The Moment You've Been Waiting For!

Thanks to the miracle that is Google, I've been getting lots of strange e-mails lately from searchers who feel a burning need to bare their souls to a random, but seemingly nice enough suburban housewife. That's why today, I'm happy to present to you...

THE NEW AND IMPROVED SUBURBAN TURMOIL
ADVICE COLUMN!

Now with e-mails!!!

This month, I'm featuring four missives from the ST e-mail bag....

Can you please answer me a question about my hamster that i have just brought, it's a roborovski dwarf hamster, is it ok living on it's own, I play with it a lot everyday,

but somebody has told me they are ment to live in couples, if so I may put another roborovski

dwarf hamster in it's cage, as i thought it might be lonely on it's own, but do they have to be brother or sistster, if you would reply back to me i will be most grateful, thank you.

Dear Kid,

Thanks for writing! Yes, dwarf hamsters like to have a friend around. They also like to play outside. The cool thing is, if you have more than one and you let them out in the yard, they will be so busy playing together in the sunshine that they won't run away or anything. Just take them outside, open the cage and give them a little privacy for a few minutes so that they can get used to their surroundings. Once they've had ample time to play, you can go back out, put them back in their cage and bring them inside. They'll be so happy!

I am glad you figured out how much I LOVE DWARF HAMSTERS! :) :) :)

Hugs!

Lindsay

I came across your site while trying to find information on an (underground) organization which refers to themselves as the first wive's club. These people have been terrorizing me for 9 months. Following me, videotaping me, tapping my phones. I thought all of this was "her" just blowing smoke, but a conversation I had on the phone about a month ago was repeated word for word to a third party.

This organization apparently includes employee's of phone and other utility companies as well as police officers.

Have you heard of this organization? Any information you may be able to give would be greatly appreciated.

An underground organization known as the First Wives Club? Honey, I've known some nasty first wives in my time, but trust me, they are anything but organized! As far as I can tell, the mean ones are so busy coming up with snide comments that their houses are a mess and their clothes? Totally last season.

Hugs!

Lindsay

Hi there,

You don't know me at all, but I would like to start a blog.

I wanted to know how do I install a template other than blogger ones from their site.

Also, i can't get my pictures to upload....

I was hoping you would walk me through it.

I would be eternally grateful.

Oh, and linking? How do I do that?
Also, I want to add sound and video to my new blog. Can you help me with that part? And I'd like a sidebar too with blinkies.
Thanks. I can't wait to here back from you.

Wow. How nice of you to think of me. Um, unfortunately, I'm uh, I have SARS. Or I'd totally do it.

Hugs!

Lindsay

hi,
show your toes!
From the german googler!

Hi,
Fuck off!
From the Captain of Capitalization!

And of course, my advice column wouldn't be complete without answering a few of the hapless searchers who've come here looking for help...

No friend syndrome- Sugar Land, Texas

Forget the fact that you're an asshole, a pathological liar, and you haven't bathed in weeks. You've just been diagnosed with No Friend Syndrome.
Ahhhh. That explains it.

How to have parents say yes to hamsters- Campbell, CA

Promise them that you will take care of the hamster all by yourself, and they will not have to do a thing!

How to locate a dead hamster in house- Campbell, CA

1) Believe your kid when she tells you she will take care of her hamster all by herself! And you will not have to do a thing to help!
2) Wait about two weeks.

I forgot the dog’s birthday-Durham, NC

You worthless sack of shit. You have no business owning a dog. Or a hamster, for that matter.

The perfect suburban wife.

Well, it should come as no surprise to any of you that I am the number one Google result for this search. I have waited all my life for this moment and now the crown is MINE! ALL MINE!
I'd like to thank my dog (born November 3rd), the Germans, and dwarf hamsters the world over.

Kidz Bop. Why?

I'm pretty sure that Kidz Bop is playing in a loop over Hell's PA system.

Because listening to a chorus of pre-pubescent crooners "sing" hits like Let's Get It Started, Feel Good, Inc., and even Modest Mouse's Float On is the cruelest form of aural torture I can imagine.

