Burning the candle at both ends (and the middle)...

I am an overachiever. I do too much.  I take on enormous projects. I say Yes to almost everything. I do this, because  I love my friends, I adore my community, I am an artist, and I have a very fulfilling career. And it’s not like I have kids… right? In the last few weeks, it has become increasingly apparent that something is going to have to give. I’m so tired I can barely keep my head up. In fact, I’m really forcing myself to write this post… the couch is looking pretty sexy and I’m thinking we are going to have to make out. I bailed on two meeting with my theater company today. I’m going to be directing a great show in February and I just can’t wrap my head around how that is even going to happen. I can’t even wrap my head around carving a pumpkin for Halloween right now. In fact, I would really like some baby carrots to munch on, but I really am not sure if I have what it takes to get to the fridge. I don’t have the “morning sickness” – some mild nausea but nothing I can’t manage. I haven’t broken out like a 14 year old working the fryer at Krystal Burger. I’m sure these symptoms could be lurking around the corner, so I’m not being smug or anything (Welllll, I haven’t puked ONCE! Ha!). I will say my other three symptoms are more than making up for the lack of barfing or zits. My boobs hurt so bad I may kill something – likely the goddamn puppy who keeps jumping up on my titties like it’s a new hobby. (Yes, we have a puppy. It goes along with the house we bought three months ago, and the other four animals we already had.  See “overachiever with no children” explanation at the top of this post). I also am so bloated that I don’t think anything I own will ever fit again. This is like PMS times 1,000 plus gorging on Chinese food bloat. I feel like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. I am made of gas. So right now I’m a gassy, bloated, tired woman – who can’t sleep on her stomach. Yet, being an overachiever I have checked a few things off of my list.  I have done the following this weekend: Made an appointment with a traditional doctor’s group (not excited, not thrilled, and not looking forward to it) Made an appointment with a birthing center (very excited, very thrilled, totally looking forward to it) Contacted my preferred doula for beer this week (I won’t be drinking, shut up, stop worrying) Bought bigger bras, more yoga pants, and impulse purchased a pair of maternity jeans (damn you Target) (Quick word on the jeans – they were the perfect length and I’m only 5′ – so it seemed like a good idea. I put them on and OH MY GOD MY LIFE WAS CHANGED. I’m starting to think that women don’t get “frumpy” when they become moms, it’s just that they have had tasted of the fruit of comfortable and now they cannot go back. Man, those jeans are comfy). I should have more interesting things to write about, but football is on, my tiny dog wants to cuddle, the puppy is chewing on something that isn’t expensive, the husband isn’t trying to call members of the Tea Party  – and the couch is still...

A Little Bit Pregnant

Let’s just get some shit out of the way: I’m 38. I’ve been married for *almost* six months. I’m totally knocked up. How I got here will, no doubt, reveal itself throughout this little “project,” aptly named Week Forty.  I say “aptly named,” but the truth of the matter is, every other domain name that was remotely related to pregnancy was taken, and “Sore Titties” didn’t seem like it sent the right message.  I had voted for “Linea Nigra” because I think it sounds really exotic and interesting – like Mons Venus. (Full disclosure, I’m from Tampa, Florida – strip club capital of the South. We have a strip club called Mons Venus, it supposedly has the best/most beautiful dancers anywhere. Now I kind of want to open a club called Linea Nigra.  Work the “niche market.”  Put the “bump” in bump and grind. There is no sex in the Champagne Room, or Champagne. Mostly sensible shoes. This unique gentleman’s experience gives dancers a solid work venue rather than have to take those last two pesky trimesters off. You just have to figure in the cost of lost revenue from the dancers destroying the prime rib buffet.  You think I’m nuts? Check the internet – there are freaks out that who are in to all sorts of kink. I bet a preggers strip joint would be a crazy success). My husband nixed the idea. He thought that Nigra could be misconstrued as racist. He’s an Apologetic White Southern Democrat with privilege guilt. I think it’s sexy. (The guilt – not unintended racism). He’s allowed to post here too. You know Liberals, we’ll give anyonea seat at the table. Anyway, Week Forty will mark the end of how long I’m going to be rocking the whole “I’m eating for two,” “I’ve got to pee ALL the time,” “I have a craving for artichoke hearts,” “If you don’t start helping out around the house I’m going to feed you your own liver” thing, and I figured it was as good a name as any.  I will take more care in naming the Critter I’m sure. Or maybe not, hell that might be a crap shoot too… “Is Stephano taken? Shit, really? How about Stepheeno?”  (Now that I think of some of my friend’s decisions in naming their children, I think it may have gone down just like that). We found out just about a week ago.  Actually, exactly one week ago.  I had been out at favorite local beer barn (it’s nicer than that) and the beer just didn’t taste that good to me.  That seemed to be a sign from God to pee on a stick. (Oh peeonastick.com is taken – like I said – there are some freaks out there). And if you are totally gonna judge because I was drinking a beer – let’s get this out of the way: I was still a week from getting my period – so it wasn’t like I was all, “Gosh, I’m really late, guess I’ll go crush some microbrews and ponder what it could be…” If you’re still freaking out here’s another thing: I am a woman who was totally okay with getting pregnant, and totally not going to put myself into a tizzy over it. And if you don’t know what a “tizzy” is I’ll tell you – it’s all those women who don’t eat anything fun (like oysters and sushi and brie), don’t drink anything fun (like beer...