Hey Baby

An Open Letter to My Friend's Unborn Baby, As My Friend Has Been Pregnant Since Approximately 2008 and This Is Getting Beyond Ridiculous:

Hi Baby,

You haven't officially met me yet, but I did hug your Mama hello just the other month and since I am no stranger to the carbohydrate our bellies touched, so you can consider that like our first high five.

From one girl to another, there's nothing wrong with making an entrance. Keeping everybody waiting, knowing that when you arrive it'll be worth the wait is what classy women do.

Being fashionably late can make you memorable, get you noticed, and I fully appreciate that, being a classy woman myself.

(While we're on the subject, arriving anywhere with your fly down or toilet paper stuck to your shoe will also get you noticed, but not in a good way at all. Trust me on these two things. It's nothing you need to worry about for a while given the fact that you are still technically a fetus, but I'm just putting this out there.)

However, there comes a time when you really just need to show up. I can understand your hesitation. You have it pretty good where you are, and you may see no reason to make a change. You've grown comfortable, and I get that - but let me tell you Baby, there is so much more waiting for you.

If you're wanting to really make an entrance, I suggest arriving very quickly when your Mama is in a very public place. Unusual and public places of birth always get good media coverage, and for some reason, somebody always seems to call the fire department should a woman go into labour anywhere other than a hospital, which brings me to one of the reasons you should really hurry up and get here:

Firefighters. Now it's true, you may be too young to appreciate firefighters but they do come in both male and female options, depending on however your little mind will grow up to work. We don't judge.

Your Mama may not appreciate dropping into labour in the middle of a sidewalk somewhere, but she can take her mind off of things by asking if any of the responding emergency personnel are single on my behalf, that is if she is any kind of friend at all.

Ahem.

Don't feel pressure that your first appearance needs to be spectacular and traffic-stopping - this isn't the case.. Even if you arrive as planned in a cozy hospital room with your Mama frozen to the ears, you'll still be the most spectacular show in town.

Obviously, your Mama being frozen right up to her nostrils is a sign of her keen intelligence, as you don't have to worry about being born to some crazy hippy lady who plans on giving birth to you in a stream or something while clutching a healing stone and playing the pan flute. Your Mama is so much smarter than that, and so is your Dad, and they've waited so long to meet you.

But they're not the only people who love you already. You don't have to do anything but take your first breath of air and so many people's lives will change for the better. How many people can say they have that power?

Take your brother for instance. Yes it's true he may eventually fart on you, look at you when you don't want him to and generally be an ass-hat, but you can feel free to do the same.

You're siblings, and that's your job. There will be just as many moments that you'll be so glad you have him in your life, moments when he covers for you, moments when he protects you, makes you laugh, makes you smile when you don't think you can and makes you remember where you came from and just how lucky you are that you're linked by friendship as well as blood. Keep that in mind any time he's farting on your head - it'll get you through. Or not.

But for now, you just have one big job to do, and I know you're up for it. Your Mama started growing you in her belly a long time ago (a very, very, very long time ago) because your parents already loved you enough then to want you to experience all the things that those of us on the outside already know to be perfect.

(In addition to firefighters I suggest you also try the chocolate, the smell of freshly cut grass, stomping through puddles, laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the Ganache Torte at Milestones, dancing any way you feel like, kissing, sand between your toes, and basically the whole entire world.)

Come on out and see what all the fuss is about - you'll be so amazed you'll pee yourself.

Actually, you'll probably pee yourself anyway. Let's just address this potentially embarrassing situation right now, as you'll have a lot to learn when you get here, including the whole bladder control thing. And...ahem...bowels. It's nothing unusual - I say have some fun with it while you can.

Also, how you got into your Mama's belly is actually a really interesting story. I suggest you ask your Mama or Dad to tell you all about it very loudly and in public so that everybody around can also hear the story. Trust me, your Mama will love that.

If she doesn't tell you right away, you can call me, and I'll tell you. My version requires you be 19 or older however with written permission from your parents and a bottle of wine.

