(The most annoying post ever. It even annoys me.)

This month my baby’s brain started developing little nerve cells. They are forming at a rapid rate especially at the front of his brain, the part that does the most thinking. And his spinal cord and its nerves are developing as well. Sheaths are forming around the spinal column. They act as like insulators on electrical wires and speed up messages as they travel to his brain. Upon realizing this, I immediately began figuring out ways to help this process along. I am, after all, his vitamin dish.

(Taken yesterday of my little guy’s spine.)

Now that I’m almost 6 months pregnant and am constantly thinking about what I ingest, I started to read up on brain food. I read that DHA and omega-3 fatty acids are extremely important for healthy brain development. Granted, there are vitamins one can take stocked full of DHA and omega-3. I take 3 prenatal vitamins every day. They include the DHA, not the omega-3. And even though there are vitamins for omega-3 as well, I don’t like to cut corners especially when there are foods we can eat in lieu of taking a bunch of vitamins.

(I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this, but screw it. I am huge, man. HUGE.)

Sometimes I come up with hypotheses based on little to no scientific evidence. For example, I recently decided that it’s not entirely impossible that all these prenatal vitamins are to blame for the growing number of peanut allergies in children. And it’s not entirely impossible that prescription prenatal vitamins are responsible for birth defects, autism, and asthma. Unlikely, sure, especially since I made it up. But the uncertainty has me seeking more natural ways of feeding Ndugu.

Another thing that I have convinced myself of is that the growing need for prescription prenatal vitamins is, in part, due to the fact that our food (here in the states) has become less and less nutritional over the years due to commercialization. (I am writing about things I know very little about, speaking from the heart once again. I know that I have no scientific evidence or statistics to back these ideas up, but it’s a little window into how I think and these flippant ideas are directly responsible for the decisions I make.)

People eat strawberries even if they aren’t in season and often times the strawberries taste like nothing, (which makes one wonder that since they carry little taste, all the good stuff – the nutritional stuff – is absent as well). Eggs don’t taste the way they used to unless the chickens are grain fed and free range. And eggs aren’t naturally bright white, either. Shrimp today tastes nothing like it did when I was a kid and I don’t remember being able to buy it all year round like I can today. It was more of a treat back then. Now, due to farms and commercialization, you can buy it anywhere and the taste suffers because of it. Tomatoes don’t grow all year round yet you can buy them anytime. (Have you ever compared a fresh tomato with one bought during the off-season? The difference is astounding.) Is it wrong of me to assume that the foods we eat are becoming more and more available, and less and less flavorful and nutritious in the process? Isn’t that why more and more people are buying locally grown, seasonal produce?

Commercial farms currently feed most of America. And because of that we’ve seen E coli show up in spinach – a bacterium that is specifically found on raw meat – because commercial cattle farms lie too close to commercial produce farms, leaving contamination at an all-time high. And instead of trying to remedy the problem at the source, we’re coming up with new ways to kill it after the fact using techniques such as the irradiation (which we already do with some of our meat, the irradiation of produce is currently being discussed by the FDA).

(Image of heirloom tomato from Carrottalk.com. I’m salivating.)

Every year, right before heirloom tomato time, I become giddy with anticipation. And in Mid-May, off the coast of Alaska in a place called Copper River, a few brave salmon begin making a difficult trek in order to spawn and lay their eggs. The journey is so long, they must store extra fat and oils in order to survive. It’s no lie when they tell you that Copper River Salmon is some of the best salmon there is. I believe that it tastes so good because the process is entirely natural. Tobyjoe and I look forward to every year. And the waiting is one of the best parts.

Unfortunately, one of the highest groups of food containing both omega-3 and DHA is fish, and more specifically, salmon. And we all know about fish and pregnancy and the mercury levels in our polluted waters. And we can blame many of those industrial monstrosities I mentioned earlier for the contamination of these foods.

(I don’t swallow the quarter, I just put it there for scale. But if someone told me that quarters made for healthier babies, I’d swallow one every day.)

I’m not trying to sound all doomsday in writing this, and I certainly wouldn’t blame you had you given up on this preachy post long ago. Hell, I’m irritated even writing it, to be honest. I have gone and annoyed myself once again. But I do wish things were a little different here in America. Until I met Tobyjoe, I really didn’t give much thought to what I ate. I just ate whatever seemed easy, with little regard to where it was grown, how it got to me, and what it was going to do once it got inside of me. When it comes to the food I eat I have changed a lot over the past 6 years. I try and eat as much seasonal produce as possible and I try and keep it local. I guess I believe that if folks supported their local communities more, our foods would not only taste better, but we’d gain nutritional benefits as well. Perhaps then pregnant women wouldn’t be forced to take 3 massive prenatal vitamins a day whose aftertaste alone can make my stomach turn. But seriously, what do I know? I’m just a pregnant gal starving for knowledge.

