Cravings this week include: Mrs. T’s, Carvel ice cream cake, Jelly Belly, fries, peppercorn ranch dressing, hummus, cream cheese, veggie tacos, cinnamon buns, soysage, and pancakes.

Alright, Internet, if that is your real name. It’s been a little over a week since we moved from Typo to Mephisto, and I’m curious as to whether or not there have been any problems since that switch took place. I know there was a commenting issue, sorry about that. I think it’s been fixed. And today I noticed that the banner wasn’t correct. I also noticed that some of the permalinks didn’t move over correctly so there were many dead links, which I am currently trying to find on my own. I guess what I really want to know is if anyone has run into any problems so I can make Tobyjoe fix them all.

Are RSS feeds working? Are links? Are comments? Does anyone care anymore anyway?

If you’re afraid of leaving comments, as I know some of you weird lurkers are, feel free to email me at problems @ mihow dot com. I’m totally open to suggestions as well especially if you’re in favor of my stinkin’ ass shuttin’ the hell up already. Now is the time to complain, bitch, moan, call someone a cracker ass SOB, confess to me that your boyfriend smells like sausage, whatever you want.

Edited to add: Thank you all for the comments and email. We’ll work on the changes requested.

Today is my birthday and the biggest pair of pants I own no longer fit. Today is my birthday and it’s so cold out, my snot froze to my upper lip and I didn’t even feel it it was that cold. Today is my birthday and I tried to go to the gym. I walked outside and slipped on the ice and so Tobyjoe told me I had to go back home, that our fetus wanted me to. Today is my birthday so I did go back home, snot covered and fat. Today is my birthday and earlier I accidentally pushed a post live that wasn’t meant to go live about stats and lurkers and it was grumpy and I screwed up because Mephisto still confuses me. Today is my birthday and I grabbed a hot pan without an oven mitt and that made the word “F*ck” come out of my mouth. Today is my birthday and tonight we’re going to Bond Street Sushi where I can’t eat that much of what is awesome but I will deal. Today is my birthday and I’m pregnant and the spit won’t stop coming and my tummy is upset and I’m fat and my pants don’t fit. Today is my birthday and I will wake up tomorrow without the hint of a hangover, which is a good thing believe it or not. Today is my birthday and the book I’m reading bores me to tears. Today is my birthday and I haven’t showered yet and my hair is stringy and my eyes are filled with goo and my right nostril was bloody this morning and then my snot froze. Today is my birthday and I woke up with a zit on my neck. Today is my birthday and I’m 33 and I like that age because I like threes but I don’t want it to be cold and I want to go swimming. Today is my birthday and I can’t stop peeing.

Today is my birthday and I don’t feel at all pretty.

Today is my birthday and I bet we’re having a boy.

Today is my birthday and I don’t yet have a Cookie Puss and I’m not sure I really need (or want) one.

Melissa, over at Suburban Bliss, appeared on The Today Show recently to discuss a growing trend among some mothers called “Cocktail Playdates”. Here’s the skinny: the kid gets his or her juice box, the mother a glass of chardonnay. (MmmmmmMmmmmm, wine.)

I live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I see mothers and their children (or babies toddlers) out all the time with other mothers. They often meet at bars. Sometimes they knit and talk and sip wine. Sometimes they just talk and sip wine. Sometimes they order cheese as well. (Cheese!) It happens. And to be perfectly honest, I like that it happens. I used to watch them and wonder when or if I’d ever be in their situation, a mother and a person at the same time. So, you better believe that when I’m done giving birth to this little bean, I will join them. Will I get drunk? No. Will I be driving? Nope. Will I have a glass of wine with my girlfriends? Absolutely. (Of course, I have to find the girlfriends first. Right now, it’s more like girlfriend. Hi, Missy!)

Well, as it were, other mothers don’t think this is such a wise idea. I didn’t catch the show when it actually aired but I did just watch it online. You can, too. I’m not at all surprised at the outcome. Of course a major media outlet is going to spin such a story. They know how the blog world works, how mothers can be. They know how to get more traffic to their Web site(s). They know how to play the game. What bugs me the most about the situation isn’t the whole “Butter Battle Book” phenomenon, it’s that they used their media outlet to feed a fire that surrounds a group of people who already spend too much time at one another’s throats.

In the end, and perhaps it’s because I’m not quite a mommy yet, it’s hard for me to get worked up over a woman having a glass of wine in front of her kids especially since I live in a city where some people beat their children to death. Perhaps life is different in the suburbs. I don’t know.

I found out I was pregnant on November 21st, 2006. It is my first pregnancy. And I am a worrywart. I worry about everything. If there isn’t something to worry about, I’ll create something. The day I found out I was pregnant I started reading stuff online. Of course, my worrying eyes wandered toward the bit about genetic defects and other chromosomal problems and I became concerned. I began reading everything I could find about the testing offered to pregnant women. I have come a long way in three months.

As you read this, keep in mind that I am just a gal who is pregnant and who has undergone a few of these tests of her own. I am not a medical professional, nor did I study this stuff at a school. Instead, I merely wanted to try and write a fairly cohesive, “Genetic Testing for Dummies” type article so that someone (like me) might stumble upon it later instead of compiling information from 10 different people, 13 different pamphlets, 2 different forums, and 3 different doctors. I hope that it’s useful.

