I read a Raymond Carver story when I was in college. It’s about a husband and wife who are woken abruptly in the middle of the night to a ringing phone. The distraught female caller has the wrong number. Unable to fall asleep after the call – tucked somewhere between too early and too late – the husband and wife stay up talking, occasionally answering the same wrong number. They discuss life together, dying, and finally end up talking about their wishes should they find themselves incapacitated and on their deathbeds. The husband finally says, “Don’t pull my plug on me. I want to stick it out.” The wife says she wants hers pulled.

The story ends around dawn with the husband answering the phone one last time. He wants to ask the woman on the other end, “Who are you trying to reach? Why do you keep calling?” He has an overwhelming desire to get through to her, to let her know that she has reached the wrong house, that she must correct this mistake if she wants to contact the correct person. This becomes his cause, suddenly, his absolute wish, something he must do.

Just when he’s about to explain this to her, his wife reaches over and pulls the phone cord from the wall.

About a month ago I received an email from a woman asking me if I would take part in an online surprise birthday party for her boyfriend. The email was one of those group type emails. Who knows how many other people were on the list. I didn’t recognize her name. All she said was that she was the girlfriend so-and-so writes about on his blog and since we were on her list, we were regular readers of said blog. She asked us to see a registry and consider sending her boyfriend gifts. If we couldn’t send gifts, she suggested we make videos, cards, whatever the hell. But here’s the deal: I hadn’t ever heard of her OR her boyfriend or his blog before that day. I was more than a little annoyed.

Granted, I’m easily irked these days because I’m hormonally imbalanced. Something that may not have bothered me before can suddenly become the most irritating thing ever. I decided, against my better judgment, to write her back asking that she kindly remove me from the list. I said that I hadn’t ever heard of her, her boyfriend, or his Web site. I wanted to let her know for three reasons: I didn’t want her to think I was rude when I obviously didn’t buy him anything; if she reached me in error, I wanted her to know that whoever was meant to be the receiver of said email hadn’t received it; and lastly, I didn’t want to be the recipient of a bunch of spam, which is bascially what it is.

I didn’t hear anything for at least a week and figured she had removed me from the list. On the 12th I received an update stating her boyfriend’s address, his “Wish List”, and some gift suggestions. Needless to say, I was even more irritated. Normally this wouldn’t bother me. I tend to get a lot of email and I ignore a lot of it as well. It’s easy to delete them when I don’t feel I’m the intended reader. But for some reason I let it get to me this time. I started to write her back and then decided that I was being stupid. So I made a deal with myself: don’t write her back unless she writes you again.

On the 17th I got another email from his girlfriend. This time it was sent to remind its undisclosed recipients of the deadline; it included a thank you for all the kind feedback she had received, and a link to another blogger’s site that was putting together some alternative party stuff.

I wrote her back. I reminded her that I had written to her before stating that I hadn’t ever heard of her boyfriend or his blog and I certainly hadn’t ever read it before. I reiterated that she kindly remove me from the list of people in her address book, that I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I have enough to juggle with right now and I didn’t really want to continually receive birthday party updates from her about her boyfriend.

This is where one must ask the question, “Michele, why on earth do you care so much? Why not delete the damn thing and carry on with your life?”

Answer: I HAVE NO CLUE. If I could control these impulses, I would. But it seems that lately, given this whole pregnancy thing, my everyday goal in life has become the need to conquer all that I consider unfair. Like, I’m the Superhero of Conquering Unfairness. For example, one day I was walking to the subway and a guy in a white van drove up to the stop sign really fast. Had I tripped, he would have hit me. I was very angry. After all, I had the right away. So I stopped and shook my head at him, pointing my finger. He rolled down the window and said, “What is your problem?”

I said, “Why can’t you be a good person?”

He stared at me, totally confused as to how to reply.

“Seriously, is it so hard to be a nice person? I don’t understand why you can’t just be a nice, kind person.”

He was speechless, literally. He did not say a word back to me. But I continued to talk anyway.

“You could have hit me. And then your day would have been ruined. All because you’re in a hurry. You’re not a very nice person. You should be a nicer person.”

Eventually, I walked away and he drove on. (One of these days I am going to get shot.)

So, with this gal, I really wanted her to understand that I wasn’t going to take part in her boyfriend’s birthday and have no intentions of ever reading his blog. I wanted her to understand that it’s not OK to blindly email everyone you cand find and that I have enough trouble sending birthday gifts to my friends and family let alone some stranger I haven’t even met online.

She wrote me back right away saying that there is no such mihow address in her address book. Five minutes later, I got another email stating, “You have been removed from the list. Sorry to have bothered you.” Finally, I had my Raymond Carver moment, the moment the husband in the bed with his wife never got to have with the stranger on the other end of his phone.

Or so I thought.

Two days ago I received another reminder email. It included updated addresses, told me where to send stuff, told me the deadline has been extended. But time was running out! I needed to get my presents in the mail RIGHT AWAY.

I walked into the bedroom to tell Tobyjoe who immediately suggested that I write about it on my Web site and include links to the birthday boy’s site, as well as his name, his girlfriend’s name, and their personal emails. (He’s more upfront about such matters. Me? I’m passive aggressive.)