Sincerely,

Bambi

PS: I'm waiting too, and I swear to you that if you do drop a load in your diaper I will not hesitate to lovingly, and carefully hand you back over to your Mama. I wouldn't leave you hanging like that.

The Power of Negative Thinking

A few weeks ago I fell off the diet and exercise wagon and was dragged for several miles, trapped underneath the wheels.

I'm not sure how my fall from grace became so spectacular, as the only thing I have been sure of for the past month or so is that if I didn't eat poutine every day, puppies would die.

Puppies may not have actually died, but I really wanted poutine dammit. And chocolate. And wine. And anything with bacon. And then more wine.

Cut to this morning when I step on the scale and discover that I've gained back nearly 13 of the 25 pounds I lost, which makes for a very bad start to any day.

During my recent gastrointestinal orgy, I also quit exercising. Running and kickboxing were at one time the highlight of my days, but lately there hasn't been anything that would get me to put on a sports bra. Cupcakes maybe.

Cupcakes could have worked, but that would have seemed somewhat wrong. Have no doubt though - I would have put the sports bra on, eaten the cupcakes and then had a nap on the couch, but it still would have seemed wrong.

I wear my stress. If I'm unhappy or anxious anybody can tell by either the hives on my face or the fact that there's a lot more of my face to see. Luckily however, I've found an interesting way to halt this particular spiral.

I got mad.

Like, really mad.

I've been sad for a while, and then while driving home one day I had an epiphany. Nobody who I'm angry with would care whether I'm fat and miserable - only I will.

Some of these people might take more notice if I'm living very well and looking very good. By that time, I might not care what these people think either way, and may not even remember why I was once sad and then angry.

That's unlikely actually. I can barely remember to flush lately, but I have a long memory for who broke my heart. Also, I do remember to flush. Just wanted to put that out there.

The point is, I went for my first run in a long time yesterday, and it felt great. It felt like I was dying and my lungs were trying to escape and liquidate through the snot running from my nose, but other than that...it was wonderful to be back on the trails.

Also, all I've had so far today is fruit, and I am one hungry, angry bitch. But that's kind of great too. Better to be an angry bitch who's hungry for more than a sad sister who's full of what she doesn't want.

I know you are, but who am I?

Strange things happen to me, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's my very presence that elevates what would be considered strange by any measure to the completely bizarre.

I could be sitting in a movie theatre, waiting for a movie to start when two gorillas burst through the exit doors dressed as pirate wenches followed by members of the local police force armed with tranquilizer guns and I'd barely slow my popcorn consumption.

Most people would consider this a spectacle. Most people would wonder what in the hell was going on. I would wonder out loud whether this interruption will mean we'll all miss the previews, and how terrible that would be because I love previews.

I would also wonder where the gorillas got the leather boots to match their pirate wench costumes, because damned if I can find any that will fit my chunky peasant legs.

Next I'd kick myself for waiting until the commotion was over to unwrap my chocolate bar and make crinkling noises, which I'm always afraid will make fellow audience members hate me, and which I always seem to do during the most quiet and tense part of any movie I'm watching.

At no time will I question where the gorillas came from, how the police got involved or even why the gorillas were in costume. It would never even occur to me.

Gorilla pirate wenches have never happened, but other strange things have. This morning I was stopped while on my way into Tim Horton's by a good-looking artist type dude who wanted to know if my name was Bambi. Indeed it was. Beaming, he said that Bethany had described me perfectly and he was so glad I could be there.

Um.

I had never seen him before, and if Bethany was the girl I saw getting out of the car he had just pulled up in, I'd never laid eyes on her either. This was mildly concerning.

The guy held the door open for me, and once inside asked me if I'd be happy if he grabbed a seat by the window. For most people, this would be where confusion limits max out and explanations are demanded. I am not most people.

Admittedly, I have the memory of a goldfish lately. If I walk around my apartment one time, I will completely forget the reason I ever left point A to begin with. On any given day I have a to-do list that I forgot I made filled with tasks I forget the reasons behind needing to do.