I've thought long and hard about Kidz Bop and have decided the success of their albums must be due to subliminal messages implanted in the songs. I swear I heard the words, "Satan wants you to buy this record" while I was listening to the Kidz Bop version of Since U Been Gone.

Apparently, so did this kid.

Really, the only good thing about Kidz Bop is the reviews the albums are getting from the poor suckers who buy the CDs. Here's a sampling of some of my favorites (and yes, these are actual comments- I can't make this shit up):

I bought the Kidz Bop Gold cd for my son from my heart and next thing I know I hear him singing Hooked On A Feeling, and that is not right. I said do you realize what you are singing? Then he sang How Sweet It Is, thats when all hell broke loose.

This cd is horrific, simply terrifying. Now my 3 year old is talking about my boo all day. I will not forget this!

I wanted to give my son an Easter present to go into his Easter basket. So I got him Kidz Bop 9, and wow what a horrific mistake that was. The second he listened to it, he started singing that stupid ignorant Green Day song, "Beverly Hills." Thats alot of gall to put on a kids cd.

I think the record producer must have it in for me or something. After listening to this album my child went around the house singing Crazy For This Girl. I said, Sara, what did you just say??? Then my little one Bobby, started singing Turn Off The Light. I said oh yeah, and what are you gonna do when you do turn them off. And he said mommy, I'm not sure, but ill think of something. Thats when I took the cd and stomped on it. This is why we have crime and hate in the world.

Awesome.

**Be sure to tune in to our next installment of Why?, when we question the existence of the Tummy Tube, purportedly designed for women who want to wear their maternity clothes sooner. What the hell kind of woman wants to wear her maternity clothes sooner?

A few things I've been meaning to write about

Project Runway's Laura Bennett is the woman I grew up wanting to be. She's always perfectly put together, immaculately dressed and she's got oodles of talent. She designs incredible outfits (with the exception of last week's "cruise ship" disaster). She has a dry sense of humor and the voice and delivery of Lauren Bacall. She's 42, but looks 35. She's an architect and lives in Manhattan. Most amazing of all, she has five kids and another on the way.

"I don't know why everyone's making a fuss out of this pregnancy," she said on the last episode. "Once you have five kids, another one doesn't really make a difference. I'll just throw it on the pile."

I think Laura Bennett would hate me if she met me. She'd take one look at my hair (needs a trim), my clothes (off the sale rack), and my fingers and toes (un-manicured and unpedicured, respectively) and then say something devestatingly funny about poor suburban housewives.

And she'd probably be right.

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I get lots of e-mails about corporate websites geared toward families and honestly, this is the only one I've written about because it's the first one I've seen that I will actually use. The Nature Valley Granola Bar people have developed a map where you can "pushpin" your favorite spot in nature and then write about it, so that other families know where to find it when they're planning vacations or day trips. The whole thing is right up my family's alley. We always like to go for a hike or bike ride when we're on vacation and this site has lots of great ideas. Be sure to add your own favorite spot, so there'll be even more to choose from.

(Disclaimer: I was sent a coupon for a free box of Nature Valley granola bars, but it in no way influenced my review. I mean, seriously. Do you really think I'd sell out my blog in exchange for a box of freakin' granola bars?).

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Okay. Finally, The Busy Body Book. It's a family calendar with a separate space for each family member's activities each day, and I was excited to review it because I've yet to find an easy way to keep everyone's schedules in one place. So, I've used my Busy Body Book for a few weeks now and frankly, the grid squares are way too small. That's my main complaint. But I like the size of the calendar as a whole (my other calendar is huge and weighs a ton) and I really like that the corresponding page has plenty of room for grocery lists and notes and evil doodles of mean moms who ask if both my babies have the same daddy, so I'll keep using it until I find something better- which may be never. Plus, it's fun to run around the house saying, "Where's my Busy Body Book? I need my Busy Body Book, dammit!"

_____________________________

And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.

What a Doll!

Moms, do your toddlers have annoyingly wispy baby hair that won't wrap around hot rollers or hold up under a bottle of White Rain hairspray? I've got just what you're looking for!