“You know what I should do? I should go to his Web site and write the following. ‘Hi, my name is Michele. Your girlfriend keeps writing me emails suggesting I buy you birthday gifts for your upcoming online surprise birthday party. Did you know you were having a surprise birthday party?’”

We both got a chuckle over this idea and Tobyjoe really wanted me to do it. But while I may be hormonally challenged these days, I am not yet cruel. Really. In fact, I pride myself of having a blog that’s 6 years old and avoiding all the typical, girl-on-girl, Internet fighting that goes on, which is probably the reason why I don’t see much traffic.

I let it slide. Again. I haven’t written her back. I will wait this one out because, clearly, I am meant to buy this dude something for his birthday, this dude I haven’t ever met, this dude who I couldn’t care any less about. But perhaps after we get done paying off Schmitty’s vet bill (I was debt free for one week), I’ll send the two of them a gift certificate to Toys in Babeland, because if homeboy’s girlfriend is hitting up a bunch of virtual strangers in hopes of making his birthday more memorable, I’d be wiling to bet that there are a few problems in that relationship.

Or maybe this is just a really creative (and annoying) way of getting more traffic to her boyfriend’s Web site.

Lately Tobyjoe and I have been perusing the real estate market outside of this wonderful city. I’m sure this doesn’t come as much of a surprise to most. We are nearly five months pregnant and we do need to start thinking about a house, a yard, the future education of our child, our safety, conveniences, etc.

Let me begin by saying that I love New York City and I always will and no matter where we end up living, it won’t be far away from here. But I’ve become restless lately. Something has changed.

The restlessness bloomed about a month ago when I tried to wash my 31-year-old car. At the time the car was covered in months worth of dirt, salt, and BQE filth (which we live very close to). This wasn’t a problem in the past as I used to take it to the automatic car wash. But recently, given the Great Lock out of 2007, AAA used the already busted sunroof to get in, stripping it of its remaining life.

As the weeks wore on, the car became more and more filthy, to the point where I could no longer see out the windows. I tried every local gas station to find one of those window-washing units that usually sit next to the pump. To no avail. They were empty and/or ransacked or not present at all. I couldn’t take it anymore and decided that instead of taking it to the car wash and having a bunch of angry men yell at me in Spanish after having their heads covered in water, I would do it myself. I wrote my landlord to see if I could gain access to the hose, a hose I see our super (the landlord’s aunt) use all the time.

DENIED.

At the point of denial, I was 3 and a half months pregnant. And so on a Saturday in early February, two days after winter had finally arrived, I decided to wash the car using a lone bucket we had in our 3rd floor walk up. I decided to run up and down the stairs. I decided to wash the bloody car myself.

(I’ve had better ideas at 3 AM while blasted drunk.)

By bucket number two not only was I out of breath and freezing my tail off, but all I had done was push the dirt around. The windows looked tinted and the remaining salt had frozen to its exterior. It looked like it was covered in wax. It looked much, much worse than when I had started. I was livid and so I began to cry. I stood there, outside on the street, bucket in hand, freezing. Obscenities flew out of my mouth like cold spit. The monologue sounded something like this:

“I CAN’T [EXPLETIVE] LIVE IN A PLACE WHERE I CAN’T EVEN USE A [EXPLETIVE] HOSE. WHY CAN’T I WASH MY CAR? I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE. I NEED A HOUSE WHERE I CAN WASH MY OWN [EXPLETIVE] CAR. THIS IS [EXPLETIVE] STUPID. I [EXPLETIVE] HATE THIS. I [EXPLETIVE] HATE THIS CAR. I [EXPLETIVE] HATE THIS [EXPLETIVE] CITY. WHY AREN’T THERE ANY [EXPLETIVE] CLEANING THINGS AT THE GAS STATIONS AROUND HERE? [EXPLETIVE]! AND WHY CAN’T I EVER FIND A CAR WASH WHERE I CAN [EXPLETIVE] WASH THE CAR MYSELF? [EXPLETIVE] COIN OPERATED! WHAT THE [EXPLETIVE] IS WRONG WITH [EXPLETIVE] BROOKLYN, MAN? [EXPLETIVE] OUR ASSHOLE LANDLORD.”

I was raging mad and Tobyjoe tried to calm me down. (Seriously, you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen an angry pregnant version of me. Couple that anger with the feeling of unfairness, and you have yourself one furious, bitch of a woman.) Eventually, the two of us just threw our hands up and went to get something to eat. (He knows that food will shut me up right now.)

Since that day the moments that make up everyday living have been put under intense scrutiny. I am not nearly as forgiving of New York City and Brooklyn as I was 6 months ago. That day set in motion the irritation pileup.

We already have trouble living here. We can’t afford to buy a place and even if we could I’m starting to wonder if I even want to. Is it worth paying 400 thousand dollars for a 350 square foot apartment with no access to a yard? Is it worth paying almost a million dollars for a brownstone in a fairly sketchy area hoping the property value rises? Do I want to deal with a co-op? I keep thinking, “For 400 grand, we could buy something much nicer an hour outside the city.” Perhaps I’m being too practical, too hard on New York, too spoiled.