I don't know whether it's stress, too much wine, or if my underpants are too tight and not enough oxygen is reaching my brain because I am turning really stupid.

I wanted to ask him who he was and whether I knew him, but I was so convinced I had to have known him and had simply forgotten who he was, or forgotten where I was supposed to be and why.

Perhaps me showing up purely by accident at the correct time at Tim Horton's for a meeting was just my sub-conscious trying to save me from some sort of social ruin by convincing me I needed to stop for a steeped tea - RIGHT NOW.

Most of my work meetings are spent trying to figure out something intelligent to say about something I don't know and or care nothing about, so perhaps this was like that. I was sure I hadn't ever seen these people before but then I was also sure I hadn't ever seen the McDonald's manager who served me my late night post-concert McNuggets the other night right up until I was walking home afterward and I realized I'd made out with him one ill-advised Halloween night at the bar several years back.

Perhaps I had made-out with these people and was slow to remember. As to why I had agreed to meet them in Tim Horton's just before work was a mystery I hoped would be solved once we all sat down. Luckily, Bethany arrived where we were standing in line and told her guy that he had the wrong Bambi. What are the odds??

They were indeed waiting for a woman named Bambi, a lawyer named Bambi actually, to meet them there for some sort of discussion. I was both relieved and disappointed, as the guy was really quite attractive. He told me I should take the mix-up as a compliment because I looked a lot like a lawyer.

I'm not sure how that's complimentary, unless perhaps he meant I was dressed well, which could have been the case given I really need to do laundry and was forced to bust out a dressy looking skirt this morning due to an acute shortage in clean pants.

We all had a good chuckle followed by a good round of, "What are the odds?" when the real Bambi lawyer showed up. She was very short, immensely fat, and looked as though she rolled out of bed on to her face.

I'm sure she's a lovely down to earth person, as there are not many lawyers keeping office hours in the local Timmies, but...damn-uh. Bethany supposedly described me perfectly and I was mistaken for...her? Obviously this was my karma for being such a shallow judgy bitch, and yet I'm still pissed off over it.

Luckily, I won't need much comforting. At the rate I'm going, I won't remember this at all tomorrow.

The Party in My Pants

Physically speaking, it's been less than a stellar week. I had some dental work done by a sadistic dentist and his henchman of a hygienist, which has given me a third lip.

Somehow, I can only assume during one of the many moments the hygienist was intending to suction spit, blood or water she applied the suction thingy (thingy being a the technical term - try to follow along) to the soft tissue on the inside of my top lip, and now I have a third lip.

It's a flap of swollen skin that hangs down below my top lip, and much like my belly, refuses to be tucked away anywhere less conspicuous. I suppose I should count myself as lucky considering how often she lost grip on the suction thingy and it slipped down the back of my throat, sucking the air from my lungs and causing my arms and legs to flail in the chair like I was trying to catch the attention of a passing aircraft for rescue. Had there been a skylight, I may well have tried. I was lucky to escape with just one extra lip and not the strangest cause for an obituary ever.

Next, I grew a third eye. I'm at an age where I worry about wrinkles and zits in equal amount, which hardly seems fair. One indignity or another should be plenty enough. I'm going to a party this evening where there will be a particular boy I would like to make out with. Nothing more - just make out.

If my third lip doesn't do it for him, the gigantic zit that has sprung up in the very narrow strip of real estate between my eyes should seal the deal. It has its own pulse, and I'm pretty sure that if I were to stand outside, it would be visible via Google Maps.

After these developments, what happened when I went to get a pap test done should have been no surprise. For either of my two readers who may get squeamish at the idea of a pap test - you're obviously reading the wrong blog.

I fired my family doctor long ago after I suffered through a fracture to my pelvis and subsequent nerve damage that he diagnosed as a mental illness and a figment of my imagination - the full story I wrote about in one of my earlier posts.

Not having a family doctor means I have to scrounge my regular maintenance sort of health care where I can. Last year, while I was looking for some sort of diagnosis for all of my pelvic issues, I had an appointment with a very nice doctor who worked out of a clinic for sexual health. They do pap tests, so thinking it's the pro-active thing to do, I booked an appointment at that same clinic for my regular check-up.