Genetic Blood Testing (Pre-Pregnancy)

In July of 2006, I visited the OBGYN to discuss getting pregnant. Upon walking into her office, all I knew was that in order to make a baby I had to avoid things like booze, cigarettes, crack, and any other harmful substances, maybe even caffeine. I had to eat well, sleep well, and, oh yeah, and get some sperm from a man. Six months later, I feel like someone slapped me with a pregnancy stick.

At the time of that visit, the nurse took 6 vials of blood. I had no idea that this was going to take place. But during this day and age, if you’re planning on getting pregnant, your doctor can test you for possible genetic predispositions before you even do so. They can test you for Tay-Sachs (TSD), Cystic Fibrosis (CF), Canavan Disease (CD), Blood Syndrome (BS), and many others. They can also find out things like, if you’ve had your measles vaccination (I found out mine had expired), whether or not you’re a carrier of toxoplasmosis (commonly found in cat feces and/or soil), and many other potential risks. It’s nice because you know what to expect. If you test positive for something like TSD or CF, your significant other can then come in for a test as well. It takes two carriers of the same disease to infect offspring. Since many of the genetic diseases they tested for are commonly found in Ashkenazi Jews, I was not in a high risk group, but they tested me anyway.

Things like toxoplasmosis aren’t dangerous to a person who isn’t pregnant, which is why some women who test positive for it have no idea they are carriers. They suggest that pregnant women who do not test positive for toxoplasmosis (like me) avoid gardening without gloves and dealing with cat litter as well (feces). The parasite is often found in carcasses and has been found in soil as well, hence the bit about gardening. That’s why outdoor cats are more susceptible to it than indoor kitties. My cats are indoor kitties and always have been. The chances of them being carriers are very slim but we decided not to take any chances. When I tested negative for the parasite, it was suggested that either Tobyjoe take over litter duty, or I take my cats to the vet and have each one of them tested for it. I opted to save hundreds of dollars that would have been spent on feline blood work and let Tobyjoe scoop the poop instead. (Awesome!)

Knocked Up! (Now what?)

And then we got pregnant and I was surprised because we got pregnant on our very first try (which wasn’t really a try as much as it was I had decided that I was no longer ovulating and we could be “sloppy” about it. Little did I know…) I didn’t expect it to happen then. Plus, I had already decided that we wouldn’t actually start trying until March. I mean, who wants to be 9 months pregnant in New York City in August? Not me! But it looks like nature had other plans for me. While it wasn’t actually a surprise for us, per se, it was a bit of a reality slap. We just didn’t think it’d be that easy.

After I got pregnant, I called my doctor to make an appointment. They usually don’t take a pregnant woman until at least week 8. My first appointment was around 7.5 weeks, which was still a little early. At that time they took another 8 vials of blood, (just to make sure nothing was off the charts or anything and, I’m guessing, to use it for comparison later when I’m further along). They also gave me an internal sonogram. (Device shown here. Thank you, Tobyjoe!) We were able to see the heart beating for the first time, (which is the first organ to form), check the size of the little dude, and make sure its arm buds, leg buds, and head were there. It was a pretty outstanding experience, to say the least.

It was at that time we began talking more about genetic disorders and testing and I made two more doctor’s appointments. I made an appointment with my regular OBGYN for week 11.5, and one at the specialist the very same day for a relatively new procedure called an Ultra-Screen. (I’ll get to that momentarily.) My doctor told me the usual: stay away from seafood as much as possible (there are safe fish and shellfish one can eat, see here to find out which ones), do not eat smoked fish, deli meats, soft, European cheeses, or rare meats. (Shellfish and seafood due to mercury levels and the rest because of the bacteria known as listeria. Both are harmful for an unborn baby.)

The Ultra-Screen (Weeks 11 – 13)

The Ultra-Screen is a relatively new proceedure (2 years or so). The awesome thing about the Ultra-Screen is that it’s the only noninvasive genetic test that can be done during the first trimester (between 11 weeks 1 day, and 13 weeks 6 days). This test gives a woman her chances on having a baby with Trisomy 21 (Down Syndrome) and Trisomy 18 and 13 (a more severe chromosomal disorder, which causes retardation and severe birth defects.) The Ultra-Screen combines an advanced ultrasound with a blood test. The ultrasound alone has a 90% accuracy rate, when that’s paired with the blood work that rate rises. (I believe it rises to 94% at that point, but don’t quote me on that.) During the ultrasound, the specialist measures the thickness of the fetus’s nuchal translucency, which is the clear, translucent space on the back of the developing baby’s neck. (Crazy, what they can do in this day an age, what they’ve come to know.) The doctor performing the ultrasound might give you an idea of how things look right away, because he or she is trained specifically for that, but usually they wait for your blood work to come back (which takes anywhere from 5 to 7 days).

The blood specimen is analyzed for two chemicals called free Beta human chorionic gonadotrapin (free Beta) and pregnancy associated plasma protein-A (PAPP-A). Both are normally found in all pregnant women but the rates are different for women who are possibly carrying a fetus with either of the two chromosomal defects.

My doctor gave me two numbers. She gave me the number after the ultrasound, and then another number after the blood work. For example, say the first number was 1/454 after the ultrasound, after the blood work comes back that number might jump up to 1/1,430. That means that particular woman has a 1 in 1,430 chance of having a baby with the chromosomal defects listed above.