Now that we have a child on the way and I’m no longer making decisions based one what I want, my priorities have changed right before my eyes. Suddenly being in a great city near a booming main street with lots of bars and restaurants is no longer that appealing. Instead, I am becoming more and more intrigued with that parking lot that sits 10 feet from the door of a local, suburban diner. I’m even thinking about places like Papa John’s and a line free Trader Joe’s. I’m dreaming about the place where I can put a few coins into a machine and wash my own car. I’m dreaming about a house with a pottery wheel and a small kiln. I’m dreaming of a place where my kid comes home smelling of grass stains, his fingernails sheltering dirt. I want her to come home with a cocoon or a turtle, a jar full of fireflies, a head plump full of fresh air. I want to wake up next to blades of grass I can lick the dew off of. I want to fall asleep to the sound of crickets. I want our snow to stay white for more than a day.

It is going to come with great sadness when I do finally leave this city once and for all, (which is probably far off given we have no down payment). But once the baby is born and it’s not just Toby and me anymore, I’m going to have a hard time justifying living here. And that’s just it, Internet. The part that has changed the most in me during my pregnancy is the amount of room devoted to what I’m willing to forgive. The door that once shielded me from the things that chisel away at my patience is no longer working, much like the stripped sunroof of my poor, filthy, 31-year-old car.

My child is going to be an ape.

(Thanks, Jen!)

As I stood in front of our bathroom mirror readying myself for a much needed shower, I realized that my ass had grown. Then I turned sideways and realized that my belly had doubled in size compared to what it was just three weeks ago. And my boobs? My boobs are ridiculously stupid looking. They belong in a freak show. I can’t look at them for very long. I’m afraid I’ll go blind without the proper eyewear.

Overall, I look like one of those toys I had as a kid, the ones that came in a clear plastic package. They looked like small, brightly colored erasers. I had a turtle and a alligator at one point. When you submerged in water – a sink, whatever – a few hours later they grew to be like 10 times their original size. (Do they still make those things? I have no idea what they were called but I loved them. I loved their final state: big and floppy, plump and slimy much like the way I feel today. I would make an excellent mold for round two, the adult version.)

And that tattoo I got when I was 18 is now twice its original size. You know, the one that my father once pointed to and said, “You do realize that when you get pregnant, that pretty little design is going to turn into a giant flower garden, right?”

To which I replied, “Dad, gross, I’m never, ever going to have kids. Pregnancy is for wankers.”

And the piercing I have above my bellybutton, the one that I used to play with merrily, show off when I was swimming, wear with pride, is now screaming to hold it all together. It looks down at the tattoo as if to say, “Dude, hang in there, this can’t possibly get any worse.”

Oh, but it can little bellybutton ring. It can.

I worry that my husband is going to start asking we keep the lights low after all. The same husband who bitches and moans at me daily because I force him to live in the dark. (I don’t like bright lights unless it’s sunshine. Otherwise, it’s just candlelight and 40 watt bulbs and they can’t be overhead.) When he arrives home from work at the end of the day the first thing he does is flip on every light in the house and it’s kind of cute.

My midsection is not.

Had I known all of this – all of this good stuff that takes place when you grow the hell up – I would have done things a little differently. I wouldn’t have wasted so much time drinking and eating poorly, consequently gaining weight, and therefore beating the hell out of my body. I wouldn’t have ignored my ass for so long. And I certainly wouldn’t have gotten that bloody tattoo around my bellybutton.

Had I known. Had I known.

Let’s just say that I would have done things a little differently.

Edited to add: Wow, this was one of my most charming posts to date. I’m sorry, Internet. It’s now another day and I’m feeling a little better. But I haven’t actually showered yet.

I have added a new section to this site. It’s called “Photos”. And guess what? It features photos. As many of you already know, Flickr did the whole switcheroo recently, forcing Old Skool members to merge their accounts with a Yahoo ID. Both Tobyjoe and I were a little perturbed by this, admittedly. And apparently it made a lot of the Internet foam at the mouth. We did not foam at the mouth, but we did whine about it to one another for a few minutes.

And before anyone gets all, “You’re just mad because you’re no longer considered ‘Old Skool’ like I’m wrapped up in the whole ‘I listened to Nirvana before they became popular, back in their Bleach days’”, I couldn’t care less about being considered Old Skool.

I’m going to talk about why the switch bothered me and then I’m never going to write about again. OK? Ready?

I have (and use) an existing Yahoo email. So I have nothing against Yahoo contrary to what a lot of folks are accusing us naysayers of. (Although, I did receive some comment spam recently on Flickr on several of my New York Post pictures, which is just completely lame to say the least.) I have had a Yahoo email address since 1998, maybe sooner. I use it when I’m buying something and I don’t want to receive spam every day from the merchant. I use it when our email goes down, which is like, never. I use it sometimes when dealing with clients, sending resumes, especially if they are behind some wicked firewall and have issues getting messages from my regular email. I never receive any personal email there. Basically, I have one email address I use for clients (on top of the Yahoo account), one for friends and family, one for blog stuff (a catch-all for anyone to use), and one for pretty much every other Web site we manage and run (Self-Portrait Day, I Hate Design, etc.) Between Tobyjoe and myself, we have a LOT of Web sites. We also host several Web sites, all, of which, require a unique username and password.

