters are very, very long and boring in Homestate.

Anyway. I tried to go to Starbucks today to do some writing, but they were playing some jazz CD (probably something “classic” that I should know or whatever) really freaking loud and I was too miserable to concentrate. (I did, however, write about 1200 words today–go me!) And they don’t have a bathroom! What Starbucks doesn’t have a bathroom? Eeeesh. A horrific experience.

And I drank a decaf nonfat mocha. I know. Why even bother?

Anyway. That’s my deep dark confession for the day. Got anything you want to get off your chest? Tell me all about it.  I’m feeling bitchily sympathetic.

*I like Ragtime, which is kind of jazz. Or a jazz precursor, maybe? Anyway, there’s my exception.

See, the thing is, I wish that the news about my committee changes and losing the Advisor would actually spur me to some sort of progress. I’m definitely feeling the pressure to finish, sooner than later. I’d agreed that I’d have a complete draft by June, and a couple months ago, that looked totally manageable.

But I’m not feeling motivated. I’m not feeling like I could just sit down and crank out the diss right now. I’m feeling completely paralyzed, in fact.

I am going to bullet-point the factors contributing to my paralyzing depression, because it seems like that might be cathartic. (Feel free to go somewhere happier, if you just can’t take my bitching anymore.)

  • I sent two chapter drafts to the (Ex)Advisor (who now needs a real pseudonym) last month. I have not heard a peep about either of these. I assume this is because they suck *so* badly that he can’t even think of a way to start an email (other than “Wow, you suck”), and so he’s just laying low.
  • I sent the same two drafts to Other Committee Member, and have not heard a peep back from her either. Ditto above.
  • Getting absolutely no feedback on these drafts makes me think that they are just about as awful as I thought they were. And it really does not make me want to continue writing.
  • This chapter I’m supposed to be working on? It’s crap. I mean, even the outline is crap. I have nothing useful to say here, and I’m hesitant to start saying it.
  • I also have, still, nothing but my own data for this chapter, and (still) no idea how to include anything more substantial.
  •  In 6 days, I will be 20 weeks pregnant–officially halfway through this pregnancy. I feel like I’ve already been pregnant for about three years. I cannot imagine going another 21 weeks. I can’t imagine continuing to get bigger (yes, I know–a LOT bigger), or my hips hurting even more than they do, or these goddamn dreams (that make me feel like I’m not even sleeping) continuing for another five months.
  • Moreover: I am so not ready to be a parent. Who the hell am I kidding? I love sleeping. I love drinking. I love having no responsibilities (except to the cats, but they’re pretty easy). So I am simultaneously totally impatient for, and totally dreading, the arrival of this baby.
  • I know. Totally cliche. Ambivalence, check! But I am seriously feeling Ambivalent with a capital A. Oh, and Terror with a capital T.
  • I’m lonely. I’m bored with my company. I’m tired of sitting here at the computer, “working” for about an hour a day and doing absolutely nothing for the rest of the time I’m awake. I’m tired of obsessing about the baby.* I’m tired of not meeting people, of having no human contact all day (except over the phone and the internets, which is nice, but not quite the same), of being all clingy and needy when GB gets home because he’s the only person who talks to me in person all day.
  • Last night I dreamed that we were about to move back to SF, and it felt pretty damn good. Yes, most of our friends there are Big Drinkers, and may not be the perfect companions right now for Unwillingly Sober Me, but my city! And friends! Ah. It sounds heavenly.
  • Of course, moving back to Hometown State sounds completely heavenly to me too, right now.
  • Okay, this is not cathartic. This is just whiny. I need to work. How the fuck do I get back to work? I can’t just write this chapter…I have nothing to freaking write. Goddamn. I need to bust out of this rut.

*In happier news, we have a baby name! Actually, we’ve had it pretty much since the beginning–it was our first choice for a boy’s name. We considered a handful of other names, but we’ve circled back around to the original, and I think it’s pretty definite–I’d say it’s about 98% sure that this is the name we’re going with. Which is nice, because I was getting tired already of calling him “the baby”. Not very creative. If anyone’s interested, I’ll try to find a way to discreetly point you to it.

Even though I say it to myself, and to the cats, and to GB, all the time. Even though it pisses me off to no end and I cannot stop bitching about it. I just want to say,  once, in a semi-public forum:

“Girl” and “boy” are not colors.

I offer you this example (one of far too many): this pack of baby onesies comes in two choices of color: “girl set” and “boy set.”

(“Girl set” is, of course, the one I added to the registry. I mean, come on. Look at those cute little pink and purple bodysuits! And it says “Little Cupcake”! The boy set, on the other hand, says “Little Engineer.” While that makes more financial sense–I would prefer, I guess, that my son pursue a career as an engineer than as a cupcake (though “cupcake” is a fine hobby)–I have to admit I think of my (imaginary, projected, six-months-in-the-future) newborn as much more of a cupcake than an engineer.)

(And to everyone who has responded to news of the baby’s sex with something like “Oh, now we can start buying him pink things!,” I thank you. Sincerely. My older sister just said that to me, and I swear it made me like her even more than I already did. Though, of course, this is the same sister who is making an awesome embroidered quilt for the baby that will be primarily pink and green. My big sister rocks. And so do all of you wonderful people who are vowing to help me dress my boy in socially gender-inappropriate clothing.)