If a woman’s Ultra-Screen and blood work comes back indicating an increased risk for chromosomal abnormalities, more tests may be suggested. And there are several to choose from should a woman wish to find our more. (Remember, even a woman who gets a number like 1/22 has a 95% chance that the baby is OK. This is something to keep in mind)

The QUAD Screen (Weeks 16 – 18)

The QUAD screen is another noninvasive blood screen offered between week 16 and 18. It looks for four specific substances: AFP, hCG, Estriol, and Inhibin-A.

• AFP: alpha-fetoprotein is a protein that is produced by the fetus
• hCG: human chorionic gonadotropin is a hormone produced within the placenta
• Estriol: estriol is an estrogen produced by both the fetus and the placenta
• Inhibin-A: inhibin-A is a protein produced by the placenta and ovaries

This test takes about 5 minutes. I am going to have this test because it is covered by my insurance and it’s offered at my regular doctor’s office. I have read that this test has had some false positives, which pretty much means that some women may take steps further and don’t need to. But I figure it this way: when I’m all said and done, having both the results from both the Ultra-Screen and the Quad, I’ll have a really good idea of whether or not there are any chromosomal problems with my baby. Based on the results from the Ultra-Screen alone, I have all but cancelled my appointment with the genetic counselor that would have performed the Amniocentesis.

Amniocentesis (Weeks 15 – 20)

Based the results the two tests above, a woman can decide whether or not to continue with an Amniocentesis. The Amniocentesis is a more invasive test. It is done between 15 and 20 weeks. However, it will give a woman a 99% accuracy rate on whether or not her fetus has a genetic chromosomal disorder.

Using an ultrasound as a guide, the doctor will insert a long, thin needle into the woman’s abdomen and a sample of amniotic fluid is taken from the fluid that surrounds the baby in the uterus. This test, while extremely accurate, does carry the risk of a miscarriage. It is suggested that a woman ask the specialist how many her or she performs a week. For example, here in New York, where the average age of women having babies is around 35, the doctor who would have performed mine does hundreds a week. That made me rest easier when I was toying with the idea of having it done.

Most insurance companies will pay for this test if the previous test (or tests) showed an elevated risk of a chromosomal defect or if a woman is over the age of 35.

The Magic Age: 35!

Why age 35 is the magic number, still remains totally baffling to me. Consider this: most babies born with Down syndrome are born to women under 35. They say that’s because more woman under that age are actually having babies, that’s probably true. But there is no reason that I can see, why women above age 35 should get themselves worked up. I know there’s a reason for this statistic, but it irks me a bit that 35 becomes that daunting cutoff age. It really scares the crap out of us older ladies. Here in New York City the mean is a lot higher than the rest of the U.S., so, if you’re 35 and you’re tired of being told “You better hurry up! Time is ticking!” Might I suggest a move to the Big Apple? My doctor hushed me immediately when I told her I wanted to hurry up and have a baby before I was too old. I was 32 at the time. She said, “You’re considered young in New York City to be having a baby. Don’t be silly. You can have three more if you want to.”

She’s 42 and had her second a few years ago.

CVS (Weeks 10 – 12)

There is another test that I don’t know a whole bunch about but I do know the basics. There is something called the Chorionic villus sampling (or CVS). This test can be done relatively early (10 – 12 weeks, and I remember reading as early as 8 somewhere, although, I don’t remember where). CVS does have its side effects. As with the Amnio, an ultrasound is used to guide the doctor and a tube is inserted into the vagina and cervix to take a small sample of tissue from the outside sac where the baby grows. Sound scary? Yeah, scared me, too. But I know people who have had it done and it can be perfectly safe. It’s best to ask the doctor how many he or she has done in the past.

That’s About All

Well, I guess it’s time to wrap this baby up. (ha!) Remember, I am just a recently impregnated gal (13 weeks at the time this was written) who wanted to enjoy her pregnancy and was having trouble doing so without some sort of reassurance that her fetus was healthy. I did some research, asked a lot of questions, and worried myself silly and this is what I came up with: a whole bunch of information. What good is information if you can’t pass it along?

Take this information for what it’s worth. And remember to ask yourself what you would do with the results. Would you terminate the pregnancy? Would it not matter at all? Would you rather know in order to prepare yourself if your baby is born with a problem? These are questions that each individual needs to ask. And I’m really quite happy we live in a country where women are given choices based on whatever their answer is.

Feel free to ask questions and/or start discussions. One thing that scared me a bit and made me feel lonely at the beginning of my pregnancy, before anyone really knew about it, was that so many online forums seemed to beat to the rhythm of religion and not so much to one of science. Questions were asked and answered with great care, but no one was talking about the giant elephant in the room. No one really talked about the idea of terminating a pregnancy if the fetus was in danger or had a chromosomal defect. I know that many men and women think about it, I know this because of actual conversations I have had with some of the men and women in my life. But online things are a bit different so if you’re one to search for answers on the Internet like I did, you might feel a little lonely out there. All too often I saw women online praying for one another. Don’t get me wrong, prayer has its place. Faith is a powerful thing. Prayer is as well. But I grew more and more trusting of science as the days went on. I began to rely heavily on science. I put a lot of faith in my doctors and their ability to help me get through the early stages, before I knew what was really going on.