When you couple all those Web sites and email accounts with WordPress, Akismet, TypePad (for leaving comments on other blogs), online banking, financial stuff, client FTPs, Blog admin, etc. and you have yourself a whole bunch of passwords and a whole mess of usernames. With the whole Flickr thing, I would have liked to have merged my previous Yahoo account with my existing Flickr account, but that Yahoo account is already tied to another Flickr account that I signed up for about 2 months ago (before they made the announcement) in order to upload some photographs for a client. (As mentioned before, I like to keep work away from the personal as much as humanly possible.) In the end, I was forced to sign up again with Yahoo in order to merge the accounts together, and since mihow was already taken by some impostor I had to get creative, using numbers and underscores. This added yet another username/password combination to the already lengthy list. And I’m getting a little tired of it. I’m getting tired of having to sign up everywhere all the time.

But the whole two accounts thing with Yahoo doesn’t bother me the most. What bothers me the most is that when I am signed in at Flickr using my mihow account and I log into Yahoo using my previous email (the one I signed up with in the late 90s), Flickr kicks me out and I have to sign in again. Basically, I can’t be signed into both accounts at the same time, which is slightly frustrating for a gal who’s already grumpy and pregnant.

I know I don’t have to be online all the time, that no one was forcing me to sign up all over the place, use Flickr, etc. I know that. I realize I spend entirely too much time on the Internet and I’m hoping that once the baby arrives I will find other ways to amuse myself, like, by becoming its mother. But right now it’s cold and I’m not feeling 100% and when I’m not working, watching TV, or reading, I enjoy being online.

I’m not leaving Flickr. I like Flickr. I like seeing what my friends are up to, strangers, too. But the jury is still out on whether or not I’ll give them another 24 dollars in order to become “pro” again. If I had to decide right now, I probably wouldn’t. Now that I’m using Mephisto, and can easily upload photographs to my blog without even opening an FTP program, I am more inclined to move pictures back over to mihow.com in lieu of using Flickr to host them.

And that brings me back to square one, which is the reason I am writing today. I have created a new section called “Photos” where I hope to upload images as frequently as I once had on Flickr. We’ll see how it goes.

Oh, and one more thing, I reserve the right to hypocrisy when it comes to this topic in the future. :]

Tobyjoe’s coworker, Benjamin, has suggested that we name our baby a name he’s been trying to get someone to use for years. And for the life of me I cannot figure out why no one has snatched it up. I like what it says about a person but I do wonder if he or she will get confused when he or she heads to college.

Added to the list of names as of February 16th, 2007:

Professor Boudreaux

At least we’re not going to choose something really weird. For example, I read on Overheard in the Office recently that a woman named her daughter Placenta after hearing it at the hospital and announcing to the staff, “Oh my goodness! What a beautiful name!” Urban Myth! Somehow, I thought so. This further feeds my cynicism when it comes to both Overheard in New York and Overheard in the Office.

What are the weirdest names you’ve ever heard of? I once worked with a guy named Masterful.

Last night we watched Hot Man Movie, aka The Departed. I have wanted to see this film since the day we tried to have dinner at Park Luncheonette (an eatery in our neighborhood) and they said, “Sorry, you can’t eat here, we’re closed for a movie shoot.” And I said, “Well, what movie are you shooting and are they going to open soon?” And the man wearing the important badges and headgear said, “We’re shooting The Departed and I doubt it.” And I said, “Well, that sucks.”

Later, I found out that The Departed was a new Scorsese film and that Leonardo had been in there at the time. And I came this close to inviting him to my party or climbing the Brooklyn water tower with him.

So, Tobyjoe stopped at Whole Foods for Valentine’s Day dinner fixings, Dean and Deluca for some chocolate and flowers, and Virgin to buy us The Departed, which was released on DVD on Tuesday. It was a superb evening. The film was great. Of course it was great. The acting was superb. The cast was phenomenal. The movie was great, great enough to keep me up well past midnight o’clock.

I do have a few complaints, however. And I know this is because I had it under careful scrutiny based on the fact that I know Scorsese went to the far ends of the earth to see to it that this film was damn near perfect. He’s known for shooting scenes hundreds of times over just to get them right, so I went in holding a fine toothed comb and a magnifying glass. Plus, homeboy shut down Park Luncheonette for what seemed like forever in order to re-shoot scenes. No one gets in the way of me and food, not even Scorsese. (Although, Leonardo might be pardoned if such an atrocity were to occur.) My complaint was with some of the edits, the cuts. There were some uncomfortable cuts made during some of the dialog sequences, edits that reminded me of the fact that I was indeed watching a movie. And a few times there were weird cuts made when someone was smoking and it’s hard to get that right if you’re moving the shot from front to back all the while trying to keep the viewer in the same moment. (If this doesn’t make any sense, it doesn’t have to, the movie was great and I’m being picky.)