Yes! Wigs! They're not just for prostitutes and bald men anymore! Your li'l doll can have a full head of Shirley Temple curls, made with real human hair! Sure, it's expensive, but isn't your preshus kutie worth it?

And that's not all!

Just because your pediatrician guilted you into slathering the 45 SPF on your tot this summer doesn't mean she has to look like a pasty, white nyerd!

Give your littlest loved ones the gift of sunless tanning! Best of all, Ultra-Dark is now available, just in time for the first day of school!

But wait! There's more!

How can any self-respecting four-year-old face her friends with a country-ass gap toothed grin?

Poor Kaitlynne Morghanne Ashleigh Greer-Garson!

Well, Kaitlynne Morghanne Ashleigh, suffer no more. Now there are Snap-onz! Yes, for just a few thousand dollars, you too can have the smile of a ninth grader who's endured two torturous years of braces and meticulously brushed her teeth!

G'on, Girl!

Mothers, it's not too late. Why suffer through life with an ugly child when you can have one who looks like this???

Act now and receive free therapy sessions for your child for one full year!

Sorority Girl

Surprise, surprise. I was a sorority girl. And although I gave it my best effort, somehow going to parties with names like Pimps and Prostitutes and fending off would-be rapists posing as frat boys just wasn't the kick I thought it would be.

At the time, my life in the sorority house was anything but funny. But now, I can look back on it all and laugh. Here's the proof, in this week's issue of the Nashville Scene.

Clumsy Mumsy

I have always been a klutz.

Move a chair in the room three inches to the right and I'll crash into it. Leave a shoe or toy on the floor and I'll trip over it. I typically have at least two or three bruises on my body at all times offering a sore testament to my lack of grace.

The first time I was pregnant, I was clumsier than ever. I tripped and fell so many times that when Good Samaritans came running to help the beached whale get back on her feet, I would wave them off with a grimace and an irritable, "Freakin' get over it! It's not like this doesn't happen all the time!"

What they didn't know was that I'd gotten good at falling. I could always feel the fall coming and would contort my body in a way that would land me squarely on my (amply padded by the second trimester) butt. Belly intact. No harm done. Stop. Staring. Please.

Anyway, I knew my inner oaf was simply enjoying one last hurrah before being banished forever by the budding Mother in me.

Everyone knows, after all, that Mothers all are infinitely graceful and poised. Television and magazine ads abound with Gentle Mothers, rocking their babies, breastfeeding them and soothing their tears with the lightest, most loving caresses imaginable. Once I gave birth, I knew I would join the ranks of the tender touchers, my clumsiness (like my habit of smoking when drunk), a thing of the distant past.

Ha.

Within an hour or two of giving birth, I realized the klutz in me wasn't going down without a fight. Because the simple act of nursing my baby was like tussling with a small greased pig from a county fair. When I finally got Baby to latch on, I held her in place with a grit and determination that I hadn't seen in any of the pages of my breastfeeding manual. Not surprisingly, I preferred the 'Football Hold' for the first few weeks of nursing. I'd lovingly shove my newborn under one arm and put on my toughest game face until the painful session was over.

Bathing was another problem. My baby didn't gurgle and coo as I soothingly lapped water over her tummy. Instead, she screamed as I accidentally splashed a tidal wave of water into her eyes. She wailed with cold when I took her out of the bath only to realize that I'd left the towel on the other side of the house. And she still hasn't forgiven me, I think, for the multiple hair washings that resulted from my efforts to rid her of cradle cap by covering her scalp (and two inches of dark hair) with Vaseline. Big. Big. Mistake.

I worried sometimes that I was harming her fragile little body in the simple acts of dressing her, feeding her and bathing her. But as someone wisely once told me, little babies are like rubber. Perhaps this was an evolutionary development that enabled their survival in the event that they ended up with a klutzy mama like me.