Three months later, I’m still worried about everything yet to come, but at least now I know I am not alone.

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My evenings have been really bad lately. I don’t get morning sickness at all. I get evening sickness. And I’m feeling overweight and frumpy. So today I got Kellianne (perhaps the best artist/hairstylist there is) to give me a new haircut. Somehow, this woman always manages find my natural curls. I simply have to figure out how to do this. Here is a picture of the new me. I hope it fools ones eyes away from the expanding inner tube that was once my midsection. (She says this as she eats fries dipped in peppercorn ranch dressing.)

Also, I submitted a picture to JPG Magazine. I really am not asking for pity votes because, well, some of the pictures on there are truly outstanding. BUT! If you like this one for the theme Elegance well, hell, I won’t complain.

Overall, I’m in a really good, lucky mood today even if I feel a little ill. I got my Ultra Screen test results back yesterday and it looks like everything is really awesome. My baby isn’t going to have DS. I’m going to have the Quad Screen (because it’s free and offered by my regular doctor) but it looks like I’ll skip the Amnio entirely.

I cannot even begin to tell you how happy this has made me. Like everyone else in the world, I really want to have a healthy baby. Yesterday was a big day for me. And I’m sure this won’t be the last blurb about it because the whole testing thing has plagued me for months. I have worried myself sick over genetic testing for reasons I won’t go into on here, yet – maybe never. (Just remember this: never, ever read stuff on the Internet when you’re trying to get pregnant or are newly pregnant. It’s downright scary out there. If you’re prone to worry, stay away from the Internet and books.)

Edited to add: I wrote a really long article about genentic testing on pregnant women. Please see it if you’re interested.

Thank you, everyone, for your congratulatory emails and comments – both here and on Flickr. They mean a lot to us. It’s been a long three months. There were times I wanted to just scream, “I’M PREGNANT! That’s why I’m being such a bitch! That’s why I can’t stop spitting!” But I held back.

I’m starting to realize something about pregnant women and mommies. I hope this doesn’t get me into trouble with the Internet. I’m realizing that we’re really annoying. If you think about it, our bodies are doing something that is really outstanding and strange. Our bodies are housing an alien life form, a foreign piece of matter, something of which our bodies would like to rid themselves.

The strangest part is that this alien wasn’t stuffed into our vaginas while we were knocked out on the operating table of a spaceship. Our bodies, with the help from our male counterparts, created these parasites on their own. It’s weird, man. As natural as it’s said to be, the side effects are downright unnatural. It’s mind-blowing to me. The whole body thing is simply mind-blowing.

When I first found out, I was completely disgusted with myself. My body grossed me out entirely. I was afraid to let Toby touch me. I didn’t want anyone else to touch me either. I felt disgusting. I wore a look on my face that read, “What the hell did I go and do this for? I am a disgusting monster.” The hardest part was that nobody knew back then and so the time I found myself standing in a dressing room at Betsy Johnson, trying to squeeze my huge tits into a dress far too small for me while 3 of Toby’s coworkers stood outside waiting to see me, I couldn’t scream out, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE. I JUST CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS!” But I wanted to. I wanted to explain to everyone that I had recently been injected with “monster”, that I was disgusting.

Eventually, I had a conversation with my mother about these feelings. I asked her, flat-out, “Is it normal to disgust yourself?”

She said, “You’re experiencing what all living beings are naturally put on this Earth to do. For whatever reason, all species procreate. That’s all you’re doing. You’re no different then a rat or a fruit fly.”

It was that last sentence, the one about the fruit flies that made me feel a little less disgusting. When I really thought about it, I decided that I might be gross, but I’m not as gross as the rat. And so I started to feel less like a rodent and a little more normal again. I started to warm up to the idea.

But then the physical stuff really started taking over. The pregnancy hormone called Relaxin began to move my hips and joints around. (Do you have any idea how disconcerting that is? And then do you have any idea how reassuring it is when the doctor tells you that you’re not actually putting on weight instead your hips are moving and those pants you wore when you were heavier than you are now don’t fit right because of said shifting?) And it’s weird watching your tits grow up to two times their original size, especially when you didn’t like how big they were to begin with. (I went from a 36 C to a 36 D in one month. And I’m told they will get larger during the third trimester.) And they hurt, oh boy do they ever hurt. (I wore a sports bra to sleep for 2 months.)

And then there’s the vomit. I was lucky, I don’t really vomit all that much but I have another really disgusting side-affect. I became what my doctor calls “A Spitter.” At first I thought this was something specific to my body, especially since everyone I wrote to at first or talked to about it had one response, “Huh? Spit? Umm, no.” I began producing an excessive amount of saliva, so much saliva I was unable to swallow it all. I chewed on salt-less Saltines. They turned into cement in my mouth, which made me feel sick. I chewed on Newman’s Own Ginger mints and that helped me ignore it for a few minutes. But there are only so many mints one can eat and then I got sick from all the ginger. I spit when no one was looking, into trashcans around the city, or onto subway platforms. And when I was at home, I tore up pieces of paper towel and threw them into a plastic bag, which I would use as a spittoon. I suddenly became the person that I hate, a public spitter! Friends and family would say, “Can’t you just swallow it? That’s really gross.” But when I swallowed the saliva I got sick to my stomach. Now, I just don’t leave the house.