(Look at Tucker’s face in this picture. He’s thinking, “Man, does that ever look gross!” It’s not that bad, I swear.)

Lucky for us pregnant ladies, there are high amounts of omega-3 is flax seeds and walnuts (as well as tofu and soy beans), which are all totally acceptable and safe to eat. So until I am able to fearlessly sink my teeth into a juicy salmon steak again, I’ll continue taking vitamins and chasing them with a glass full of ground flax seeds and water. I want my boy to be smart – smarter than his mama (but probably not smarter than his papa because his papa is pretty f’in smart).

From Wikipedia:

“A doula is a non-medical assistant in prenatal care, childbirth and during the postpartum period.”

Tobyjoe and I are tight with cash right now and while I like the idea of a doula and what I’ve heard from those who have used one, I’m not sure it’s going to be feasible for us. But before making that decision, I want to do a little more research. Did a doula make a huge difference during your delivery? What do they do? Can we get by without one? How much does a doula cost? I scheduled lamaze classes, breastfeeding classes, and a class on childcare, but I am not sure we have the funds to pay for a doula as well. However, if it’s absolutely crucial for delivery – if we’re nuts to go into this without one – then I’ll figure out a way to pay for it even if it means selling the baby.

If you help me, it will be doula noted. (Come on, now. You all totally owe me after coming up with that awesome title.)

Have you ever had one of those nightmares where the person you love no longer loves you? And when you try and talk to them about it your words fall on deaf ears. There’s no rational (or irrational) way you can make them change their mind, no protest large enough, no sentence true enough. Yet you continue to explain, letting them know that they must be mistaken, they simply must still love you. But the eyes that were once welcoming and understanding sit empty across from you. The change seems so sudden, it’s as if all along you had been a virus for which they suddenly found a vaccination.

There aren’t many feelings more horrible and distressing than the one I described above, at least for me.

And I know this feeling well. I’ve experienced it a couple of times over the course of my life. I remember asking a man, on what would become the last day of our relationship, “What can I do to make things different? Do you just need time? You’ll be back, right?” We met somewhere neutral and ate sandwiches. He looked everywhere but at me. I looked nowhere but at him as he looked everywhere else. And after a meager explanation – one stuffed with quests unfulfilled – I realized he was already gone.

And on the day that Tobyjoe said, “I do.” I let out an ocean-sized sigh of relief realizing that I would probably never have to go through that again. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, which meant that no matter how stagnant things might become during our time together, he’d wait it out with the knowledge that love would soon return.

Last night I had a dream that Tobyjoe stopped loving me. We were in the middle of a tree-lined street when I recognized it. We had been out walking. I asked him to tell me. He did. I begged. He walked ahead of me. I heard only the sound of wind blowing through plush, spring leaves. Other than that it was silent – life was.

I’ve had nightmares like this before and I always wake up relieved. “He’s still here! He’s right here. It was just a horrible dream.” And I’ll grab a hold of him and hug him tightly, waking him up in the process. And today I woke up feeling very much the same relief. But today it only lasted for a few seconds.

When I was going through a breakup – devastated, missing school, not eating – my mother would come into my room or call me on the phone and she’d say, “I know that it doesn’t seem this way now, but you WILL get over this. You will not feel sad forever. You will not miss him forever. I know you don’t believe me now, but someday this won’t hurt at all.”

Later, after time had proven that she was once again correct, she said, “I know how you felt. I went through it as well. But nothing hurts more than watching your child suffer through it.”

When I exhaled on the day that Tobyjoe said, “I do.” I hadn’t thought about a son.

I had a meeting with a new client yesterday. The meeting was in midtown near the post office at Grand Central so I ventured out early in order to get my expired passport renewed. I read up on the whole passport renewal situation prior leaving the house. People with an expired passport can use the mail-in registration form if the passport is less than 15-years-old. Mine is 13-years-old. I contemplated using the mail, I really did. Had I had the two photographic requirements, I probably would have. But I’m in the process of finally changing my last name from one derogatory term to describe a white person (Howley) to another, more refined sounding derogatory term to describe a white person (Boudreaux).