Yeah, I know I’m lying. This is not the last time I’ll bitch about this.

Holy fucking crap, do I write slow.

All I need to do to get this chapter done–and be able to apply for the Very Much Needed fellowship for next year–is to write 1000 words a day for 10 days. That’s it.

That sounds So. Fucking. Easy.

So far today I’ve written 650 words and every one of them has been like pulling teeth. Literally. With the crying, even.

(Okay, the crying is not related to the writing, directly. The crying is 150% the fault of the hormones. Because, really, whether GB’s direct-deposited paycheck makes it into the bank today or tomorrow is not really that important, right? Or not nearly important enough to call GB up at work and cry dramatically into the phone about. Nope, I’m pretty sure that might have been a disproportionately strong response.)

(You know, I used to deal with funky emotions and mood swings by just self-medicating with alcohol. Today I looked at a picture of GB, the Squirrel, Jason, and Bad Idea taken in the Bumper Pool Basement and I started crying–surprise!–because, goddamn, every single bit of me wanted to be back there listening to Black Sabbath and drinking shots of tequila. Fucking hormones. Fucking sobriety.)

(I may have a new winner for the blog tag-line…)

Anyway. I keep letting myself get distracted, and then I feel crappy about it. I mean–the chapter is outlined. It’s ready to go. And I keep telling myself, you know, this draft really can’t be any worse than the shitty draft I sent to the Advisor, so just write it, already. And I am–I mean, progress is being made. But Oh. My. God. this is fucking grueling.

Sorry it’s all-whines-all-the-time here lately. Um….Here’s an interactive piece: what should we have for dinner? I am out of ideas, and weirdly, nothing sounds good (hey, thanks Second Trimester! Now I don’t know what I want to eat anymore). Here’s the criteria:

  • no cooking that involves more than boiling water (i.e., theoretically pasta would be okay, but we’ve been eating a lot of pasta)
  • delivery is a perfectly acceptable…I’m vaguely considering Chinese, though I don’t know if GB will go for that.
  • comfort food is definitely in order

Ideas for my hormonally-challenged evening?

Why, why, why? Why did I go back to the taqueria where I had the horrible, horrible quasi-quesadilla experience just days ago? If they can’t make an edible quesadilla, why did I expect anything else to be good?

Well–because they have rave reviews on Yelp. Stupid Yelp fuckers. I’m so over that site. (Also–Yelp is one of the sites that spies on you for Facebook. Rat bastards. See that link for other rat bastards, too.)

But holy hell. Those vegetarian tacos were not good. And you know what? I ate all THREE OF THEM anyway. Like, maybe they were going to get better as I went along?

Now my stomach hurts. I was already having an incredibly frustrating working day, and now I feel like ass.

Bleh. Kind of wishing for the morning sickness, now. I’m going to try drinking a ton of water, and if that doesn’t work, I might have to nap. Again.

Yeah, this post is 5 seconds of your life you’re not getting back. Sorry about that.

  • Is it just me, or is eating at Subway just a little too close to actually having to make your own sandwich? I really don’t want to have to ponder and respond to questions about Every. Single. Ingredient. on my goddamn sandwich. And you can’t really say “everything” because they have, like, seventeen different sauces now. I resent having to talk to my “sandwich artist” for that long just to get a crappy sub.
  • My face is breaking out. My shoulders and back are also breaking out–thankfully, much worse than my face. I need a haircut and  a new dye job–my hair looks like crap. I’m still in that stage where I just look thick, not pregnant. Overall, I am not looking so hot. So much for the “pregnant glow”. What-the-fuck-ever.
  • My raging appetite is starting to die down a little bit. I’m still eating enormous quantities of food all day, but I’m doing it with a little less desperation now. Which would be good, except that, for the first time in three months, I have no idea what I want for dinner. That’s disturbing.
  • Oh, and about food? Delivery options in this city *suck*. I got completely spoiled in East Coast Town by this amazing service that lets you view and order from menus of pretty much any restaurant in the area. So many options! And being able to order without ever speaking to a human! Here, though, not only do we not have that, but delivery options are few and not so great. Or maybe there are better places, and I just don’t know where they are.
  • My point is that I don’t know what I want to eat, and I want someone to bring it to me.
  • Since GB’s been working these insanely long days, I’ve been in charge of dinner every night. It’s reasonable enough, since the poor guy gets home close to 9pm and is starving, and I pretty much just sit here and eat all day long anyway. So it’s okay, that I’m doing dinner. Except that we only have a couple of meals that we regularly eat since neither of us cooks at all, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t disturb me to realize how often I actually *am* barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen.
  • I thought I was making pretty good progress with this chapter. I’d gotten to where I only had a couple of places to add some things, and I thought it would be ready to go to The Advisor in the next couple of days. But. Then I looked at the whole damn thing and realized that a) it’s probably about half as long as it should be to look like a quasi-respectable chapter, and b) there is virtually no theory or analysis of any kind in it. To rectify problem B, I think I’m going to have to actually read a couple more books. Which I so do not want to do, at this point in the game, for this chapter.
  • I’m starting to despair of my chances of finishing two chapter drafts by the end of December. Which, you’ll recall, is necessary if I want a completion fellowship for next year. Which, oh my god, I really, really do.
  • I had no idea I was this cranky.

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