But here’s the deal, I know my experience isn’t special. Even when I was on that table at the doctor’s office watching our little dude on the monitor for the very first time, I had to remind myself that while this might be special to me, the doctor sees it a hundred times a week, maybe more. I’m also keenly aware of the fact that when it comes right down to it most people couldn’t care less about my child. Sure, there’s the whole social contract thing – be kind to others, etc., etc. – but our kid isn’t going to be anyone too special to anyone but family, friends, and me. (Until, of course, he or she becomes the next world-renowned astrophysicist and disproves the existence of God as we know it using science. Then my kid will blow all y’all’s mind.)

So, I’m not special to you nor is my pregnancy and my kid probably won’t be special to most people either. What I’m going through is so not special on broad terms, which is what I think makes us so damn annoying. Because no matter how natural it is, and given the fact that millions of species have been doing this since the beginning of time, (some even lose their lives because of it), we think we’re special. And so we write about it. A lot. We use names on forums and blogs like “Karl’s Mommy!” or “SAHM in Idaho!” and we tell other future mommies how things are supposed to be, how babies are supposed to be born, how they’re supposed to be raised. (Incidentally, if I ever do this to you or you see me do it to someone – this offering of unsolicited information bullshit – you have my permission to kick me in the tits. Same goes for that whole vanity M.O.M. Internet license plate phenomenon.)

And so this is where it begins. The chapter where I drone on and on about what I’m going through, the stunts my body is pulling, the migration of stretch marks, the expanding cup size of my bra, how many new pimples I have, and how terrible it’ll be having my vagina torn to shreds. And I know being pregnant is as natural as natural can be but that won’t stop me from pretending that I’m the first person on planet Earth to have ever given birth to a human baby.

We’re not special at all, not in the slightest way, but until they figure out a way to start mass producing babies and selling them at places like Old Navy, McDonald’s, or Wal-Mart, where everything is made to look and taste exactly the same, we’re going to feel special. We’re going to be annoying. We’re going to feel entitled. We’re going to continue to write about it and clutter the Internet with hundreds of fairly meaningless pictures of unborn fetuses, zygotes, growing bellies, and eventually our kids. We’re going to continue to demand the attention and respect from acquaintances, loved ones, and complete strangers. We’re going to flick guys off when we’re driving because they continually honk at the back of our heads because we didn’t take that left turn fast enough. We’re going to come off as some snotty, punk ass pregnant bitches. Well, I am anyway.

The phrase, “The rabbit died,” came to be a euphemism for a positive pregnancy test in the early twentieth century. It was discovered that if the urine of a pregnant woman was injected into a rabbit, there would be corpora hemorrhagica in its ovaries. Because the ovaries could not be inspected without dissecting the rabbit, the rabbit invariably died.

Rabbits of the world celebrate the modern pregnancy test for its accuracy and lack of collateral damage. Being quite fond of rabbits, our pregnancy was confirmed using one of these modern marvels.

We’re having a baby. Our due date is the fourth of August, two-thousand seven.

Yesterday was a long day. Tobyjoe and I had a few appointments together in the city. We were out from 9 AM until after 5, running around in the rain. But I’ll report more on that later. What I really want to write about right now, however, is our new Heavenly bed (Oops!) our new W Bed! That’s right, folks. We went ahead and pulled the trigger on this one. We bought a new bed.

Let me begin by saying it’s awesome. It’s much taller than our old one, which means we might have to invest in some pet steps for Schmitty. (Although, it appears that Travis isn’t using them.) The new mattress is pristinely white so we went ahead and left the plastic on the box spring since the frame doesn’t arrive until Tuesday. (This is the one we’re getting. I’m excited about having a footboard!) Right now I feel like an old lady with my plastic-covered furniture.

I was a little bit surprised to find out that it wasn’t quite as big as I imagined it’d be. Our old bed was a full. This one is a queen. It’s about 6 inches wider than our old one. Granted, that’s one entire cat, so we should see the difference. I hope.

I will report back on how it sleeps tomorrow. Or maybe sooner if this impending nap has its way.

My lovely husband and his hard-working coworkers have been busting their asses for months now to complete this project. The ad aired tonight during the premier of American Idol. It’s for MMs and it’s really quite fun. Go check it out. It’s up at Planet MM.

Make yourself into an MM and when you’re done tell The Barbarian Group how amazing they are; a lot of people have been working around the clock on this project, literally. While I am certain that once they finally distance themselves from it they will realize how awesome it is, it doesn’t hurt to tell ‘em right now. Great job, guys!

Oh! And I can’t wait to see my husband again!

If you’re interested in the song playing during the ad, it’s called “This is the Day”. It’s by The The. You can watch the video here.

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Y’all know how much I love Wal-Mart. And so when someone by the name of “Filthy Wal-Mart” added me as a contact earlier this morning on Flickr, I checked them out. I have to say this photo set is a little more than shocking. I’m not a fan, true, but I had no idea some of the stores were that bad. Is this particular one going out of business or something?

This weekend I completed my first paid photography gig. I’ve done work for people in the past but before Saturday I hadn’t ever worked for someone I didn’t already know. And this time I was paid for my work in cash, that means no barter, no free booze, no pat on the back, I got an actual check. It was amazing, my entire day.