When I visited the DMV last week I was told that I needed a valid passport or a birth certificate in order to change my name and in order to get a New York State license so I can join the millions of other New Yorkers that bitch about jury duty. I can’t find my birth certificate, which leaves me with the daunting task of either dealing with the Freehold, New Jersey government, or renewing my expired passport. I opted for the latter even though I’ll have to do it all over again once I change my name. And because I like to worry these days, I decided that instead of risking the loss of my old passport at the hands of U.S. Postal Service, I’d renew it in person.

After standing in line for an hour, filling out a form (that an employee gave me after I explained why I was there), and then waiting some more, the woman behind the counter told me, “Can’t use this form. Hafta use the mail.”

“What do you mean? It says if the passport is less than 15-years-old I can use the mail. It doesn’t say anywhere here or online that I have to use the mail.”

“Well, ya hafta.” She looked at me and shrugged.

I read in a book recently that if a pregnant woman is stressed out a hormone called “catecholamine” can cross the placenta and go directly into her unborn baby. The book also mentions not to smoke, drink alcohol, smoke crack, or inject heroin. It even tells you not to do sit-ups. But the book fails to mention that pregnant women should avoid the post office (or any other government agency for that matter). But it should.

“I just want to get this over with. What do you recommend that I do at this point?”

“If you’re worried about losing your old passport, fill this out, write a check for 67.00, get back in that line, and send it certified.”

“I have to stand in line again?”

The man who originally gave me the wrong form walked up and touched my shoulder. “Ma’am, if you fill that out, I can show you how to use the automated system. You don’t have to stand in line again.”

“OK. Can I at least get my passport photos?”

“Where are they?” Said the woman behind the counter. “I don’t see them.”

“Your coworker said they would be on the ledge.”

She turned around and without getting up from her chair, slid it over to a counter behind her. She picked up my photos, looked down at the pictures, back up at me and with a great big, friendly smile she said, “At least you look great in your photo! Look at you!” She pointed at it. “You look like a little boy!”

A boy? I scanned her face for some sort of understanding. Why had she said this to me? Was she being sarcastic? Rude? Hostile? Was this her way of seeking revenge? After all, I was the one who stood in line for over an hour only to be told that I hadn’t needed to. Was she being serious? After looking into her eyes, I realized that she was being earnest and not at all hostile. That this was her way of paying me – a pregnant woman of five and a half months – a compliment.

Last night I lay awake in bed thinking about having a son. I knew all along it was a boy, just had that feeling. But now that there is no doubt, it’s as if I decided to fill that area once reserved for anticipation with worry. I would have done this over having a baby girl as well, probably worse so given I know how hard life can be for a girl. But last night, in true Michele fashion, I worried about everything I could get my head around. With each phase of my pregnancy I have greeted it with a new phase of worry. What do I need to know about a boy? I’m not a boy. I don’t know much about boys. I can’t remember even babysitting boys before. I know they have wieners. I know they tend to be more aggressive. I am told they also tend to gravitate toward their mommas. I want to learn everything there is to know about raising a little boy. Where to start? Where to stop?

Forgive my language, I don’t normally do this, but holy shit I’m going to have a son.

It’s a boy. I cute little beaner boy. With a profile. And a penis. And he likes to box.

I can’t be certain, but I think I see a Tobyjoe nose in this shot:

This shot is almost x-rated:

To celebrate, I had my eyebrows waxed.

I have a level two ultrasound scheduled for 1:30 PM today. I do hope everything looks OK. I have one active baby in there, which makes me a little nervous for some reason. I spend a few minutes each day wondering if the baby is wrapping the umbilical around his or her neck. It’s amazing how much Ndugu moves! And I wake up at least once a night to discover Tobyjoe’s hand cupped around my growing belly. In the morning he reports back to me, “Ndugu moved a lot this morning.” Or “Ndugu kicked me in the thumb!” Being pregnant has introduced me to a new level of love for Tobyjoe. I had no idea it was even possible.

The level two ultrasound (I am told) is a more advanced ultrasound that can show the gestational age and fetal growth. The technician will make notes about the brain, heart, kidney and spinal cord, amniotic fluid volume, placental position and my own pelvic abnormalities (which could lead to problems during labor). I’m crossing my fingers, toes, and eyes hoping to hear good news. And if Ndugu stands up to his or her reputation, his or her legs are crossed right now as well.

My second biggest worry right now is having to consume large quantities of water in order to get decent results from the ultrasound. I am not sure how women handle this. If I have to pee a tablespoon these days, my bladder screams. This time, I have to drink at least 20 ounces of water and not relieve myself until after the appointment. I have decided to bring along a good book and consume the liquid in the hospital waiting room. That way, if I do wet myself, everyone around should understand why.