I especially loved Leonardo. The man has become such an outstanding actor and he’s SO unbelievably easy on the irises. Sure, Matt Damon holds a special place in my heart and always will, but as far as I’m concerned, Leonardo stole the show. I’d watch it again just to see him. Although, I’d like to see Scorsese redo all his scenes with him naked. Because the world needs more naked Leonardo. Throw Marky Mark in there, too. Matt Damon can leave his skivvies on if he really wants to.

Today’s Craving: Leonardo.

A new door opened for me this week; I’m finally starting to feel better. I still get a little green at night but it’s been nothing compared to what I experienced last month, which was brutal to say the least. I’m happy to report that aside from the daily bouts with heartburn I’m feeling pretty OK. My appetite has dropped quite a bit as well and I’m not sure why that is as I was told that the second trimester brings with it the most cravings. I still have them but they pale in comparison to the first three months when I was baking cinnamon sticky buns at 9 PM at night, eating popcorn for breakfast, pancakes for dinner, an pierogies every minute of the day. Seriously, it’s laughable the number of things I have sought out after having seen a commercial.

Even the headaches have subsided but I am told that since I’m prone to them they’ll be back. I’ve been pretty strict with my pregnancy so far. I haven’t touched a drop of caffeine since I found out. I’ve avoided all sugar substitutes, no more diet drinks, Splenda, or the like. I no longer eat fish (although, I have had some shrimp, lobster, and clams). I have avoided alcohol (of course), unsafe cheeses, and most medications. (Advil was a difficult crutch to saw in half.) I have taken half a Tylenol three times (when headaches became unbearable) and I do shots of Mylanta for when the heartburn eats my face or I feel like partying. Other than that, I think I’ve been pretty good.

The headaches have been hard to deal with, however. The first month of my pregnancy brought with it two migraines, which I haven’t had since I was a menstruating teenager. Both times Tobyjoe covered my head with bags of frozen fruit and vegetables and I sat there in the dark, sobbing. I now realize why some folks contemplate suicide while suffering from a migraine. (Worst days of my pregnancy so far.) Since then, I have only had moderate to severe headaches, nothing compared to a migraine, but still a big pain as they last for what seems like eternity. Last week I had a headache for almost 48 hours. I took half a Tylenol and it didn’t help so I simply gave up. I spoke to my doctor about the headaches on Monday who suggested, that the next time I feel one coming on, I take more than just half a Tylenol and I wash it down with a caffeinated latte. Up until now, I have been trying to keep my baby caffeine free. But if baby wants to keep mama from jumping in front of the subway, baby will have to deal with the possible run-in with a jolt of caffeine.

The first 3 months didn’t bring me much in the way of weight gain, but I made up for lost time during the fourth month when I added 5 pounds to my measly 3. It is suggested that a pregnant woman try and keep her total weight gain between 25 to 30 pounds. And it’s best to aim for no more then 25. That means I should put on no more than 7 to 10 pounds by week 20. I am 16 weeks and 4 days today. Based on those numbers, I’m not doing so well. How is it I’m eating less and gaining more? I now weigh more than I have ever weighed in my entire life, which is a painful reality to accept when you were at least 10 pounds overweight to begin with. (And now for something I said I’d never do… here’s some unsolicited advice! To all those ladies who are thinking about getting pregnant: get into shape before doing so. Lose whatever weight you want to lose, gain whatever weight you want to gain, but do it before getting pregnant. I wish I had. I wish I had worked more on my core, that’s for sure.)

I do hit the gym nearly every day and on the days where I do not, I practice 50 minutes of prenatal yoga in my living room using a DVD a friend of mine lent me. Exercise has helped me out immensely. My hips are really sore at the end of the day and yoga helps alleviate that. And I think concentrating on my breath helps with all the headaches. I use the elliptical machine at the gym while I watch shows like Regis and Kelly, Rachel Ray, and The View. Daytime television leaves a lot to be desired, although I have grown quite fond of Regis over the last couple of months. I think I might even be developing a crush on the guy. Daytime TV? Regis and Kelly? The View? I’m well on my way to Exit Stereotypical Motherhood.

I had a talk with the Little Dude yesterday morning. I said, “You have to perform well today! Do not let us down!” The Little Dude did not answer. Instead, L.D. gave me heartburn, which is really starting to suck. The heartburn is starting to conquer my appetite and the only thing I really enjoy doing right now is eating.

My appointment was for 10:20 AM and Tobyjoe decided to come along because we thought we’d be able to see some baby business but L.D. had its legs crossed, Indian – I mean – Native American style. The situation was really quite comical.

My doctor stood there pointing at the monitor. “You see that? That’s the umbilical cord. You see how it disappears right here? That’s because the legs are crossed. Can’t see any of the good stuff today.”

“I had a talk with it earlier. I asked it to perform well today. I don’t understand what went wrong.”

“I told you that you should have had a shot of espresso.” Tobyjoe joked. “That’d uncross those little legs. It’d be running in place.”

My doctor shook her head. “Not even born yet and already it’s causing you problems.”

I had blood drawn for the Quad screen as well. The results should be back on Thursday. Based on the results I received on the Ultra Screen (explained here), I have all but canceled the Amnio I scheduled earlier on in my pregnancy. (When your chances of miscarrying from the Amnio outweigh the chances you were given for having a baby with Down syndrome, it’s a little difficult to justify the procedure.)

