Merry New Year!

Well 2013 has been a helluva year. As I sit here, with wet hair, wearing Mr. Forty’s t-shirt and telling myself I should go get ready to go out and visit some friends at their annual NYE party, I look back over the year. I also remember we have no Bloody Mary Mix for the NYD party we are throwing tomorrow afternoon. Hell. Let’s focus on everything Mr. Forty and I managed to do this year: January – I got a huge promotion at work and began building a brand new department. Over the year I’ve hired some people who aren’t just my coworkers – they’re my friends.  Mr. Forty and I celebrated our one-year anniversary by having a lovely dinner in Atlanta. We looked real nice. February – Mr. Forty visited and began to meet folks around Tampa in order to make the transition to moving here. I began to clean out my closets and my dresser and try to make room in my tiny bungalow for another human and a cat. I tried on a wedding dress. It was the only one I tried on. I bought it. It was perfect. I wish I was wearing it right now. I travel to Colombia. I could tell you why, but then I’d have to kill you. March – I escorted Mr. Forty and his cat to Tampa, along with all of his stuff. His house in Atlanta remains for sale. It is very nice. Please let us know if you’re in the market, we would love to sell it to you. “We have a vacation home in Southeast Atlanta,” doesn’t work – even for liberals. April – Mr. Forty, myself, about 60 of our closest friends, and some family got together at a big old house on the water, roasted a pig (named Amy – don’t ask), said some really nice things to each other, and were declared married in the eyes of the great State of Florida. We get away for as long as my job will allow and sneak off to Key West. Mr. Forty loves it as much as I always have. This is a good thing. May – After less than 45 days of co-habitation, we asked a realtor to please look for something in our price range that was slightly larger than a shoe box. She sent us several listings the next day. We liked one house in particular. We went and saw it that day. We made an offer. We now live in it.  Mr. Forty informs me he is taking the Florida Bar. I inform Mr. Forty that I like to be a part of life decisions. He promises to remember that. We take a trip to NYC and Mr. Forty gets to spend real time in the City for the first time in his life. June – Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I get rid of furniture we don’t need. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I spend time with my friends at the pub. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I clean around him. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. I go for long runs. Mr. Forty studies for the Bar. July – My very sweet old terrier with one eye passes away in her sleep. We are very sad. Two weeks later, sad from being sad all the time, we take our other bat looking terrier to the Humane Society and she selects her new bestest friend...

Shit like this…

  Shit. Like. This. This is what Critter is up against. This is what I’m up against. This is what Mr. Forty is up against. This is what we have to fight against. This is what we have to undermine. This is what we have to stand up and say, “HELLO IS THIS THING ON? WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU THINKING AND WHY ARE YOU THINKING THIS?” Mr. Forty moved to my town thank-you-very-much, and I still have my last name, and I’m going to have an epidural if I want one goddamnit, and we’re having a baby because we talked it over and under and through more than you can possibly imagine (and we still do talk about it and we will for the rest of our lives). If you married a woman because you were doing them a favor – you’re a dick and she’s an idiot.  And FYI, the average retainer for a divorce attorney is about $7500, so have that ready in your back pocket because you’ll sure as shit need it.  Of course you probably spent most of your money on a designer wedding gown, a diamond as big as the Ritz, and two white doves that shit on your flower girl when they flew frantically away from you in the best metaphor of what you had just done to yourselves and each other. Yeah, I’m probably a bit more sensitive to this kind of societal dreck because I proudly call myself a feminist and I’m trying to come to terms with what that means when I’m also thinking about how I’m going to discretely pump breast milk at work when I go back.  (So far I think I’m just going to shut my door and hang a stuffed cow from the doorknob in a fucked up version of dorm etiquette).  I’m also more sensitive to this propaganda because the premise is totally up its own ass. And on top of it all, the image is so blatantly wrong I can’t even begin… Let’s take a moment and look at the picture. I’ll wait. … … … What do you see? Pregnant lady. More pregnant lady. Lady with a baby. Very good. Now what else do you see? Come on, use your critical eye. I’ll tell you what you see – You see a white pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady. You see a white, blonde, thin pregnant lady with no stretch marks, mottled skin, cellulite.  You see a woman looking down, in servitude.   You see a construct. A perfected ideal of an imperfect biological process. Frankly, if you wanted to really make your point about how much women “sacrifice” for a man, you should have posted this picture: But don’t listen to me… it’s probably just...

Congratulations! Did you fart?