If all goes well today, we will know if little Ndugu is a boy or a girl, but this time I’m not getting my hopes up. As long as she (or he) is healthy, I couldn’t care less.

I woke up agitated, my shirt soaked in sweat. I woke up and had to pee. I woke up to 150 comment spam but only seven had slipped by the guard. And in the midst of all that had been approved, there were some really hateful, retro comments as well. I never know what to do with that sort of thing, the anonymous graffiti along the walls of crumbling, old posts.

At the gym my favorite piece of equipment was occupied. And normally I don’t let it get to me. After all, I don’t own the thing. But today, given my morning, I embraced anger. The woman using it had 57 minutes left to go on her workout and the one just like it has had a broken TV since I started going there 5 months ago.

I once went to an Italian restaurant that had a menu stuffed full of edible goodness. When the waiter came over to take my order, he responded to each request with a head shake and a sigh. “I’m sorry we don’t have any noodles left.” “I’m sorry, we ran out of broccoli.” “I’m sorry. We don’t have any bottles of wine.” “I’m sorry, the lettuce never came.” When I finally asked what he did have, he said, “Pizza. We have just pizza.”

At Maxim Health and Fitness it’s not unheard of to have at least 5 machines down at one time. And if the actual machine is working, the TVs aren’t. And if the TVs are working, the DVD player is on the fritz. The gym is huge. And there are a hundred choices but sometimes only a few of them are actually attainable.

In the end, I used the elliptical machine with the broken DVD player.

“Pizza. We have just pizza.”

I hit Bagel Smith’s on Bedford where two skinny, gay boys made a large black woman move over so they could sit together. Her huge body forced me into the corner behind the newspaper rack. She continued to gab on the phone with a friend about the friend’s boyfriend and how he didn’t respect the friend’s elderly grandmother. I was wedged in there so tightly, I felt claustrophobic. I was an old resident, yesterday’s spot. The gay boys were happy to have two seats next to one another. But their happiness cost me my personal space and these days my personal space is the single most important element in my life. I immediately got up; I made the three of them stand up as well. I threw out the rest of my bagel and I left the store.

I hit the deli at the bus stop in order to get some toilet paper. The man behind the counter blew a filthy mixture of heinous morning breath and smoke into my face. His breath, like ugly weather, expelled me from the store.

The bus didn’t come so I walked home slowly along the ice. I’m not as agile as I once was. The white blanket of snow from last week is dotted with brown and black soot. The mounds of snow line the streets like lumpy, dead dairy cows. Cars shot by me with destinations of the utmost importance in mind. Their tires left wet, oil-streaked marks, the temporary fingerprints of cars. I watched them dissipate and then disappear.

A few doors down from where I live I asked an older man out walking his dogs if he knew what was going in where the old gas station once stood; the gas station that, up until a month ago, sat open for repairs. Three weeks ago, a massive black fence was erected to block the construction off from the street. They have torn down the pumps and the marquee. The lot that once held old cars bears a deep hole, next to it lies a fresh mound of pristine earth. And if I didn’t know the mound of dirt to be a gob of fresh paint next to an empty canvas that will one day hold the eyesore of a developer’s dream, I would have coveted the virgin dirt. I haven’t seen dirt that lovely since I left the country.

The man, like the 7 others I have asked along our very street, shook his head at me and shrugged; he simply did not care, which baffles me greatly. These people – these men who own houses in Brooklyn – don’t seem care about what is pushing them out, uprooting their dirt, deleting their views. Their lackadaisical way of shrugging it off brought me both astonishment and envy.

I visited an Italian restaurant one night and asked the waiter for slice of pizza. He said, “Can I interest you in a delightful little Peruvian dish instead?”

I am home now. And the bulldozers hum behind me; I can see them working from my window. My view of the city has entered the last few years of its life and it’s a little sad that there’s nothing I can do about it. I might be here long enough to see the eyesore grow – tall, fat and ugly – as it towers above the rest of our roofs. Or perhaps I’ll just be here long enough to meet its displaced inhabitants of rats and roaches.

I live in a city where the only consistency is how quickly things change.

We just finished up with dreadful tax day. This year wasn’t too bad considering Tobyjoe had a mistake on his W2, which meant he wasn’t being taxed enough (all year), which meant we were going to have to owe (again), which meant I was very upset. It’s a good thing for receipts and write-offs and being organized. The bad news is we still owe money on both federal and local. The good news is it’s not nearly as bad I thought it was going to be. But the really good news is we can take that little trip we talked about down to The Inn at Little Washington in an attempt to enjoy one last long weekend before the baby arrives and our lives change forever.