Unfortunately, we still don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, which pretty much means I’ll continue to drive Tobyjoe crazy as I brainstorm more and more baby names.

“If it’s a boy we should call him Boss. Boss Boudreaux.” I said.

“There’s a developer named Hoss.”

“Is that H-A-U-S or H-O-S-S?”

“I am not sure.”

We should know once and for all on March 12 when I go for my next monthly checkup or at the Level 2 Sonogram I am having done at week 20. Cross your fingers that L.D. uncrosses his or her legs.

In other (fairly related) news, I added Twitter to my Web page. It’s right over there on the right hand side directly below the Google ads. I updated yesterday from the doctor’s office using my cell phone. Pretty cool, eh? We’ll see if it sticks.

Lastly, but so not leastly, I want to thank everyone for the super duper, wonderfully kind emails. I am a little amazed at how much email I received over the last four days and how many people out there are affected by J. and Janet’s story. It warmed my heart, so many sweet stories. Gotta say, though, when y’all come out of the Internet woodwork, y’all are quite the helpful, informative bunch. Unfortunately, do to my freelance schedule right now, I might not be able to email everyone back personally, but I want everyone to know how grateful I am for the contact. Thank you.

That brings me to another point, for the past several weeks, I have been toying with the idea of turning off comments for a while. And then, with the overwhelming response I got from people via email, the idea became a little more attractive to me. Now, I’m not sure what to do but I’m open to suggestions.

A woman by the name of Cyn left a comment recently. It was on the post where I let my hormones take over and began bitching about lurkers. (Sorry about that, guys.) Anyway, Cyn left a comment as well as a link to her Web site, which I clicked. It turns out Cyn and I have mutual friends. But that’s a story for another day.

A little over a year ago, J. Robbins (of Jawbox and Burning Airlines fame) and his wife, Janet Morgan, gave birth to a baby boy named Callum Robbins. Tobyjoe and I hadn’t seen Janet since she first found out she was pregnant. She was glowing with the news. We were both so happy for them. They had a baby boy on January 27th, 2006. Of course he’s the cutest little fella.

About 8 months into little Cal’s life, J. and Janet discovered something about their baby that no parent should ever have to. Their son had SMA Type 1, or Spinal Muscular Atrophy. It’s a terrible disease. Most babies with Type 1 die before their 2nd birthday. But Cal is actually a very healthy baby boy. He breaths well, he’s active, and he babbles frequently. He’s a strong little boy with two, very strong parents.

Tobyjoe used to work with Janet at Threespot Media in Washington, DC. And J. Robbins has been a part of the music scene since I was a mere lad. They are two wonderful people and it breaks my heart to hear this about their son. I’ve spent the last two days trying to figure out what I can do to help with a miracle. (Seriously, y’all, every time I see his little face I tear up. I know I’m hormonal, but my goodness, what an absolutely wonderful little person.)

J. and Janet have health insurance but most of the conventional means of treating SMA don’t yield the greatest prognosis. And the alternative stuff, which might bring them a better outcome, isn’t usually covered by insurance. That’s why I am writing today. They need our help. So, if you’re feeling a little generous today, maybe you once loved Jawbox or Burning Airlines and have “borrowed” an album (or two) off your friend’s computer, maybe you just like babies, please stop by and visit their Web site. Read their story and (if you’re able to) donate a few bucks and help make their lives a little easier during this very difficult time.

I know that many of you may not know these two personally, and I know that money is tight for a lot of people, but if you can help them out in any way possible, I am sure they would be eternally grateful. And if you don’t have any extra cash lying around, maybe you could see about getting the word out there. If you have a blog, link to it. If you know people who know people, tell them about it. You know how it works.

The links:

Read more about Cal (includes donation information)

Cal’s blog

Cyn’s site

J.’s site

Just Give% (Donations for SMA families)

I am going to turn off comments for this post. But if you have any questions, feel free to email me at mihow [@] mihow.com.

Edited to add: Please see amendment to this post at the bottom.

Someone found my Web site yesterday by searching “Will never eat another snickers”.

Sometimes I picture the people behind my search strings. For example, the person who searched “How my tits grow” is an 11-year-old girl who was asked by some idiot kid at school, “when are your tits gonna grow?” (Sadly, she doesn’t yet know that the word “tits” might not bring the most rewarding and scientific of explanations, which is why she ended up here. Poor gal.)

The person who searched “Will never eat another snickers” is a college jock rushing a fraternity at one of the Big 10. He has only made out with two or three guys over the course of his life and each time they wore clothing. He loves American football but Prince is a homo. Oh, and he’ll never eat another Snickers after that most hideous Super Bowl ad.

Or so I cynically thought.

Here is a summary of the ad:

“The commercial in question featured two burly guys working under the hood of a car who accidentally kiss because one can’t resist taking a bite of the Snickers bar that the other fellow is enjoying. After they lock lips, they quickly pull apart and encourage each other to do something “manly” to compensate. The solution: they both rip out a patch of chest hair.”

Apparently it’s not the homophobic meathead community upset over the Master Food Commercial. I was so wrong. Some of the gay community is upset over the ad, finding it homophobic and “kind of prejudice.”