This is where everything stops being regular. The doctor I saw was very nice, took time to talk with me, and explained everything that was going to happen - unnecessary at this point in my life, but a nice touch. He then let me know that there would be two "assistants" in the room, both female, who would hand him things and help him out, and was I OK with that?

Well...sure. It seems to be a new policy for clinics that any goings-on with the lady-bits and a male doctor will have a clinic nurse present. I assumed this would be the same scenario.

Imagine my surprise when I'm lying there, staring at the ceiling and trying to pretend that me, my third lip and third eye were all somewhere else when two 19 year old girls wearing yoga pants and halter tops enter the room, laughing and joking, introduce themselves and come over to shake my hand like we're all meeting at a party.

The doctor then calls them to the end of the table where my legs are in a position that would usually mean I'm having a lot more fun, and tells them they should come have a look. Umm. Something had obviously gone awry, and was not about to get better.

With three people now huddled between my legs, one of the would-be yoga instructors says very loudly, "Oh wow!" Oh wow? Did I inadvertently grow a sixth lip? What exactly was going on at my surprise pap test party? The other girl answers with, "I know, right!"

Something was obviously called for, because these kinds of comments aren't really what you'd want to let slide as part of a gynecological exam. So I waved a hand toward the end of the table and asked the crowd gathered there what was so surprising, despite being suddenly afraid of what the answer might be.

Were there cobwebs? Bats? Teeth? A tent city for the homeless? I know it's been a little while since any major activity, but if eviction notices needed to be served I wanted to know immediately.

One of the girls piped up that she had no idea a pap test was actually a slide. Like, she had never thought about it before, and now she just saw it, and was like, so surprised. Like, it goes on a slide and it looks kind of bloody. Did I know that?

Why yes, yes I did know that. Both girls were impressed that I knew that, and it could have been a great bonding moment if I wasn't wondering just who in the hell these people were, and how were they qualified at all to stare at my cervix?

Once everything was declared as looking really good, the girls waved enthusiastically and wished me an awesome day before leaving while I got dressed. I used this opportunity alone with the doctor to ask him who those people were.

Apparently, the society that runs the clinic employs volunteers. Mostly nursing students or pre-med. All volunteers are vetted and screened, and they haven't had any problems. Well, except for once. That girl was crazy, but it really wasn't her fault, because she was legitimately crazy.

Of course. I felt so much less baffled, and disconcerted.

Me, my third lip and eye will still be rocking the party tonight, comforted by the fact it's just my face that's screwed up and my other end isn't actually anything to get excited about. Situation normal - I have several witnesses. If that doesn't make this guy want to make out with me, nothing will.

Bubble wrap this.

For those who don't know that I recently purchased a condo, or who may have missed the billboard campaign I instituted nationally, titled, "Holy Fucking Shit, Bambi Bought a Condo," or who were out of town for the drunken three-day celebration that took place immediately after signing the papers titled, "Holy Fucking Shit, Bambi Bought a Condo and is Now Really Drunk After Spending Money She Should No Longer Be Spending on Sparkling Wine"...

...

...I bought a condo.

I move in three weeks, and I'm so anxious to be moved that my entire living room and dining room are already packed and I can no longer make it to my kitchen without grievous injury, and or a screaming hissy fit about who was stupid enough to leave a really heavy box of books right there in the middle of the supposed pathway. Even though I'm the only one packing, it does nothing to lessen the pain of stubbing my toes on an hourly basis.

Packing puts me in a melancholy mood, because I keep everything. While going through stacks of papers and old binders I've come across birthday cards from people I'm no longer in touch with, the theatre bill from my first date with my ex-boyfriend in 2003, several postcards from the guy who should have been my boyfriend sent from South America and the spare key to my old car, Lucille.

It's like an archaeological dig through my own life. Some of these artifacts I've tucked away again, and some I tossed out with the garbage. Sort of like what I should have done with the origins of these artifacts to begin with.