I spent a night at The Inn at Little Washington several years ago and it still stands out as one of the most amazing dining experiences I have ever had. I went with my then boyfriend at the time, a chef in training. We stayed for one night and had two amazing meals. The dinner was outstanding, some of the best food I have ever put in my mouth. But that’s not even the part I rave about the most. The part that I haven’t forgotten, was how outstanding the service was. A lot of times, with those expensive, uppity type restaurants, the staff tends to turn their nose up at a person. (Hello, Le Bec Fin.) And I hate that. I hate feeling like I’m being judged for not ordering the right combination of food (which is exactly what I was scolded for at Le Bec Fin), or being treated as though I don’t belong there even though I am spending an exorbitant amount of money. I didn’t experience a second of that snootiness while at The Inn at Little Washington and I always feel very out of place at expensive restaurants. (I think it shows, too.) I was treated with the utmost respect even after I consumed two glasses of wine and then drunkenly told our server I knew nothing about scotch but really wanted to “give it go”. Our server took a lot of time explaining each scotch to me. He told me where and how they were made, and how long each one took to age. And even after I sipped them all, made a squished up face, and admitted to not being a fan, he laughed and said, “Yeah, scotch is definitely not for everyone. But aren’t you glad you tried it?” Absolutely, I was.

I haven’t found another place that comes remotely close and I’ve experienced my fair share. (When I was dating the chef, I was treated to a whole bunch of amazing, 5-star restaurants as he was trying to decide where to study and whom he wanted to work with.) The food and the service were impeccable; I still dream about it 8 years later. And I genuinely mean that.

It looks like we’ll be heading there this April. We’re going to spend a night or two in D.C. with Soung and David and then one in Little Washington. We’ll stay in one of the Inn’s “cheaper” rooms and dine downstairs for both a dinner and a breakfast. And, although, Tobyjoe is right, I can’t eat much for dinner, there are no rules about dessert. I think that this time I’ll forgo the scotch flight, however.

People tell me that breastfeeding is really important. It’s nutritional for the baby. It helps build mommy-baby bonds. Plus, it’s cheaper. All of those reasons sound good and awesome but the main reason I want to do it is because it’s apparently a surefire way to lose weight. The thing is, I also heard that a lot of new moms have trouble getting the baby to nurse. So, if the baby won’t take my nipple, I have come up with another plan.

“I’d do it myself but my boobs don’t reach that far.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Well, that would hurt. So you’re going to have to do it.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to drink milk from you.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t drink while you’re breastfeeding.”

“We should get lactating women really tanked and then serve their milk in bars mixed in a cocktail. Everyone’s happy.”

“What will we call it?”

This post is also going to send a wave of paranoia over some folks. It’s not meant to. I’m not necessarily talking about you. If you’re guilty of anything I write about, it doesn’t make you a bad person or someone I dislike. In fact, I have been guilty of some of these crimes as well.

Let me begin by saying that what is written on my “About Page” is true; I genuinely enjoy receiving email. I really do. I even skim over the ones that aren’t meant for me at all. I don’t want people to read this and say, “No, it’s best not to email Michele. She will get mad.” That’s not true. Please don’t ever assume that I don’t want to hear from you. Most of the time an email from a complete stranger makes my day. But there should be a few ground rules regarding the whole “Group Email” phenomenon (and if this post does not do the trick, I’m going to send out a mass email to everyone in my address book).

Statement: “I’M GOING TO SEND AN EMAIL TO EVERYONE IN MY ADDRESS BOOK!”

OK, let me begin by saying that I’m not sure why you would want to do that. I’m assuming that all of your acquaintances don’t share the same likes and dislikes. For example, some people like hearing about your cat. I happen to be one of those people. But I can’t imagine that everyone in your address book cares about your cat. And some folks don’t like kids at all. It’s true. I used to be one of those people. I used to get emails from people that held about 3 megabytes worth of photographs of their kids covered in what I hope was chocolate icing. Granted, things have changed a little bit. I have baby fever now, so I probably wouldn’t mind if you were to send me pictures of your kid(s).

As a rule, it’s best to rethink the whole “SEND EMAIL TO MY ENTIRE ADDRESS BOOK” idea. Because I guarantee that your action will annoy someone.

RULE NUMBER 1: Be choosy! Make those you email feel special.

Statement: “I DON’T CARE WHAT MICHELE SAYS, I’M SENDING THIS GOD DAMNED EMAIL TO EVERYONE IN MY ADDRESS BOOK!”

So you’ve decided, screw it, you know that 65 people want to hear that you updated your Flickr page. And you’re going to send them all an email stating as much.

