Cloudya

I went a whole day without mentioning the baby.

You know, except for just now.

Fuck it, you guys THE BABY SAYS HI!!!!!

If you make dinner plans with me, I’ll usually end up inviting a third person along.

I know this is very, very rude.

I’d rather you think I’m rude, than that you have to sit with me for an hour and find out how dull I am and wonder why you bother being friends with me in the first place.

This is the same reason I avoid making dinner plans.

Trust me lady, if I’m going to hell, refusing your cheap flyer isn’t even in the top ten reasons why.

That thing where you walk out of your apartment with a big mouthful of cookie and crumbs on your shirt and you run into your lovely blonde fashionista neighbor who stops to chat and you have to chew really fast so you can keep up with the conversation.

That thing? That thing’s really easy to get over when you have two more chocolate chip cookies in your pocket.

Which, to me, is very different from being promiscuous.  I wasn’t a slut because I had a healthy sexual appetite.  I didn’t seek men out for the mutual, consensual enjoyment of our physicalities.  I submitted myself, almost against my will, to encounter after encounter as an expression of self-hatred, and there was a sweet relief in that loathing that was gloriously addictive.

There were so many reasons why I hurt myself this way, but one of them was loneliness.

There was no real connection in the darkness, but there was something approaching emotion.  There was sound, and there was touching.  There was desperation and something like gratitude.  In the tangle of tongues and scrabbling fingers and limbs, there was the physical, animal closeness of someone other than me, and it quieted the loneliness.

For a little while.

“I will never want children.”

“I would never be a stay-at-home mom.”

“I would absolutely never consider breast-feeding.”

Eating my words because I’m PREGNANT and I’ll eat anything.

Sometimes a really good song comes on my iPod and I really wish I could share it with my little nugget.  So I try to hum along with it the best I can, even though his tiny ears aren’t really developed yet and I’m not sure he can hear much, if anything.  Maybe he can get the general vibe.

Humming along to Birthday Massacre is tricky, but doable.

parkavenue:

I apologize for my incredulous stare and lack of an answer to that question you just asked. Now that I’ve gathered my thoughts, I have answer to your poignant inquiry.

The difference between hot and iced is that, while one drink is approximately 160 degrees, the other is a cool 45.

Oh sorry, you still don’t understand…?

I’m really sad that I’m going to miss CHSH, but it’s hard to stay sad when I see everybody so excited about it.  I’m excited for you.

I really wish I could go, and for once, stay sober throughout the night and have more than fleeting memories of grabbing Michele’s boobies or picking Lindsay’s nose.  I wish I could hug and reconnect with those of you I’ve already met, and I wish I could take a running leap into the arms of those of you I’ve never seen face to face.

Being on tumblr and participating in tumblr-ups and tweet-ups have been wonderful experiences for me.  I can’t wait to see all the smiling faces on my dash.  I hope you all have a fabulous, fabulous time, and know that Blueberry, Ken and I are with you in spirit.

Results for the first half of genetic screening tests:  Everything’s looking good.

I’m going to have a big chicken salad sandwich to celebrate.

And potato chips.

And a Sierra Mist.

And a cookie…

He walks in to find me lying in bed on my stomach, my head cradled in my hands.

“You okay?” he asks tentatively.

I look up, and he sees the tears on my cheeks.  He comes over and sits on the bed beside me.

“Why are you crying?” he asks, and I bless him silently for not asking, “Why are you crying now?”

“I’m reading about childbirth,” I tell him, “All the stuff that comes out of you and the blood and the gore.  I’m scared.  I’m scared it’s going to hurt and I’ll be traumatized and you’ll be traumatized.”

He strokes my back gently.

“I could never be traumatized by you.  Unless you keep leaving the door open when you pee.  That’s a little unnerving.”

I laugh quietly, then turn serious again.

“There’s just no getting through this thing with my dignity intact,” I sigh.

He kisses the top of my head lovingly.

“Yes,” he says thoughtfully, ”but in the end, you’ll have a little nugget in your arms, and you’re not going to care about any of that.”

That.

That was exactly what I needed to hear.

How does he always know exactly what to say?

“I’m going to see if I can spot a prostit…found one!”