I woke up nervous as can be on Saturday morning. I stuffed two cameras into my camera bag, a few extra memory cards, as well as a flash. My tummy was so uneasy. What if I didn’t do well? What if I got mugged on the way home and lost everything? What if she’s mean? What if I am mean? What if she hates me? What if it rains? What if everything is out of focus? Dear God, what have I agreed to?

I met the woman in SoHo at 10:30. We were to cover four different locations and take portraits at each one. The portraits were to be taken both inside and out. It was tricky, especially the work I did at her office, which had yellowish light and wall-to-wall reflective surfaces. I do believe that if I continue this type of work I’ll need a polarizer. Overall, I’m really happy with most of the shots. Like, really, really pleased with them. The lighting was incredible (it was overcast and lovely on Saturday) and the woman I worked with was super great. Everything went smoothly thank goodness. I think she’ll be pleased.

I do have a question that the Internet might be able to help me with. I have to put together an online portfolio (thumbnails, etc.) that she can easily click through and then let me know what pictures she’s interested in using for the article. I don’t want to use Flickr because I generally keep my personal life away from my professional life but something like Flickr might be nice. Does anyone have any suggestions? Is there a way to use Lightbox? I’m totally in the dark about this.

On Sunday my dear friend, Nico, came into the city to do some shopping with me. We had lunch at Home Restaurant in the West village. She came bearing gifts that included yarn, two awesome needles, and a book called Stitch and Bitch. That’s right, folks. I am going to finally learn how to knit. A boyfriend showed me how once in College and I very nearly finished a scarf but I haven’t touched it since. I’m excited.

After we ate we both picked up skirts. I got this one.

It’s a little gray here in New York City but that’s OK because the weekend turned out to be plump and lovely. Today I dropped Nico off at the bus station and hit the nail salon where I got my nails done like this and my eyebrows waxed like this.

Now it’s back to work.

I’m afraid of the tubed cans you open, you know, the ones that Pillsbury uses to house their extraordinarily nutritious treats. They scare me. I know they’re going to make a popping sound when I peel away the paper wrapping but I never know when this sound is going to take place. It scares me, that moment, especially when the dough pops out, a fleshy explosion from a can.

I used to get Tobyjoe to open the containers for me but he doesn’t like when I bring food items into the house that are enriched with saturated fat and/or an exorbitant number of calories. I can’t say I blame him.

But then yesterday I saw some TV commercial featuring that little white giggly dude and suddenly I needed Pillsbury Sweet Rolls, specifically, the cinnamon ones.

It was after 7 and I really didn’t want to go to the grocery store. The one that’s closest to the apartment closes at 7. I would have had to walk all the way to Bedford and screw exercise, even exercise punctuated by sweet rolls.

So, I made them from scratch.

It was shockingly easy. I found a recipe online and 3 hours later I had fresh, (not as unhealthy) sweet rolls.

(You totally want to touch my rolls, don’t you?)

There’s hope for the U.S. after all!

* “David Beckham will leave Real Madrid and join Major League Soccer side LA Galaxy at the end of the season.”*

I can’t wait to see what this does for soccer in the states.

I woke up with a new one this morning. I feel like I’m 16 again even though when I was actually 16, I didn’t have them. Today I woke up with one on my left eyelid. Yesterday I had a new one on my chin, the day before that, in the right corner where both lips meet. I’m talking about pimples, people, ugly, unwelcome pimples.

I’m not sure how people deal pimples or other skin problems because I certainly cannot. I have had warts before. I remember when I had my first one. It was a small guy; it was on the bottom of my right, ring toe. I was a kid, I don’t remember my exact age. But I do remember how I finally got rid of it. I scraped my foot repeatedly on the rough pavement along the edge of Dana’s swimming pool. It’s nice having friends with pools, although that’s probably how I got the thing in the first place. I had a few others grow over the years as well and I have had them all cut out or frozen, some just went away on their own. They were always on my feet. I hate skin things.

When I was 12, I had the mother of all warts take root on my foot, it grew smack dab in the middle of my right heel. It was huge and horribly ugly and became bigger and more powerful as the years went on. It kept me from getting countless pedicures, foot rubs, and for the longest time, when intimate with Tobyjoe, I would keep my socks on. (Now, that’s hot. If you haven’t felt turned on thus far by this post, I am certain you feel that way now.)

As the years went idly by, I grew more and more annoyed with the thing. I had it cut out at least three times by a professional (although, looking back, I’m not sure what the difference between our techniques was.) Eventually, I gave up on the professional and decided to take matters of the feet into my own hands. I began to operate on it myself. This went on for years. I would pull out whatever sharp object I could find and give myself surgery by boring into layers and layers of skin (the heel can be quite calloused). This procedure always ended the same way, with my foot covered in blood, another ruined bent metal thing, and a head full of frustration. The wart always won but I must have tried to dig it out at least 500 times over the years. Easily.

When I was 6, I had Impetigo. My face broke out with big open sores, my arms as well. It was disgusting. We were in Tennessee at the time at the 1980 World’s Fair. I wore as much medical ointment on my face as possible because when the sores dried out, the pain was unbearable. And if they dried out I would try and keep them moist using my own saliva.

I am shocked my family, or some southern stranger, didn’t try and sell me to some passing circus. I was disgusting and highly contagious. I was quarantined from my brothers.