I thought the ad painted idiot homophobic men in the bad light, showing the stupidity of guys. (“If I do something totally gross like kiss a dude, I obviously have no other choice but to drink castor oil.”) I thought the backlash would come from the homophobic (predominately male) community not the homosexual community.

The cynical side of me keeps wondering if the uproar is just another way for groups like GLAAD to get their name in the press – not that there is anything wrong with that. It’s just… I don’t know… it just seems like such a waste of energy and time that could be spent taking care of other, more pressing issues.

But I really want to understand this one. I am not insensitive to the gay community, quite the opposite. I pride myself on working alongside many gay rights groups. A massive base of my client work has been working with groups such as gay.com, GLSEN, and National Coalition for LGBT Health. I am not homophobic, not in the slightest. I want to understand. Why was this ad pulled from being aired on television?

Edited to add: It has been brought to my attention that one of the alternative endings (not aired on the Super Bowl) featured one of the men beating the hell out of the other. I hadn’t seen that or read about it. It’s a response I find very offensive. I do apologize.

OK, Internet, this is easy. Are we having a boy or a girl? We find out on Monday (most likely) so now is your chance to play along. Why would you want to play along? Because I’m asking you nicely. Please play along? (And for all you freaking weirdo lurkers out there, use a fake name or something. I’m getting tired of the lurkage, people. Refer to yourself as “Lurker1” for all I care but refer to yourself every now and again. Besides, this particular request requires you write just one small word.)

Boy or girl?

Today is a really big day for me. I can’t even begin to tell a person how I really feel right now. I have literally been looking forward to this day for a decade. Unfortunately, now that it’s finally here, all I can do is blog about it because Tobyjoe is at the Big Nerd Ranch in Georgia. Plus, I don’t feel well enough to celebrate and it’s too cold outside to go shopping and buy myself something pretty. I’ll outgrow that something pretty in no time anyway. But, man! Do I ever want to take y’all out for donuts.

I used to joke with Tobyjoe. I’d say, “When I finally reach that day, I’m going to rent out a bar and throw a 10 thousand dollar party! No! I am going to send both of us to India, Sri Lanka, and then Spain. We’ll eat fish along the Mediterranean; watch the sunset over Taj Mahal. We’ll dip our feet into the Indian Ocean. We’ll sip the finest wine you’ve ever had.”

Here’s the skinny. I have owed money to various credit cards since I graduated from college. The amount I owed was never outrageous, like, I never owed close to the maximum on each card, but it was unruly and scary. Part of the reason that I held onto jobs for so long, jobs that I didn’t want, jobs that made me unhappy, was because of said debt. And I came up with all sorts of conspiracy theories about how credit card companies keep the man working, unhappy, and enslaved. And for me that was true. (Granted, now the pregnancy is what keeps us working. But that’s a good thing. That’s not like owing a massive corporation a bunch of money.)

Over the years, I would pay the amounts down to something manageable and then BAM! buy myself a trip to Mystic for a much needed weekend away. I would buy Tobyjoe an iPod because he made me smile. We would move across the country and then back again 6 months later. I just wanted to be happy. But the happiness I was buying – the temporary sanity – came back to haunt me every time.

About a year ago my husband told me to stop paying rent and instead start dumping every cent I possibly could into my debt. I got rid of one of the cards within three months and the other one loomed over me like some tyrannical ruler. Slowly but surely I watched its total go down. Each time I gave them money I felt like I was winning and they were losing.

Of course the entire time I was diligently paying it off, they were raising my maximum to numbers so high, I could have bought a car. And not some shitty American made car, but a really fancy European one. It was insane. The amount they have vowed to give me could be a down payment on a house (with an astronomically high interest rate). I almost hate them for doing this to people. Although, I guess they don’t raise a maximum that high for those who aren’t good clients. I am a good client, no, I am a great client, which is why they owned me for a while.

Yesterday I gave MBNA (now Bank of America) a check for 2,500 bucks, paying it off entirely. That amount goes through today. Amid all this pregnancy sickness, I feel wonderful. As of today, February 5, 2007, I am 100% debt free. That means I owe not another cent to another credit card company. I owe not another cent toward any loans. I owe nothing to anyone. I am free. I am finally, finally free.

I find it a little funny and interesting that Ford chose an actor who once played a closeted gay football player on Queer As Folk to be a spokesperson for their Super Bowl ad.

He laid his head on my belly this morning and said, “Hello little baby, do you have ears?”

“I think that happens soon.”

“I thought of the perfect name for the baby if it’s a boy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I can’t think of a better name.”

“What is it?”

“Ndugu.”

I am not having a good time of this. I have felt awful for 24 hours straight. I have had a headache the entire time. My tummy is upset, just a constant state of not feeling well. If this is going to last for the next six months, I’m going to need some help not jumping in front of the subway. This isn’t nice. I don’t feel nice at all.

I have a question for all those pregnant (or once pregnant) ladies out there. (Hell, even if you’re a guy and you know someone pregnant and can help out, feel free to.) Is it normal to experience fits of rage? Because that is what has been happening to me. If you need an example, I’ll give you the most recent.

