Peaches and Braflix

Okay, so it's been a while. You might wonder where I've been -- the truth is, I actually found a job, decided to go back to grad school, and got knocked up all within the span of about three months, so I've been busy. Really, really, busy. What, you might ask, could bring me out of blog semi-retirement during pregnancy-induced narcolepsy, full time work schedule, and over-read, over-written grad student status? Two things, actually: 1) the return of the Real Housewives of Atlanta (see previous post); and 2) some of the strange things that I've learned happen when you're pregnant -- both of which are just too good not to share. (And the insomnia I have clearly helps, too.) Here goes nothing...

We rejoin the cast of the Real Housewives right where they left off: in the middle of a hot mess. If you need a refresher on the characters, see previous post Coming out of the Closet. It appears that the philanthropically-challenged, but good-intentioned, DeShawn Snow has not rejoined us for the inevitable train wreck that will ensue this season -- she was sweet, but oh-so-boring. That being said, she will be missed if only for her charity fund-depleaters and her unique pronunciation of the word "jewelry" that sounds like she's picking out a "jury". Farewell, sweet DeShawn. There is a new addition: Kandi Burruss, who allegedly is a successful pop songwriter and singer; although her speaking voice sounds faintly reminiscent of a person who has had their nose stopped up with a clothespin and has been administered a mild dose of horse tranquilizer. Kandi does look like she could probably put someone in a half-Nelson and induce paralysis in about ten seconds if really pushed to her limit and so I have high hopes for actually seeing that happen this season. I would be remiss if I didn't mention some other new "additions": our friend Kim has clearly scored a new wig and set of breasts for the occasion, so I'm sure that the season will not dissapoint. We join the 'wives in process of a semi-shakeup: perennial frenemies Sheree and NeNe have reconciled and somehow Kim, in this high stakes game of musical chairs, is the only one who has no friends at the time. Clearly Lisa's promise to "flip [her] over the couch" hasn't quite been forgotten by either party and somehow her old-new BFF Sheree has dropped Kim as fast as the first samples of She by Sheree. Kim's attempt to "clear the air" with Sheree and NeNe resulted in a screaming and hair-pulling match, the completion of which I much look forward to in the third episode. So that's where we are with them, now here's where we are with me...

My body has been invaded by aliens. I am five months pregnant and part of my insomnia is due to the fact that I'm simply so uncomfortable that I can't sleep at all. Nothing about me belongs to me anymore. I was a vegan, work-out-obsessed marathon runner 4 months ago -- I'm still all of those things, but I feel as if someone has taken an air pump and inflated me -- particularly up top. I've always had a semi-flat chest, which has made exercise much more comfortable than it has been in recent weeks. Somehow in the span of 3 months, I went from a 32B to a 34DD. For those of you who are used to being big bosomed, I'm sure you might laugh at me, but for those of us who have not been so blessed, getting a visit from the Titty Fairy on a seemingly daily basis is slightly disconcerting. As if I don't have enough to keep me busy on the weekends with my rigorous school schedule, I have to add buying new bras to the agenda on at least a bi-monthly basis. Once this whole ordeal is done, I'm trying to figure out what to do with this collection of monster brasierres: I could save them for alien invasion round two if I can ever handle it; donate them to other needy large-chested women; be "green" and recycle them for use as sun-bonnets; or burn them in a hippie-like ritual when I am finally liberated back to my prepregnancy size and occassional bralessness (so not an option right now). Some of my bras I have only worn once before outgrowing them -- once! This is not only annoying, but it's getting expensive. Women share prom dresses, work outfits, and even maternity clothes -- what we really need is a cute little service like Netflix for bras: Somewhere that pregnant women can send outgrown almost-new merchandise and receive something newish that fits until they need to return it for the next size up? Seriously -- they should have a program where you can choose the one-bra-a-month plan, the multiple-bras-a-month plan, etc. I would gladly invest $9 or $10 a month for 9 months in order to have mildly happy boobs rather than constantly forking over $20-$40 a pop for something that will only fit me for two weeks. Until there is such a thing as "Braflix" (perhaps my next project after I'm done with gradschool if no one else does it for me), I'm going to have to suffer with the 24/7 sports bra and all of the unfortunate fashion choices that come with accommodating racerbacks in bright colors with a Nike swoosh emblasoned across the top.

Shopper's Shoulder

Welcome back, friends. It's been a while. I've returned to the working world and am actually really enjoying my new job. However, I've suffered an unfortunate demise since last we met. I've been officially (self) diagnosed with Shopper's Shoulder. Not Tennis Elbow, not Golfer's Wrist, not Runner's Knee (or Runner's High, unfortunately). Shopper's Shoulder. It is a repetitive stress injury incurred from the cumulative impact of overhead motion required for trying on clothes. If I were lifting weights or doing anything else that required substantial arm motion, it might be a more difficult diagnosis. I might actually consider consulting a professional. But this is a total gimme:

1) I have shoulder pain

2) when I lift my arm

3) and the major post-Christmas sales just ended

You see what I mean? Who needs an MD -- it's just plan logic. The truly perplexing thing is this: What's been keeping me injury free through so many previous shopping seasons? How did I survive so many years of Last Call without needing rehab in the off season (also known as the period of time after a major purchase when I let the smoke from my credit card cool off)? I'm trying to pinpoint the moment when things really went south, but these things tend to be cumulative. It's been building over time. And now here I sit. Just getting used to being 30. Getting in the swing of the new job. Preparing for Mardi Gras. And just when you think things are perfect -- bam! Layed up with Shopper's Shoulder.