The bout with Impetigo left a lasting scar on me mentally. I still have reoccurring nightmares about it. I wake up sweating, exiting a dream where I had been covered in some hideously ugly, skin disorder. I have dreamt that the skin from an entire fingertip has somehow detached itself from the knuckle and I spend the entire dream trying to hide it, by shoving it back on. I have had long, snake like, skin creatures come out of the bottoms of my feet and I keep pulling on them hoping they’ll eventually end and when they keep getting longer and growing wider their exit holes become bigger and bigger. I get goose bumps when I think about these dreams. (Of course it’s a reaction of the skin.) These nightmares, the ones about my skin, are more vivid than actual memories.

I know the history of my skin. Which is how I know that it wasn’t me who threw the massive wart behind the couch when he was a kid. The wart had come off. I remember that because it was really gross. It had turned dark first, like a dead tooth. And it eventually fell off. I remember the days leading up to said liberation. It was mortifying for me. (I’m getting goose bumps just writing this down.) But if it had actually been my own, well, I’d remember something like that.

I admitted to the foreign booger that I simply could not find on the bathroom wall. I looked for it before finally convincing myself that what I had actually felt fly out of my nostril wasn’t a booger at all, but a big burst of air. There simply was no booger. But I was wrong. It came back to haunt me weeks later at the dinner table.

“Kids, I can handle vomit when you’re sick, poop even. I can handle hair in the bathtub, unflushed toilets here and there, and sweaty soccer gear. But what I can’t handle is scraping dried boogers off the bathroom wall. Use a tissue.”

All three of us looked down at our empty plates (my mother would never say such a thing with food still on the plate). But I had used a tissue, I thought. The tissue just wasn’t big enough. Not one of us said a word at the time. I fessed up later to the crime.

Just like that rebellious bathroom booger, I remember weird skin things. I’m a little terrified of what our bodies are capable of to be honest with you. I blame this, in part, because of the impetigo I had at the 1980 World’s Fair. My face may have been covered in sores, but I was wart-free back then. I remember that. (Thankfully, I am wart free now for the first time since I was 12.) I also know that it wasn’t my wart that was thrown behind the couch that day. I know this but my family doesn’t seem to agree with me.

So, if I drop dead tomorrow from some flesh eating bacteria, Ebola, or a massive exploding eyelid pimple, please make sure that my brother knows that I know that it was his wart that was thrown behind that couch not mine. I want to put to rest what might be the biggest Howely family mystery of all time.

Alright, people (and Missy, who helped me with the last one), I am nearing the end of Prep and I need a new book waiting in the wing the moment I am done with it. (It’s either that or I’ll watch even more television and we can’t have that.)

I’m really enjoying Prep. Prior that, I read Book of Illusions, by Paul Auster. I wasn’t crazy about it at all but I LOVED The Booklyn Follies, which I read right before Illusions.

The Internet helped me out before. Perhaps I should just see the older post? But I thought that maybe someone out there just read something that they want others (like me) to check out, like, right now. So, let ‘em rip. Pretty please?

A self-portrait from me to you. (It about sums up how I have been feeling lately.)

Also, I started a new series. Does two make a series? Oh, yeah, and I’m a really exciting person.

Edited to add: I went ahead and started a group called Shit in My Fridge. Join us if you dare.

I used to smoke. I smoked for a really long time. When I smoked I told people I enjoyed smoking. I guess to a certain degree that was true in so much as while I was smoking a cigarette I enjoyed it. But as soon as I finished one and the nasty taste was all that was left, as well as the grim realization that it was only a matter of time before I craved the next one, I’m not sure I still continued to call it enjoyable. I may have enjoyed smoking a cigarette here and there but I hated (and I mean hated) being a smoker.

When I was 20 I tried to quit. I tried again at age 25 and succeeded for almost a year. I tried again at 27 and then again, finally kicking it, at age 30. Basically, I kept trying to quit and I kept failing miserably.

When I met Tobyjoe he gave me an ultimatum. He suggested I quit, that our relationship would not go on for much longer if I continued to be a smoker. He said, “I don’t have any interest in marrying someone who is going to die a slow, horrible, and ugly death. I have no interest in making sure your oxygen tank is working.”

He had a point. And I really liked him. Why wouldn’t I give up this nasty habit in order to make our relationship work? And so I tried. When the clock struck the year 2002, I said I would not smoke another cigarette and I lasted for almost 6 months before sneaking one behind his back. And then another. Before I knew it, I was sneaking cigarettes all the time.

This was the catalyst of many, many HUGE fights between he and I. When he would find a stash in an old purse or in the pocket of a jacket, he would become so angry, he was unable to speak to me. I would ask him things like, “Why do you care? It doesn’t hurt you!” I would say things like, “If I want to smoke, I should be able to smoke!”

It was really dumb and it almost ended our relationship.

Quitting, like, actually quitting, was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, which is probably why it took so many tries. It’s also been one of the most rewarding. I finally stopped smoking, as in, no more sneaking it, no more taking a puff of someone else’s, it was tough and I missed them for a while but I finally did quit. Every time I drank and my inhibitions were lowered, I wanted a cigarette. It was a really hard addiction to conquer. I wish nonsmokers understood just how hard NOT smoking really is for a smoker. But until you’re owned by such a thing, you have no idea how something so intangible and dangerous can literally be the boss of you. Thankfully, for me, the addiction is totally gone. Now the only time the idea even sneaks into my head is when I’m shitfaced drunk and that doesn’t really happen much anymore either.