These days, Baby has lost all hope that I'll miraculously grow a pair of Gentle Hands like the ones she sees in the TV commercials. Instead, she's developed coping mechanisms, like pointing out objects I might trip over with a loud "Uh oh!" She's learned not to panic when I manage to get a dress stuck halfway on and halfway off her body, but instead stands patiently while I work out a plan that involves baby oil and a pair of scissors. And she makes sure a small towel is handy to hold over her eyes when I'm giving her a bath, so that the old soap-in-the-eyes incident won't happen yet again. It's kind of sad to see a two-year-old guarding herself against her Mother the Bumbler, but I'm glad she's making the effort, rather than running in terror every time I stumble into the room.

Let's just hope that lunkheadedness isn't hereditary.

Cough and Hack Attack

Trying to sleep while pregnant is damned near impossible.

According to the experts, we knocked up women shouldn't sleep on our stomachs, for obvious reasons. Nor should we sleep on our backs or our right sides, because of some shit about cutting off blood flow to the baby.

So my nights are spent hunched on my left side, wiggling and sqirming and trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. Just as I'm dozing off, an inner alarm sounds. You're on your stomach! You're squishing the baby! Shit! I jerk awake and roll back over onto my side. 15 minutes later, I'm finally asleep when, Ding Ding Ding! Back sleeper! The baby can't breathe! Do something! In a panic, I sit straight up, gasping, then resolutely lie back down on my (left) side.

This goes on all night long until I hear Baby on the monitor chanting "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," at the ungodly hour of 6am. Suffice it to say I have been a little, ahem, grumpy lately.

But if you think sleeping while pregnant is hard, try sleeping while pregnant and while your husband coughs up a lung beside you.

Babydaddy has a chest cold and last night, he treated me to a symphony of hacking. Since he does everything with great passion, of course his coughing was no exception. His attempts at phlegm removal sounded like multiple pipe bombs exploding in a row of mailboxes. I am sure that our neighbors felt the vibrations from their own beds and wondered what the hell was going on.

During the few times that I managed to fall asleep, I would dream I was lying in a foxhole (on my left side) in the midst of an attack by enemy forces. So today, I'm both exhausted and shellshocked, not a good combination. I swear my ears have been ringing all morning.

So that's the news from the Suburban Turmoil war zone and quarantine. Hope your day's going better than mine.

The Mean Reds of Early Motherhood

I talked to a friend of mine on the phone yesterday about my pregnancy. As we discussed how I was feeling, her composure unexpectedly cracked.

"I'm only now feeling back to normal," she admitted in a rush. "I've had two miscarriages in the last year, a d&c, and went on and off birth control within four months. My hormones just went crazy, and it got so bad I couldn't even leave the house! I was crying one week, raging the next and I just wanted to sleep all day long."

My friend, fortunately, had gotten medical help, but after I hung up I couldn't believe that she'd gone through all of that without my knowledge. I had seen her several times during that period. Why hadn't she said anything?

Probably for the same reasons I never told anyone when my own hormones were raging after giving birth to Baby. I considered my emotions during that time to be so shamefully disturbing that I didn't tell one soul about them. And once I quit breastfeeding and felt normal again, I decided to leave the past behind.

Until I read a post on another blog written by a woman who'd gone through the very same thing I had. By being brave enough to tell the tale, she made me realize that we moms need to talk and write about the mean reds of early motherhood, because seriously, no one should go through it alone. And sadly, most of us do.

I was inspired to write about my own experience with the baby blues today at Dot Moms. I hope if you went through what I did, you'll write about it, too- or at least tell your friends about your experience. If you help just one woman realize that what she's feeling is normal and that there's help for her, it will be worth it.

It is Useless to Resist Us

When I was a freshman at the University of Georgia, football Game Days were the first of many rude awakenings I'd have during the next four years.

By 8am on Saturday mornings, the lawn outside my dorm window would be filled bumper to bumper with SUVs swathed in red and black streamers and topped with UGA flags. Aging alums would mill about on the walkway in their best bulldog finery, sipping Bloody Marys and grilling burgers. I would be woken out of a fitful sleep by the sounds of the school fight song blaring continuously from the loudspeakers one tailgater had thoughtfully remembered to bring from home and place in the bed of his four-door pickup truck. It seemed these crazed alums believed that if they chugged enough beers by 9am, they could relive the days of their youth for the next six or so hours.

