Thanks, and Please Pass the Pickles
You GUYS. THANK YOU. Seriously. It means a lot. And I even had some people de-lurk! Who knew I had such lovely lurkers?! Not me! So welcome, lurkers. You’re looking mighty fine today.
I’m really still in shock from the events of the past 21 days. My life looks the same, but everything is completely different. The other day, it occurred to me that the next time I feel the pleasant numbness of a bourbon on the rocks, I WILL HAVE A CHILD, and I nearly fell out of my chair.
Don’t you…forget about me.
And then there are the physical changes. Oh my.
Now, as I’m one of those delicate souls who often got a little gaggy starting the first week of a new pack of birth control pills, I didn’t expect to get out of the deal scot-free. I expected the nausea (CHECK!). I expected the aversions (CHECK!). I expected the fatigue (zzzzzzz…huh? CHECK!). What I didn’t expect was the flu-ish achy-ness that hits me in varying degrees each day, and the HUNGER – THE HUNGER! – that is usually always accompanied by the underlying nausea, making it really confusing for me when I suddenly find I cannot cram a blueberry muffin (deemed repulsive 3 minutes before) down my throat fast enough. What gives, hormones?
I’ve learned, however, that there are three magical foods that always sound good to me, no matter what:
- PIZZA: I haven’t indulged this craving yet, but tonight’s the night. I’ve shaved my legs, reserved the hotel room, and stole some condoms from my brother. I am only a little ashamed when I tell you that I am looking forward to this just slightly less than I looked forward to my own wedding. Which was a lot.
- POPSICLES: Because every beverage on the face of the earth now disgusts me to no end (Ginger ale? Too sweet! Water? Too plain! Lemonade? Bluuurrrgh), it’s been challenging trying to stay hydrated. Enter the lovely popsicle – delicious and hydrating for me, erotically phallic for Brad! Win-win!
- PICKLES. Yes, it’s a total cliche, and no, I don’t want to dip them in ice cream (or even deep-fry them), but friends, the pickle is my special lady. I didn’t even realize it until last weekend when we were out to lunch with my in-laws. I was sitting at the table sipping some chicken soup and calculating how long it would be before I could score my next nap, when my father-in-law took a bite out of the pickle spear that came with his sandwich (or “sammich,” for those of you playing along in Pittsburgh). As soon as I heard that juicy crunch, I had to grip the sides of my chair to prevent myself from hurdling over the table and ripping the spear from his hands. That is when I decided that perhaps I should purchase a jar of pickles for myself, for the sake of decency and my father-in-law’s health. So that is precisely what I did. Now, internet, I love pickles. I always have. But nothing prepared me for HOW FUCKING GOOD that Vlasic sumbitch was going to taste when it collided with my weird pregnancy taste buds.
Friends, I ate the entire jar in two days. On the third day, I went to a local sandwich shop that sells WHOLE pickles for $1, and as I stood waiting for my order, quivering with excitement, I began to get nervous, because the only thing on the pick-up counter was a paper-wrapped sandwich. No pickle. Of course, that was when the friendly man behind the counter kindly informed me that the oblong, paper-wrapped object that was roughly the size of my forearm? WAS MY PICKLE.
Of course, the price one pays for such orgasmic enjoyment of certain foodstuffs is the complete abhorrence of certain others. For some odd reason, everything I ate in New York is on this list, even though I didn’t start feeling crummy until after we came home. This means that I can no longer stand to even entertain the thought of lobster rolls (gag), cheesecake (Lord, beer me strength), or the lemon hard candies I ate on the plane (*beads of sweat run down temple*). Also grossing me out: the cocoa butter lotion and the shampoo/conditioner combo I bought right before the trip. However, because I am cheap, and because I recently learned how much day care is going to cost…
…I am forcing myself to use the lotion and the shampoo & conditioner until they are gone, even though I have to use both in the MORNING, when my throat closes up at the mere thought of having to face the world and all its smells once more. But after years of the pill and of various and sundry stomach issues that always tend to surface in the morning, I’ve gotten pretty good at handling it…but SSHH! If my digestive system hears even a whisper of such cockiness, I’m destined to spend the rest of my mornings face first on the bathroom linoleum, and Turkey don’t play that.
Probably doesn’t either.
Then, we have The Bloat. The Bloat, which makes an appearance around noon, and continues inflating until I am long passed out on the couch watching Adult Swim in the wee hours of the morning. It’s taken more than a little getting used to feeling my pants so tight around my belly, and every time I feel such discomfort, my brain plays the same old soundtrack: “Ugh! Why are my pants so tight OH HEY WAAAAIT A MINUTE.” And so forth.
Of course, cutting back on salt might help the bloat. And you know what’s really salty?
Hey – I just noticed: HE’S A STORK. Is that…on purpose? Damn you, Vlasic, and your subliminal (or totally obvious to everyone except me) marketing!
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.