I did this once. I sent an email to almost everyone I had ever emailed stating that I was going to try and run the 2006 ING Marathon. (If you were on that list, I do apologize.) Well, obviously that didn’t happen and sadly people actually donated money in my name, which I am eternally grateful for. But how annoying was it for me to assume that everyone in my address book wanted to read about my training for a marathon? And to think I took it a step further and asked them for money. Who did I think I was? I got some funny responses for that one. Here’s one:

“And well for the life of me I cannot think of why you would want to run a marathon, but best of luck.”

So, your group email is loaded, cocked, and ready to go. And you’re excited. This is going to be your big break! BUT WAIT! Before you send that puppy, go to the section that reads “To:” or “Cc:” in the email header. Most likely, this is where you currently have all of your recipients. (See Figure 1.)

Now, SELECT ALL (Mac: Command A; PC: Control A). Once you’ve done that, delete every single email from your “To:” or “Cc:” field. Go to the section in the email header called “Bcc:”. Paste every single email into that field (Mac: Command V; PC: Control V). Voila! You now have all of your recipients in the field that stands for “Blind Carbon Copy”. (See Figure 2.)

But hold on! You’re not quite done.

If you were to try and send the email shown above, it wouldn’t have any idea where to go because it doesn’t recognize anything on the BCC list, but don’t freak out, that’s the idea! You have to tell it to go somewhere. What I usually I do is put my name in the “To:” field. This way, the email will appear to be sent to only me and all responses will come to me. In all actuality the email is going to a bunch of people who can’t seen one another. (See Figure 3.)

RULE NUMBER 2: Be intriguing! Let them guess who else might be on that undisclosed recipient list.

Thankfully, with the whole marathon debacle, I used BCC. That was the only thing that saved me a little face.

Statement: “BUT I WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW HOW POPULAR I AM!”

I can’t speak for everyone but I think I speak for many when I say no one cares. The reason why using BCC is so important is that when your Aunt Mabel hits “REPLY ALL” (which she’ll inevitably do because I haven’t written up a rule for that yet), every single person you didn’t BCC will get an email from Aunt Mabel. This might get even worse; she might add MORE people to HER list, which really, really sucks because then more people are going to receive a bunch of emails featuring insider Aunt Mabel jokes, pictures of butterflies, Jesus, and her cankles.

Remember that HIV infection pyramid they scared you with in college? It’s sort of like that only without all the devastation and sex. (See Figure 4.)

In the end, you’ll be considered much more popular if you DO NOT do this to the people in your address book.

RULE NUMBER 3: Be safe! Play hard to get.

But sometimes mistakes happen, emails get out, people receive them.

Statement: “I GOT AN EMAIL WITH A LOT OF PEOPLE INCLUDED ON IT! I WANT TO RESPOND WITH MY AWESOME HUMOR!”

If the above scenario didn’t convince you of the dangers behind “REPLY ALL”, this might. “REPLY ALL” can be humiliating, too. One time I got an email from my friend, Ben, announcing his engagement. He did not use the BCC option, which is fine. I should have paid better attention. I stupidly hit “REPLY ALL” and wrote the following:

“This is so awesome. She is freaking adorable and you are a stud. I can’t wait until you’re no longer living in sin and can make really super hot babies.”

What I failed to realize was that Ben had included his entire extended family as well as his fiancé’s. I looked like a total loser. I felt ashamed and haven’t finished apologizing for it. That was nearly two years ago.

And this wasn’t the only time I made this mistake. One time I wrote something at work that should NOT have been sent to everyone on the list. I won’t go into details. Let’s just say it was not one of my most professional moments.

RULE NUMBER 4: Be discreet! You’re probably not that funny anyway.

Lastly, if you’re one of those people who doesn’t BCC, is too lazy to copy a link, write a blurb, and sign the damned thing, and instead forwards something previously sent to you onto everyone in your address book, then this little tutorial will not help you. And after you’re done reading it, lose my email.

Last night alone felt like one hundred Christmas Eves. I couldn’t sleep. I probably squeezed in 3 solid hours and two really shaky ones. At 6:30 AM I finally decided to surrender and simply succumb to thought.

Even right now I am unable to relax; this might be the last couple of hours I have left during my pregnancy to imagine a life with both a son and a daughter. What will he look like? How will she act once she’s 15 and angry with me? Will he be nerdy? Will he like cars and girls or video games and computers? Will she detest pink and play soccer? Will she draw pictures of skulls on her brown bag covered text books? Will he have freckles like his father and me? Will he hate them? Will she shudder over bras and periods, her awkward teenager years, and hips? Will he pick on us for leaving New York City and moving someplace lame and boring? Will she?