Or at least they could deprive me of the chance to sleep off a really bad hangover.

"Gah!" I wanted to scream out my window at them. "Your college days are over! Go back home to your kids and your accounting jobs! It is 8 fucking a-m and you are drinking Miller Lite! What kind of life is that?! GAH!"

Little did I know the subtle brainwashing these poor baby boomers had been enduring for years at the hands of the slick UGA advertising brain trust. Upon graduating, I began receiving a barrage of glossy university catalogues, each one beckoning me with its siren call of ornate and abundant bulldog gear. At first, their allure was easy to resist, but as I've gotten older, the pictures have become more mesmerizing.

You, too, can reach nirvana this woman assures me with her eyes, if you'll just buy a cute Georgia Oxford and pair it with a bulldog belt and a kicky UGA khaki skirt. The play group moms will be soooo jealous!

The men are even worse.

Want your husband to start bringing you flowers again? Buy him a Bulldog sportcoat! So what if he went to USC? He looks great in red, AND it's only $395!

I sigh and put the catalogue aside, only to be drawn in later by the home decorating section.

An entire UGA bedroom. Talk about daring to be different! No one's doing red and black right now- You could be first! And why stop there?

With another little one on the way, you'll be needing some new crib bedding. What infant wouldn't want to see the merry growl of a Georgia bulldog every which way he looks?

Go ahead and get the stroller and diaper bag, too. It will look sharp at the next Game Day! Yeah! Game Day! That's a great idea! You'd better get there early, or you won't find a good tailgating spot! And if you leave the baby at home, you can use the stroller and shoulder bag to carry beer!

I feel myself capitulating. Maybe I really could achieve some sort of alumnic ecstasy if I would only unleash my inner dawg and join the other Botoxed zombies on the lawn outside the Myers Quad.

Wait a second. What the hell am I talking about? I'm not one of them! I'll never be one of them!

Still, the inexorable draw of the Great Bulldog is tough to elude. I've tried moving, unlisting my phone number, and changing my name, but the powers that be at my alma mater always manage to find me and resume the brainwashing-by-mail. UGA credit cards, clothing, grill accessories and commissioned paintings all could be mine. Mine, mine mine!

I guess this is what they mean when they say Once a dawg, always a dawg.

Mother's Little Secret

You may share just about everything with your mom friends, from secret family recipes to candid advice on bikini waxing.

But there's one secret that few moms will ever divulge. Find out what I'm talking about right here, in this week's Nashville Scene edition of Suburban Turmoil.

It's a.. Baby!

The doctor has confirmed that I am indeed pregnant and not just fat. And she says the baby looks great! I mean, is that not the cutest fetus you've ever seen in your life???

The Big Day

Well, ladies and gents, this is the day in which my pregnancy will hopefully be confirmed by a bona fide doctor. My first OB appointment is in two hours and I'm nervous, excited and dreading the blood-drawing part of it.

Not that I really need confirmation. I already got that last night.

"Whoa," my husband said as I got into bed last night. "You actually look pregnant." It's true. I have a hard little belly now. My with-childness is undeniable.

Yet I still have a crazy fear that the visit will go something like this:

DOCTOR: Lindsay, I have some bad news.

LINDSAY: What do you mean?

DOCTOR: You're actually not pregnant. You never were pregnant. You just pigged out while you were on vacation and got fat. And the anecdotal research we've conducted shows that any weight you gain typically goes straight to your stomach, hence...

LINDSAY: (Interrupts doctor by turning to camera and screaming longly and loudly).

I guess it could make a good Weight Watchers ad, anyway.

Stay tuned...

Baby Blues

People think my toddler is the major part of my workload, but the truth is, she's the easy one.

It's my stepdaughters who keep me busy, what with their soccer practices and their carpools and their play rehearsals and their mercurial appetites and mood swings and their homework questions and their immediate needs to go to the drugstore/bookstore/mall for a new lip gloss/teen novel/ pair of ballet flats. By comparison, Baby is a piece of cake. Play with her for a few minutes at a time, keep her clean and fed and in a dry diaper and she's good to go.