But that leads me to why I’m writing today. Recently, we were discussing smoking and smokers. More specifically, we were talking about a loved one who still smokes and really shouldn’t. The deep, raspy cough is hint enough that something very wrong is taking place inside of them. And the way they smell, it’s unbearable most of the time. Their skin is sagging and wrinkling before it should. Their teeth are stained. Yet, they’re very beautiful, too. And we love them and we want to keep them around for as long as possible. So we talked about it. And Tobyjoe, a person who hasn’t ever had a cigarette in all of his life, not even a drag, said, “No, they won’t quit for good. They enjoy being a smoker.”

And I became angry. I am not sure where this anger came from, perhaps all those times I foolishly told myself (and everyone else around me) the same thing came back to me.

“There is no way any one person can honestly say to another person that they enjoy being a smoker. They might enjoy a cigarette when they’re smoking one, but NO ONE above the showoff age of 16 is actually proud of being a smoker. If they tell you such a thing, they’re lying. If they believe it, they’re lying to themselves.”

This was a harsh thing to say and to be honest I’m not sure why I’m writing it out loud. But for some reason, I need to say it. And so I challenge any smokers out there to honestly tell themselves right now that they enjoy being a smoker. Because I am just not buying it.

I received an email from my sister-in-law the other day.

It read:

“Just so you know, you get what you pay for with babysitting. See attached photo…”

I haven’t laughed that hard in quite some time. I love my parents.

I woke up at 10:00 AM today. I’m a little shocked by this feat. Lately, I haven’t been able to sleep much at all. I headed to the gym after prying myself out of bed. I did 30 minutes worth of cardio and then hit the mats to do some stretching. After that, I headed to the weights. All in all, I had a great workout, felt like I accomplished something and after yesterday’s Biggest Loser Marathon, one might say I was inspired.

I was famished when I left and every time I work out I immediately crave sandwiches, more specifically, sandwiches smothered in salt and pepper and oil and vinegar. (Oh, how I love me some vinegar.) I wanted a veggie sub from Subway but I’m trying to avoid the big chains these days. It’s a long story, I guess I just don’t feel safe eating that kind of stuff this close to New Jersey. Today, not unlike almost every other day last week, I decided on Bagelsmith. I ordered a roll with cheddar cheese, provolone, lettuce, spicy mustard and a whole slew of oil and vinegar. I was so excited.

I drove home, which is the distance of about a mile. When I arrived back to the neighborhood it was 12:36 PM and there wasn’t any street parking. The Tuesday side of the street would be off limits for another 20+ minutes. I drove around the block a few times, looked under the BQE, nothing was open. And I was hungry. And everyone knows how I get when I’m hungry.

As I drove around aimlessly looking for imaginary parking, I finally decided that instead of wasting gas looking for a parking spot, why not just park on the Tuesday side, consume my sandwich, and wait until 1 PM? Plus, if I spent 20 minutes today waiting for legal parking, I wouldn’t have to move it again until Friday. That’s what I did. I parked directly across the street from our apartment and began to eat my lunch.

I kept the keys cocked and the car ready for motion on the off chance some lazy parking attendant showed up. (Our parking ticket attendants are so lazy, they don’t get out of their cars in order to remove the duct tape from a car’s license plate when it sits on the sidewalk at the local mechanic. In fact, one time when it was raining I got a ticket for an expired inspection. But here’s the thing, they never actually got out of their vehicle in order to give me the ticket. It’s a good thing I’m such a parking ticket regular because had I not been online to pay another ticket, I never would have seen that one. At first I thought the ticket was stolen for some reason but a local mechanic once told me that if there’s any obstacle at all, the lazy parking attendants won’t get out of their car. And weather is a huge obstacle for them.) I really don’t have a lot of nice things to say about NYC parking attendants. And I certainly wasn’t going to let anyone give me a ticket.

So I sat there. I sat there for 20 minutes waiting until the clock struck 1 PM. And it wasn’t so bad because there’s nothing more soothing than a sun heated car in the winter. It felt really nice. I almost fell asleep.

I drive an old Volvo. On older Volvos, one must hold the handle up in order to lock the front car doors. So, you push the lock down, hold the handle up, and push the door shut. I don’t mind the extra step because it keeps me from locking my keys in the car, which would suck because we lost our other set of keys over a year ago.

I got out of the car at 1 PM and locked the door. It was right at that very moment I realized that the get away car was still cocked and ready to go. I looked in the window and saw the keys dangling from the ignition. Looks like the lazy parking meter people got the last laugh after all.

The car doesn’t have to move until Friday but I have no idea how I’m going to get into it. I guess we’ll have to pry the already broken sunroof open. What a pain in my ass. Welcome to 2007. Welcome to post number one within the ever long series entitled “Mihow Does Something Stupid”.

I’m not even sure what to say about this story out of Indiana.

“Police said they traced the toddler to an apartment at a nearby complex, where they found his mother, Nancy Dyer asleep in a filthy apartment and his 2-year-old sister eating spaghetti off the floor.”