At 11:30 AM today Tobyjoe and I hope to find out whether we’re having a boy or a girl. I can’t imagine not knowing for another 4.5 months. I simply must know. Who are you, little one?

(See comments section to read how it went.)

Is it normal to feel the baby move a lot? I feel Moshy all the time. It’s very crazy. In all of my life I haven’t ever experienced anything like this ever before. Ever.

Here’s a picture taken at my most recent ultrasound:

I know this is old news but old news has a way of taking its time getting to me, hence its name.

Apparently Americans are more likely to vote for a black person and a woman over a Mormon but the Catholics have it in the bag. And an atheist stands no chance in hell. (ha!) But, rest assured, my gay friends, you have a better chance at getting voted into office than an atheist.

I wonder how many folks currently in office are gay. Surely there must be some. And I wonder how many folks are gay atheists. How about a gay, atheist and female? And I wonder if things would be different if people could tell someone was gay just by looking at them, or if you could spot an atheist in a crowd of people. Do people see this belief and/or orientation as something sneaky and are therefore afraid of it? Or does it really just boil down to bigotry and hatred? What are people afraid of? That a gay person is going to run for president and change our national anthem to “My Heart Will Go On?” Are they afraid that the atheists are going to take over and invite the devil in a blue dress into the oval office for a blowjob? Does it really just boil down to the fact that our nation really is just one nation under God? (As long as it’s a Catholic God, of course.)

This poll depresses me a little bit.

Part two is up. Y’all like it, find it useful? Be sure to let him know.

(Also, I haven’t forgotten about the tutorials people requested last week. I am diligently working on them.)

Last night I did something I’ve never done before. And I’ll be honest with you; I feel a little ashamed about it. Last night when the clock struck 9 PM and the phone lines opened, my fingers, as if detached from my body, began moving toward my cell phone.

Last night I voted for a contestant on American Idol.

I haven’t watched American Idol since season one. Tobyjoe and I were a new couple, living in a great big loft overlooking Manhattan at the time. We wanted nothing more than one another, hot meals, a bottle of wine, and a TV set. It’s been, like, 4 seasons since then. I never thought I would relapse.

I blame this entirely on The Barbarian Group and the launch of their then new Web site: Become an MM. Had it not been for that Become an MM commercial (which aired on January 16th, the 6th season premier of American Idol) I never would have watched it in the first place. I never would have gotten attached to the tattooed beat boxer, the fat, curly haired kid, or the southern belle that was sent home back on group night because of two hussies. (Them bitches deserved a spanking and not the sexy, I want to git’ you in the rump kind of spanking, a true ass whoopin’.)

I voted last night, people. I voted for Blake Lewis. The testosterone is in full force this week, stronger than ever before. And it’s not only pimples I have in common with a teenage boy.

Commence with the ridicule. I can take it.

Edited to add: Donald Eugene asked the most awesome question. He asked, “If you were to audition for Idol, what would your audition song be?” Feel free to play along. When I come up with my final answer, I will post it in the comments section.

I’m now 18 weeks into my pregnancy and I haven’t purchased a thing for the baby. We don’t have anything. We don’t have a stroller, a crib, a highchair, or a car seat. I haven’t even scheduled any birthing classes yet. I haven’t made one list. I don’t have one of those crazy giant sleeping pillows or a body pillow at all. I only just recently picked up some maternity clothing from a Kmart in New Jersey. I have one, borrowed prenatal yoga video and three little baby outfits that my parents sent me. That’s it.

When I first found out I was pregnant (I mean, after the initial shock wore off) I wanted to buy everything I set my eyes on. I saw a woman on Bedford Avenue using this Stokke stroller and I wanted it. (They run a grand. Yikes!) I wanted one of these as well. Even their revolving crib seemed pretty cool. I wanted to pick up outfits, toys, hanging baby carriers – everything.

But people (and authors) caution you in the beginning. “Don’t tell anyone yet and don’t buy anything until you reach that 12th week!” It’s funny; the time I felt the most freaked out and excited and had the most energy coincided with the time I decided it was best to keep my pregnancy hidden.