So I've always envied my stay-at-home mom friends who have only one small child. I imagined I'd be living the life of luxury, soap operas and bon bons if I were in their shoes. And I scoffed at their complaints about how much more difficult their lives were now that a baby was in the picture. Ha! I thought. Ha! You don't even know what work is.

This past weekend, though, I got my comeuppance. The rest of the family left for a three-day soccer tournament and Baby and I were on our own. Oh at first we had fun reading books and playing with the dollhouse and watching Boohbah on the computer and building castles out of wooden blocks.

Two hours later, though, I was ready to move on to something else. Anything else. Was there someone who needed to be picked up? Was it time to start dinner? Did I need to make an emergency grocery run? No, no and no. Shit.

"Play with me!" Baby shouted. "Play Baby games!"

Without my usual excuses I had to comply. I had to comply until I began to itch with irritation during the Kick-the-purple-ball-back-and-forth game and the Pretend-the-refrigerator-magnets-can-talk game and the Read-the-same-book-over-and-over-again game and the Let's-sing-Old-McDonald-but-Baby-has-to-choose-the-animal-and-will-scream- when-Mommy-tries-to-help game. Oh and a few hundred rounds of the Pull-every-toy-off-the-shelf-and-bring-each-one-into-the-den-in-the-stroller-
so-that-Mommy-can-spend-one-hour-cleaning-it-all-up-later game. That one is my favorite.

For the very first time, I seriously contemplated returning to work.

In desperation, I did the unthinkable. I vacuumed to escape the More-cereal-more-cereal game. And afterward when I got sick of the Bounce-like-a-horsey game, I scrubbed down the sink and countertops. And a little later I put an end to the Tickle-tickle game by Windexing every window in the house. Hell, I even cleaned the toilets after running one too many laps during the Cha-Cha-Monkey-chases-Baby-around-and-around-the-house game.

Today, my home is cleaner than it's been in months. And for the first time, I've realized that having a toddler is a lot of work. I guess I was just too busy to notice it.

Girls Night In!

This weekend, it's been just Baby and me. And while I miss the rest of the family at their stinkin' soccer tournament in Chicago, I have to admit that the Baby and I get pretty damn wild when we're left to our own devices. It has been Party Central over here. Take a look...

And yes, I realize I'm wearing the same shirt as in my little picture in the sidebar. I swear I don't wear this shirt every day. Just every other day.

In Which I Bizarrely and for No Good Reason Take Up the Immigration Debate

The driver's license testing station in my town resembles a teeming international bazaar. At any given time, about half of the hundreds of people milling about are from another country. Hearing the sounds that roll off their tongues is fascinating. Standing behind them in line, well, that's another story.

I took my 15-year-old stepdaughter to get her learner's permit yesterday and we ended up in line with three women from another country. Where they were from doesn't matter. The point is that their inability to speak English was seriously hindering their efforts to get one of the women a driver's license.

15 and I were handing over our paperwork to the clerk when one of the group of women showed up beside me. Apparently, she hadn't understood that their number had been called and had missed her turn. The clerk tried to help both of us at once.

"Tell your friend to read line six on the vision test," she said, pointing at the eye testing machine on the counter. The woman translated for her friend, who put her eyes to the machine and stood silently.

"Line six," the clerk repeated.

"A. R. D..." the woman began hesitantly.

"No, line six," the clerk said again. "Tell her line six. The bottom line."

Again, the friend tried to translate. The woman tried again.

"A. R. D..."

"No, no," the clerk said, clearly annoyed, and drew a quick diagram on a post-it note. "Line six. The bottom line."

"Oh, oh!" The woman said. "Six! Yes!" She peered into the machine again.

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6!" she said triumphantly.

The clerk sighed.

"I can't give her a driver's license if she can't complete the eye exam," she told the friend. The women conferred some more. Finally, the woman looked into the machine one more time and read the entire exam aloud. Eventually, she got to line six.