The Sound of Silence

Six years ago, when my husband and I were first dating, I offered to accompany him on a grocery shopping trip to Winn Dixie just because I wanted to spend as many hours in a day with him as possible. And on said grocery shopping excursion, I even pretended that his love of Kraft cheese singles, Hormel Chili, and Lucky Charms (likely to be consumed in the same day) wasn't completely revolting. When he left town (for an agonizing 48 hours), I would sleep over at his empty apartment because it made me feel like I missed him a little less -- it's embarrassing to say that out loud. How things change...

My husband just left town for two weeks and the liberating feeling is indescribable. It's bliss. I'm not saying that I won't be glad when he returns; I'm just saying that I am very much enjoying:

1) not having to devise covert operations for smuggling newly purchased goods in the front door to avoid a "how much did that cost" inquiry;

2) having total control over the television and not being subjected to endless hours of political talk shows;

3) sweet talk to my dog (a/k/a the only perfect man in my life) without ridicule;

4) keeping the house squeeky clean and tidy;

5) girls' night in, girls' day out, girls' night out, etc.;

6) being able to make whatever I want for dinner without having someone call my vegan food disgusting (which takes a lot of nerve coming from someone who has devolved from Kraft cheese slices to generic processed cheese slices);

7) not sharing my king size bed and being able to ALWAYS find a cool spot -- and enjoying four pillows instead of two;

8) being able to fall asleep in the dark rather than under the glow of husband's reading lights and with the sound of a newspaper or the pages of a book;

9) not nagging; and

10) watching Girls Just Want to Have Fun while playing hours of internet Scrabble -- enjoying 1980s kitch while indulging in dorky online board games would never be possible in a million years if I wasn't enjoying total solitude.

Fourteen days. Half a month. And it's mine .....aalllllll miiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnneeee!!

Meth Mouth

I'm referring to the guy who sat across the aisle next to me on the plane ride from Dallas to New Orleans yesterday. I had just made it to the last leg of my trip back to NOLA after 4 long hours of delay at SFO, followed by a long hungry flight to Dallas and another two-hour layover. My dog and I had both visited the powder room, we had refueled, and were reinvigorated for our 1-hour flight back to New Orleans. I had reached the tail-end of a great PD James mystery novel and was very much looking forward to utilizing that hour to finish my book. Much to my chagrin, I never had a chance. We hadn't even taken off when the anorexic-looking, fidgety guy with hugely dialated pupils and facial scabs who reeked of wine sat down in the seat next to me across the aisle sat down and turned his body so that his legs were in the aisle and he was squarely facing me (it wasn't until later that I noticed his really bad teeth). As an attorney, I pride myself on the art of conversation -- and the artful tactics of avoiding it or ending it if absolutely necessary. I was totally out of my league with this guy. He had decided he was going to talk to me and there was no way out. The lady in the window seat on the other side of him periodically looked over his shoulder at me as if to communicate a silent pity for me (as well as a silent relief that she wasn't the one being held hostage by Meth Mouth). He clearly was high on crystal meth. I know this for several reasons, including drug ed from 4th-6th grade and having watched multiple episodes of Intervention. While I do have empathy for individuals who are fighting such demons (we all have them in our own ways), I have a particular disdain for adult men with children who are drug addicts because of the effect that it had on my own family. But I digress...

I have been known to dominate conversations and have an unfortunate habit of interrupting people -- I wasn't able to get a word in edgewise with Meth Mouth. He started off by telling me about the past several days he spent in Las Vegas (including details of the nudity in Cirque du Soleil's "Zoomanity", the play-by-play on his poker experiences at Caesar's, MGM Grand, and Mandalay Bay, and the literal blow-by-blow of his attendance at a UFC event). At some point Meth Mouth asked me what I did for a living -- I told him I was an attorney -- BIG MISTAKE. His follow up was, "Oh, well, you're going to love this story..." He then proceeded to tell me a story involving a construction job, his wife's sudden death, the full-faith and credit clause of the constitution, organ donation, a house in Katy, Texas, life insurance, discrimination, his 5 kids, an employment lawsuit, a medical condition that makes it difficult for him to sit for long periods of time, and the three-pronged test for common law marriage. I spoke not a word -- it was like he was talking at warp speed -- with hands flailing in between itches and fidgets -- I was trapped. My dog had taken the easy way out and had curled up in his carrier for a nap -- apparently even dogs have limits to their loyalty. I did feel bad that his wife had suddenly died -- he clearly was distraught and I had empathy for his loss. However, when he went on to describe his sudden 40-pound weight loss and his inability to sleep, his chronic broken bones, and lamented going to Vegas as a single guy with those nasty meth face sores that he claimed were caused by an eye infection (?! HELP!), I wanted to say, "Well, if you lay off of the meth, you might find that it will help all of those issues." When we finally arrived in New Orleans after what seemed like an interminably long time, I knew this guy's entire story, gratuitous medical details and all. And he wasn't finished yet. He followed me out of the plane and continued his ramblings until I finally was able to excuse myself to duck into the nearest ladies room. I would not have been surprised if he had followed me in, or had waited for me outside. Thankfully my tactic had worked -- I had found freedom. Never has an airport lavatory been so appealing. After boiling my hands and chafing them with soapy water to remove any residual Meth Mouth funk (his animated story-telling had included occasional dry-heave inducing physical contact), my dog and I went out to greet my husband (who had flown back the previous day) at baggage claim. As tired as I was when I got home that night, the physical contact with Meth Mouth left me feeling semi-violated so I took an extra long shower which included a full-body exfoliation. I even flossed my teeth twice.