We’re in our fifth month now and my belly is letting everyone know. I no longer have to keep it secret. I keep telling myself that we have plenty of time to get all of this stuff. But, man! Is time ever going by fast! And the bigger I get, the harder it is to break inertia. We read in a magazine that it’s best to buy things slowly over time and avoid breaking the bank at the end. That was about two months ago. We haven’t purchased a thing. Couples I know who are also pregnant (or were) seem to have it all under control. They have lists, pillows, breast pumps, clothing to wear, classes scheduled. I don’t even know which doctor at the 4-doctor practice will deliver my baby. (Unfortunately, my doctor is no longer delivering babies, which I knew from the get-go, I just like her too much to give her up.) We don’t have anything ready. I don’t know how I’m going to get to the Upper East Side when that day finally comes. And what does it feel like to have one’s water break? What does it look like? Does it smell? What color is it? What if it takes place in our awesome new bed? Do I have to sleep in the floor for the last couple of weeks? These questions, and hundreds more, are questions that keep me from thinking too much about what I need to do and know before I pop in late July, early August. There are just too many unanswered questions, too many choices. So why bother thinking about it at all?

I set my mind at ease over the weekend suggesting that we won’t even think about buying anything until we find out the sex of the baby (which should happen on the 12th assuming little dude doesn’t have his or her legs crossed again). That’s when I’ll break inertia. That’s when we’ll start to buy stuff. That’s when we’ll start getting his or her room ready. That’s when everything will fall in place and all my questions will be answered, right? Am I right?

Yeah, right.

This morning I woke up to find 95 inactive comments awaiting my approval; all of them were comment spam.

A couple of years ago, Tobyjoe moved my site from an engine he wrote specifically for me to Typo. Almost immediately, I began receiving a lot of comment spam. Frustrated and sick of hearing me whine about it, he came up with a hack. At that time, he created something called honeypot.html. Users without Javascript enabled were unable to leave comments. Why did this work? (I had to ask.) Spammers don’t use browsers when leaving comments (unless they’re paying actual people to leave the spam, which is rare). They use scripts to do so. Since we told my system that everyone needed Javascript in order to leave a comment, we immediately solved the problem. Those who weren’t using a browser were sent directly to the honeypot.html. Those who were actual humans and didn’t have Javascript enabled saw a message stating as much. (“Sorry, you need Javascript in order to leave a comment.”) They could still read the site but were unable to comment. It worked for the most part, although a user like my Luddite friend, Gerry, wasn’t able to leave comments because homeboy hasn’t upgraded his browser since, like, 1998.

When Tobyjoe and I moved mihow.com over from Typo to Mephisto (January of this year), we signed up for Akismet, which is an amazing system. Here’s how it works. All comments (meaning from every Web site running Akismet) are submitted to Akismet. They scan each and every one of them. They flag words, phrases, IPs, etc. If there are any similarities from what the spammer leaves on your Web site and what they have in their database, the comment is temporarily marked as spam and is not pushed live. It is then up to you to sift through them and/or delete them in your admin tool. And just so you know how right on they are, I have received thousands of comment spam since January and only once did Akismet get it wrong.

For those bloggers overrun by spam, I highly recommend checking out Akismet. Every day, as I delete this crap, I get a thrill, like I am playing a video game, zapping the bad guys. This way, you don’t have to activate every single comment that comes in. The ones that are legit, show up. The others are set aside for your approval.

I still receive a lot of retro comments/spam from actual people. And sometimes the comments irritate me because they are left after someone searches for something disgusting, cruel, or just plain stupid. I haven’t decided what to do about this yet, but I might have the system disable comments on some posts after 48-hours. I might just continue to delete them by hand. However, if in the next couple of weeks you see this taking place here and there, it’s because I got fed up with the juveniles.

I promise, I won’t make a habit out of doing this because I know it’s annoying, but it’s actually valuable information. For those of you who have wondered, “How on earth do people get a Web site up and running? Like, how do you buy it and make it so people can see it?” Tobyjoe began a series recently about starting a Web site. The first one is up. It’s called, How to Start a Web site, Part 1. It covers the basics and he’s currently working on part two.

While I’m on the subject of tutorials/informative posts, are there any suggestions that you may have for either of us? Gina suggested Tobyjoe write the one above. We both really enjoy this type of writing. It makes us feel useful. Plus, the teacher in me gets to come out. (I taught at American University when I lived in D.C.) Some of you may remember the tutorial I wrote for Macromedia. I had a blast writing that. More recently, I wrote about genetic testing because I wanted to cover the basics for those who might be in the dark about such things (as I was). To be honest, sometimes it’s a refreshing, writing about something factual and informative rather than it always being about my personal life. That said, I’m open to suggestions. Want to know more about how to design a logo in Illustrator? Font management? Curious as to how I did this in Photoshop back in November? Want to know how to develop film in your bathroom? Record cell phone conversations? What good is knowledge if you can’t pass it on to your friends?

Interested? Just send me an email at mihow @ mihow dot com.