Hmm, That Made Me Feel Old But Not Bad About It February 2, 2009

On Saturday, the hubby and I had a date day. We went out to lunch, then cruised over to Nashville’s big independent record store, Grimey’s. Aptly named, of course. When we walked in, the sights and smells of every used record store I’ve ever been in slammed into my 36-going-on-37-year-old self, and I felt equal parts 25 and at peace that this portion of my life was over.

We had no plans to purchase anything, just wanted to look. Surprisingly, we actually bought some CDs, and even managed to have a very High Fidelity-type conversation with one of the middle-aged employees. With a drink in one hand and a smoke in the other, I can talk music all day. However, when I’m pregnant and the store is crowded and a little too hot, I’m just not into absorbing how the Afghan Whigs are back together and what the lead singer was doing in the last few years.

At least now we know that the new Springsteen album is a complete throwaway; it was on the sound system, and the hubby and I made incessant fun of it the whole time it played. First, I asked, is this Jakob Dylan? The hubby says, I think it’s Springsteen. Then I notice that one of the songs is a direct ripoff of the KISS tune “I Was Made for Loving You.” If the former Boss is bogarting both Jakob Dylan and KISS, I’m gonna have to assume he’s all out of material. Stop, dude. Really.

So, now I can say I’ve been to Grimey’s, and I can say I’m officially all done with Springsteen. I knew both of these things, of course, but sometimes you just gotta find out the hard way.

It’s the Homestretch…FINALLY February 2, 2009

Pregnancy is not a comfortable time for me. I am not one of those really annoying Stepford bitches who proclaim, “I LOVE being pregnant!” There is no denying it’s miraculous: one well-timed romp in the sack, and 40 weeks later, the population has increased by one.

However, with slightly less than 12 weeks to go until my due date, it should be noted that I am OVER IT. The constant indigestion (which signifies that I’m too full, am about to be starving, or need to take a dump), fatness, fatigue, and general feelings of shittiness have outworn their welcome. I look awful, feel awful, and am therefore starting to behave in an awful manner.

The hubby, as always, has been a champ. I keep reminding myself that is temporary and to enjoy lugging the baby around in utero since they’re a helluva lot harder to take to Target when you like have to feed and dress them and shit. Unfortunately, these positive thoughts are sometimes pissed on by the fears of childbirth and the nagging feeling that my doctor and her staff don’t really know what the fuck they’re doing.

Breathe. Millions of stupid bitches do this every day, and they’re fine. Breathe.

Seriously? February 2, 2009

I talked to my dad last week about the toddler’s increasingly moody behavior. Strangely, my father is brimming with parenting advice, even though through the vast majority of my upbringing, he was at work. Please know I don’t fault him for this, but to listen to him give me tips on potty training is a fucking joke.

Little did I know how powerful the punchline would be. During this conversation, he actually tells me not to get angry or yell at the toddler. If I feel myself getting mad, go outside and cool off; otherwise, I’m giving her all the power. It should be noted that my dad’s only forms of communication to my brother and I were yelling and swearing or sarcasm and swearing. If we went to the film, you would actually think my first name is “Goddammit,” since that term preceded most statements emitting from my father’s mouth.

I think I’ll ignore him and try not to get angry, thereby giving him all the power.