Yesterday I took the subway into Manhattan to have lunch with some friends and try and shop for maternity clothing (which did not happen because I started to feel really sick, sicker than I have yet). So, I took the L Train home. There were two guys sitting in a space made for three people, their legs were spread out like certain guys do on the subway. (A seat-hogging tactic I have always hated, even before getting pregnant.) I moved toward the space. I lifted my hand as if to say, “Can I please sit?” They barely moved. So I squeezed my ass into the spot. (I might not look pregnant, but I feel like I am.) The guy on my right refused to budge. And he was huge, a massive hulk of a bloated man. He wore one of those puffy winter coats with writing and logos all over it. The kid on my left was with two friends, which I did not know until we pulled out of Union Square and they began to speak to one another. One of his friends sat across from him, the other sat next to him on the other side of the subway bar that separates one section from another. (It’s a good thing there was that bar separating them, otherwise, everyone would have thought they were homosexuals.)

“Dude,” He began loud enough for me to hear. “This one time, this lady asked to sit down and I was like ‘maybe if you lost a few pounds in the ass you’d fit here.’ And she said, ‘why don’t you move your legs together a little bit?’ And I was like, ‘Bitch, yo, my dick is too big, yo.’”

He friend, the guy right to the left of me, the guy who refused to push his legs together so I could sit my fat ass down, laughed. And that’s when it happened, Internet. That’s when my head and body filled with pure, unfiltered rage, the kind of rage that takes place when you’re a soccer mom and another soccer mom cuts you off on the beltway, spilling your latte. All the while the gun your husband brought you for your birthday sits readily available in the Escalade’s glove box.

The whole leg thing would have made me mad in the past but I never would have said anything and the anger wouldn’t have lasted, it certainly wouldn’t have turned into rage. And even yesterday I fought the urge to actually speak but I did come close, so very close. Sentences filled my head, horrible x-rated, hateful sentences. I wanted to kick this kid in the face, the groin, punch him in his testicles making it impossible for him to one day breed other idiot offspring of his own. I was SO MAD.

This happens a lot but only when I’m out of the house dealing with thoughtless people. And then sometimes I just get mad at the big guy at the gym for telling me he needs to “work in” while I’m on a machine. (Can’t these people wait a few minutes? Jesus crap.)

I am worried that I might act on one of these moments and that can’t happen. I’m carrying a little dude now. I can’t be going around picking fights with men and thugs on a train. But I think about it a lot. And it’s usually with men, not women. Even if I don’t ever act on it, are these chemical fits affecting the baby?

Is this even normal?

“Whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will never be forgiven; he is guilty of an eternal sin.” [Mark 3:29]

Brad sent me a link today. It’s a story featuring an idea addressing a growing theme among Americans today: Atheism. The Rational Response Squad came up with a project called “The Blasphemy Challenge” where they challenged people to make videos of themselves denouncing the Holy Spirit and post them on YouTube. So far, there have been over 800 participants.

“We wanted to do it in such a way where we stripped the power from religious institutions that instill fear in people,” says Brian. “And we did that by blaspheming the Holy Spirit, by showing that we are not scared of this unforgivable sin.”

Of course, The Rational Response Squad has received hundreds of death threats, a tactic I have always found hilariously ironic coming from a Christian. Something very similar happen to Julia Sweeney after she wrote an article called “Letting Go of God.” She received so many death threats directed to both her and her child she was forced to take her Web site down. (Incidentally, if you haven’t heard this piece of writing, I highly recommend checking it out.) Still others believe that the group is denouncing hope, and a little hope never hurt anybody. Some believe that faith doesn’t need proof, nor does the existence of God.

I have written about this topic before. I wrote about it back in October of last year and if I remember correctly, it spawned quite the debate. I also received a few not so nice emails after the fact. I still can’t figure out why some Christians become so hateful when it comes to someone disagreeing with their religion. I know that most aren’t like this that it’s only the fundi weirdoes, but it still perplexes me. If they are true believers, if they know that God loves them, shouldn’t that belief be all that they need? Why do they care what some heathen believes, doesn’t believe, or says? I never quite understood that reaction. What is it they are so afraid of?

But I digress. You can read more about what The Rational Response Squad is up to by clicking here. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing. But Nico had a good point yesterday. She said, “I actually think the reasoning in this is a little weak. To say that you are blaspheme-ing (a word?) is to acknowledge is that there is a god to blaspheme. If you don’t believe in god you can’t believe in blasphemy itself. But whatever, I am verging into college stoner talk here. I know that is not the point.” Even if she does sound like a stoned college student, the gal’s got a point.

After having read the article, I think I am more pleased with the fact, based on the statistics quoted, that what I wrote back in October isn’t necessarily true, that an atheist isn’t necessarily seen as a second class citizen by those who are religious. I was even more intrigued to discover that there is now an atheists’ lobby in Washington, DC. (Admittedly, that city has an organization and/or lobby for nearly every group, thought, belief system, or plant under the sun. It’s true.) I think the “filler” material appealed to me more than the actual point of the interview.

How do you feel about The Rational Response? Me? I am not at all upset about their quest but you won’t be seeing a YouTube video of me denouncing God anytime soon. A post hinting to it? Perhaps. But for now I’m just here to question.