It took some time, but eventually, the group of women made their way through the rest of the process and helped their friend get a license.

And since it took them some time, it took us some time. A lot more time than it should have. Looking around, I could see this was happening over and over again at several different desks. The clerks were stuck explaining rules and regulations in English to people who didn't understand a word they were saying.

"I'm sorry I got irritated," the clerk apologized to me after the women had moved on to another part of the building.

"Um. If I were you, I'd be ripping my hair out," I said. She laughed weakly.

I hear a lot of arguing over the immigration debate and whether everyone should be required to learn English and I try to stay out of it. I've got enough problems teaching my own kids to speak plain English, let alone the rest of the nation.

If asked, I would say I don't have a problem with immigrants who come to the United States and don't learn English. Hypothetically, that's true. But I feel a lot different when I'm forced to wait two hours in line largely because many of the others ahead of me can't understand what they're supposed to do or where they're supposed to go. And when I watch a woman who doesn't have the barest grasp of the English language get a driver's license and I know she's going to be on the same roads as my 15-year-old, I have to be honest. It worries me.

And then I feel guilty because I got irritated and then irritated because I feel guilty.

Pregnancy Symptom #547: The Crying.

One pregnancy symptom I had totally forgotten about was the crying. Until now.

I have cried about the stupidest things in the world lately. I'm an embarrassment to myself and others. After all, pregnant women are supposed to be happy and rosy, not mascara-streaked and weeping uncontrollably. My hormones need to start behaving themselves, before somebody gets hurt.

You may think I'm making a big deal about nothing, but take a look at just a few examples of things I've cried about in the last few days...

1. Soon, I won't be able to hold Baby in my lap anymore. And she loves sitting in my lap. And what if, by the time I have the new baby, she no longer wants to sit in my lap?! Waaaaah!

2. This morning, Baby said, "Mommy, Mr. Rogers is nice." And I burst into tears. Because he's... he's... DEAD!

3. Hubs was out of town the other night covering a big story. He called and said a few of the guy reporters from other stations were getting together afterward to have a beer about a block from his hotel. I got a little teary-eyed because he was going out to drink alcohol. Without me. But then he didn't go.

4. The girls and I finally finished Season 1 of the Gilmore Girls two nights ago. WHY is Lorelei all excited about Max when Luke is clearly the man for her? Gah!

5. We started Season 2 of the Gilmore Girls last night. WHY did Lorelei decide not to marry Max? He's going to be so sad! Gah!

6. I was listening to the new Dixie Chicks CD (I have a wide range of musical tastes, okay? Get over it) in the car this morning and I teared up when she sang about the backlash she received over her Bush comment. And I don't even like the song. And I thought what she said was obnoxious (Not that I'm for or against her- She's an entertainer and I get annoyed when entertainers try to foist their political views on the rest of us. I just wanted her to shut up and sing). That said, why on earth was I crying?

7. I felt kind of icky last night after dinner, so I rested on the sofa for a while. When I got up an hour later, my plate was still on the table and the kitchen was a mess. Why can't anyone lend a hand when I'm not feeling well?!

8. Someone else rubbed my belly yesterday. Twice, even after I leapt away the first time. What happened to respecting personal space?! Dammit!

It's embarrassing even to write about these things. I am not a cryer, ordinarily. But the progesterone has taken my tear ducts hostage. The resultant weeping is totally beyond my control.

So the next time you see a sobbing pregnant woman, know that in all likelihood, she's fine. She may have just seen a stray puppy in an alleyway. Or an old man trip on the sidewalk.
Or she may have just learned that Wendy's no longer makes the chocolate Frosties of our childhood.

I've gotta go now. I'm choking up.

Baby Fat

Many of you have asked how I'm doing so far in my reincarnation as a pregnant woman. The answer can be found here, in this week's edition of the Nashville Scene.

One More Metal Mouth

I should have known there would be trouble the moment I walked in the door. Things were just too... happy.

Upon entering the orthodontist's office, we were immediately accosted by a large poster filled with exclamation points and photos of smiling kids, poolside. DR. PLUCKY'S PARTY!!!! the sign read.