Moving can also make a chica feel very vulnerable. Once the furniture is gone it will be plain as day that I don't vacuum the corners. Ever. The fact I have more boxes of books than anything other item makes me look a little unbalanced, not to mention the two boxes in my bedroom that should the contents be inadvertently revealed to either the movers or my parents, will cause me to die. Instantaneously. I will burst into flames, and then fall over dead -- no need to cremate me. And yes, I have two boxes worth. Let's not judge.

I suspect most women have similar items in their bedrooms, and have also spent time lying awake wondering what would happen should a buzzing sound suddenly start emanating from one of the boxes during the move, and whether she might recover with the help of therapy, medication or lobotomy.

I've started shopping for furniture for my new place already, given that the furniture I have in my current place came to me only after one of these two statements:

• If you're sure you don't want it and it doesn't smell - I'll take it off your hands OR
• It's only a good deal if Value Village has some sort of delivery service.

Basically, it's been a while since I've bought any major items for my home. However, I'm having the opposite problem shopping for furniture from when I normally shop for clothes - everything is way too big.

Furniture is way too big. It's massive. A typical couch at the Brick could have easily saved one half of the people who went down with the Titanic - it just needs some oars. I bought a condo, not a sprawling country home with available storage in any one of the four barns dotting the property. I need smaller furniture.

I've found a few pieces I like in very expensive furniture stores with the word "urban" in the title. Despite these stores carrying smaller condo sized sofas, these couches are double the price despite being half the size.

This frustration reminds me of shopping for lingerie. Even though a bra and pantie set may have no clearly discernible material and only a few hooks and straps to demonstrate it should be worn as something other than an eye patch, it's still double the price of lingerie that covers a lot more but is a little less pretty.

My hunt for an affordable condo size sofa reminds me of shopping for lingerie for another reason as well. I have no need for a sofa because I haven't even moved into the damned place yet, nobody would see it if I bought one, and only I would be excited about it. Sadly, those are the same reasons lingerie is an impractical purchase for me right now too.

Even if I choose to be done with the moving, pack my car with my most treasured belongings and set my apartment on fire, I know what's coming with me in my car. A few photographs of family and friends, the art on my walls, my David Sedaris books signed by the man himself, one bottle of real champagne and those postcards from South America. Everything else is just clutter.

It's official.

As both readers of this blog know, I am single. I don't mean single in a way that implies I'm simply between relationships right now and enjoying the respite in between periods of regular sex and having to share some closet space...oh no.

I mean single in a way that suggests I need to think very carefully about what kind of pet I choose in my new home. A dog is more loyal and will take longer to eat the dead body of its master, should the master choke unexpectedly on a Cadbury's Hazelnut bar (just for an entirely random example), and her dead body is not found for several weeks.

A cat however will chow down immediately. I read this in a true-crime book about forensics, so it has to be true, and given how single I currently am...I'll be getting a dog.

I'll need the companionship, because I am right now, the only single person I know. Every human being I interact with on a daily basis has coupled. I'm not entirely sure when or how this happened, but in some instances it happened quickly. One day I'm kvetching with a co-worker about eHarmony, and the next day she's giggling and exhausted having hooked up with her across the hall neighbor. They're now an item.

I mean it when I say every person I know. The Tim Horton's lady in her sixties who calls me honey-bun? Getting married in a December wedding. My running buddy? Juggling more than one. The straight guy friend of a gay guy friend who I once thought was gay because he was wearing tight denim cut-offs and who would do that besides a gay guy and who's gained a lot of weight lately and likes to use Rock Paper Scissors as a pick-up line? Getting more ass than a boy-band. My girlfriend who just broke up with her long-time boyfriend for being a douchebag? Found somebody better.

Shouldn't I be getting some sort of special award? A certificate? Key ring perhaps? I am the last of my tribe. Once I go or fail to chew my Cadbury's as thoroughly as I should...who'll pass on my history?

Seeing as how I don't have much else to do - there's no cause for worry. I'll have time on my hands to whine and embarrass myself far into the foreseeable future so...blog postings must continue.