Mr. Forty posted a few days ago about the raft of shit I’ve been getting lately for being pregnant. At the time of his post I was filled with an overwhelming sense of “Hell yes!” and “That’s my huzband right there and I’m a lucky woman!”  I didn’t have anything really significant to add. I mentioned in my last post that I found myself at a business dinner with nothing more to contribute to the conversations than my pregnancy. Not that I didn’t try to talk about other things, it’s just those things morphed into “Well that will change,” or “You’ll feel differently in a few months,” or “Interesting strategic insight… so are you going to breastfeed?” This has been a pretty common theme in the 6 weeks since I’ve been out of the closet. It’s very strange. I don’t happen to be one of those women who subscribe to the societal belief that pregnancy is some form of magic. It’s biology. I had a lot of sex and it had the biological effect it was supposed to have in my lady parts. In fact, I always feel slightly uncomfortable when people say, “Congratulations!” As I often interpret this to mean, “Way to go on the fucking!” Depending on who is telling me congratulations, my perceived subtext can range from creepy to downright horrifying. Also, “Congratulations!” is a tough one from a societal point of view. I guess I am worthy of a “Congratulations!” because I (for a change) followed society’s rules: 1. I am married. Happily married in fact. (Although I’m sure from the outside there are those that worry that Mr. Forty and I didn’t wait very long – we were married in April of 2013). 2. I am older. This is a tough one from society’s standpoint – get knocked up too young, you’re an After School Special.  You’ll only get “Congratulations!” from other WIC and SNAP recipients and an MTV producer.  Get knocked up young, you’re wasting your college experience and earning potential. Get knocked up youngish, and people will assume you’re planning to have a whole gaggle of children (oh my poor friends who had one child at 30 and are berated for “not having more”).   Get knocked up old and there are a couple different kinds of “Congratulations!” in play – namely that you managed it in the first place and that you got their expectations for you in under the wire. 3. My career is happily in a place and I could be where I am for a very long time and be okay. I can afford this child. I’m more or less done climbing for now. I have the title I wanted, the salary I desired, the team I hoped to build, and the environment where I can make a difference. I’m good. The next level of promotion for me would be one I would have to think about long and hard. I’m not sure I want it right now. That’s a perfect time to have a baby from my point of view. Looking at all of that, I get a hearty “Congratulations!” from society. Which is totally unfair to all the other women who have children under different circumstances. But life isn’t fair. Teaching Critter that will be one of the hardest lessons I will have to manage. Unless of course he is a mutant and goes Republican or Libertarian on us and names his stuffed animal John Gault....

One more thing…

So I haven’t posted jack-my-mamma-crap on this blog. I’m a terrible baby house. I was all excited about having a place to share my thoughts through this experience and what I have found is that this experience has left me with monosyllabic responses to most things… “Ms. Forty, how are you feeling?” “Uh, good?” “Ms. Forty, have you picked out a name?” “Uh, we call it baby.” “Ms. Forty, you look tired.” “Uh, fuck you.” “Ms. Forty, you fell asleep on the couch again, would you like to go to our bed?” “Uh, bats are in the tub and I have no checks.” (It’s best not to wake me up and expect anything logical to ensue). Still with the tired, made more tired by a month that would make an Olympic athlete tired, I look back and realize I’ve been all over the place (literally). Critter flew more this month than I did in my first three years.  He even went to Panama this month – which I will get to in a moment and I’m sure this post will never be reposted by the Panamanian Tourism Authority, not that I really care. Work has been overwhelming. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I’m too exhausted most of the time to get excited about what I’m doing. Which is a shame, because on paper, my job has utterly kicked ass this month. I’ve traveled abroad, I’ve met interesting people, I’ve launched huge initiatives, I’ve taken naps under my desk… Everybody keeps telling me that I’ll get more energy now that I’m in my second trimester. I’m rocking week 16 and this avocado inside me is not producing any energy. I hate to say it, but I still would smack a bitch for a nap. Which makes me sound terribly redundant, which is probably why I’m not posting much. I mean for fuck’s sake, one can only read about tired pregnant lady for so long… So here are some things that have happened that have nothing to do with being tired: During my trip to Panama, the Mayor of our town came with us. He was pleased when I told him I was personally making more Democrats for our voter base. That was a nice moment. Several times I realized I was the only one who was aware what was going on at work this month and the fact that I was also making life officially made me a superhero. Panama is a country I never wish to visit again under any circumstances and maybe it’s because I was pregnant but seriously, I’m over that place. They do have a kick ass ceviche. I’m probably not supposed to eat ceviche, but you know what, I’m also probably not supposed to spend days dealing with uncooperative Panamanians who don’t do anything they say they’re going to do either. During dinner one night I realized my only status at the table was that I was pregnant. This was confusing and disheartening as I am used to contributing significant insight and observations in my industry. Now I have been reduced to, “When are you going to have another one?” That is a really horrible question on so many levels, I have no idea where to begin. But you entertain all sorts of horrible questions when you’re pregnant and you endure people (even people you like) touching you, so you know, you roll with it. Turns out, when you tell a table...

On the birth of a baby: the Christmas post...

First, the merriest of merry Christmases to all who celebrate! That Jesus, he was a groovy dude who preached love and peace. It’s a message we could use more of. I don’t have a whole lot to say tonight. A year from now, we’ll have our own baby bundle. I suppose he won’t be doing much at 6 months old. Drooling a bit. Pooping himself. Generally useless. So here’s my Christmas wish: let’s all try to make a world in which all our babies know peace and love. That’s it. It’s not an easy wish to squeeze down a chimney, but it’s an easy wish to squeeze out an open heart. And, to my unborn son, please, oh please, give me uninterrupted sleep for Christmas in...