"Dr. Plucky had a party and you didn't go?" I whispered to my 13-year-old. She chuckled weakly. There would be no outright laughing on B-Day. Because braces are serious business and not to be trifled with.

"Well, hi there!" the receptionist shouted as we walked in the door. "My name's Marge and here's the whole crew!" She waved toward the five assistants milling in the background behind her. "You'll get to know them real well over the next year and a half!" Each of "the crew" gave me her best former-cheerleader grin.

Once we got 13 signed in, she was led immediately to The Chair of Pain, while I was taken to The Room Where Thousands of Dollars Disappear From Your Savings Account. Grimly, I forked over the dough and signed all the necessary papers. Only then did I meet Dr. Plucky himself.

"Well, hello!" he chortled, moving toward me at breakneck speed as I stood across from 13 in her chair. "I'm Dr. Plucky!"

Dressed in a circus striped shirt and jeans, his hair slightly wild and his smile infectious, I quickly deduced that Dr. Plucky was the Willie Wonka of orthodontia. "Say! Let me get a look at those frames!" he said, quickly noticing the vintage frames perched on top of my head. I shyly handed them over. "Hey! These are great! Now! Check these out!" He pulled out from his pocket the ugliest pair of glasses I've ever seen. They were round frames with thick green undersides, which abruptly stopped and became thin purple frames on top. Basically, he looked like this:

"You can stay in here as long as you want!" Dr. Plucky told me, gesturing to a plush chair in front of 13's Chair of Pain.

I got the hell out of there as soon as possible.

After all, I reasoned to myself from the comparative comfort of the waiting room, I had braces at 13 too, and the last thing I would've wanted was a family member staring from my feet as I had them fitted.

But you know the real truth.

I was afraid of Dr. Plucky.

Two hours later, 13 emerged from Plucky's lair. She was crying. I jumped out of my chair.

"What's wrong?!" I asked. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"She just doesn't like the way they look," an assistant assured me. She blathered on about brushing and ibuprofen and blah blah blah. But I heard nothing. My own eyes were filling with tears as I listened to 13 fight back sobs.

I was catapulted back to the day I got braces. I remember looking at myself in the mirror for the first time. Bad perm. Acne. Chipmunk cheeks. And a big, fat mouth full of metal. I had never felt more hideous.

Until this afternoon, I had successfully blocked my own ensuing cry fest from my mind. But as I tried to console 13 in the car, I was having a hard time keeping my voice level. Having braces sucks. It did then and it does now and nothing I could say was going to change that fact. I guess no one ever told me how hard it would be to watch my teenagers suffer without losing it myself. No one said my own adolescent issues would come flooding to the surface every time I watch them cry. I keep wondering when I'm going to gain that June Cleaver Calm. I thought I'd have it by now, but I guess I was absent the day they were handing it out.

All I know is that she's going to be absolutely gorgeous when she gets the braces off. And I really need to work on my mothering act, because saying "It's really... not a big deal to.... get braces!" in between sobs is not very convincing, I have to admit.

And I might just have to kick Dr. Plucky in the balls the next time I see him.

The Dreaded Belly Rub

The first time I was pregnant, I heard a lot of complaints from other knocked-up women about the number of strangers who would randomly rub their bellies at the post office or the supermarket. I listened to these accounts with a mixture of horror and fascination. Who would do such a thing? And why? And how would I react when it happened to me?

Fortunately, it didn't. Apparently, my belly was totally unapproachable. While other pregnant tummies were just begging to be rubbed, mine seemed to have the words Touch me and die written across it in invisible ink.

Of course, they say every pregnancy is different and my second one is no exception. I was at a family dinner the other night in LA when it happened. One of my in-laws' neighbors was saying his goodbyes when he extended his hand. I put out my own hand in return, only to be met with air.

Oh Lord. He was going for the belly.

Before I could stop him, he had rubbed my stomach. And it felt every bit as personal as if he had fondled my breast. Because for one thing, at six weeks pregnant, I didn't