I just finished a twenty-page-paper-from-hell and I am DONE with this loathsome semester. Weeelll, maybe not quite. I still have my Thai final on Saturday, and I still have to edit and comment on six, twenty-page student law journal articles before 12/31, but THEN I’m done. Seriously. Except I have to add the final citations to my own law journal article which is being published in the spring and which the cite checkers will be getting their grubby little hands on next month. But that’s totally all I have to do. Unless you count the, um, thirty-page paper that’s due for my independent research credits that I plan on poaching from a grant proposal I wrote this summer. But then, yeah, totally.
And people wonder why I never talk about law school in this blog. Five semesters down, one to go.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Melonbelly
Let’s be honest, some pregnant women just look better than others. Some of us glow like candles, others wilt like weeds, some develop elephant ankles, while still others sail through with nothing more noticeable than a grapefruit-sized bump on the belly. I know I should be happy that I’ve (so far) been spared stretch marks and weird pigmentation patterns on my face, but my worst cosmetic-related pregnancy phobia is coming true: I am developing melonbelly.
We’ve all noted the odd and remarkable phenomenon of melonbelly. Melonbellies are skinny little women who walk around town looking perfectly normal, except they appear to have put an entire watermelon up their shirt sideways. The disturbing condition of melonbelly occurs when a woman has the rib span of a ten-year-old boy combined with a fetus that stubbornly refuses to curl up in a ball like other fetuses, but rather stretches out horizontally inside mom’s womb.
Melonbelly is not dangerous, but left untreated can cause severe embarrassment, fainting upon passing a mirror, complete destruction of one’s favorite winter coat, and whispered comments such as, “Damn, she looks weird pregnant.” Sadly, there is no cure for melonbelly. Physicians advise melonbellies to stay in the house at all times, avoid mirrors, and under no circumstances ever allow anyone to see you naked. In fact, lawmakers warn that seeing a naked melonbelly could result in severe psychological trauma to the viewer and may possibly lead to criminal charges against the perpetrator.
* In some medical circles, melonbelly is thought to contribute to the dreaded disease, torpedo-belly.
We’ve all noted the odd and remarkable phenomenon of melonbelly. Melonbellies are skinny little women who walk around town looking perfectly normal, except they appear to have put an entire watermelon up their shirt sideways. The disturbing condition of melonbelly occurs when a woman has the rib span of a ten-year-old boy combined with a fetus that stubbornly refuses to curl up in a ball like other fetuses, but rather stretches out horizontally inside mom’s womb.
Melonbelly is not dangerous, but left untreated can cause severe embarrassment, fainting upon passing a mirror, complete destruction of one’s favorite winter coat, and whispered comments such as, “Damn, she looks weird pregnant.” Sadly, there is no cure for melonbelly. Physicians advise melonbellies to stay in the house at all times, avoid mirrors, and under no circumstances ever allow anyone to see you naked. In fact, lawmakers warn that seeing a naked melonbelly could result in severe psychological trauma to the viewer and may possibly lead to criminal charges against the perpetrator.
* In some medical circles, melonbelly is thought to contribute to the dreaded disease, torpedo-belly.
Friday, December 14, 2007
I like chicken fry
Yesterday, as part of the requirement for my scholarship, I had to go speak Thai to my professor for ten minutes in her office. I had to prepare twenty or so sentences about myself (in Thai) so she could in turn ask me questions (in Thai) to see if I understood what she was saying and could respond sensibly (in Thai, of course). Having only the most rudimentary grasp of the language, I gave an expanded version of the following: “I like chicken fry. My sister forty years old. Sacramento lives my family, but New York City lives me seventeen years. Grapes are sweet. My house lives next to hospital. I drive green car.”
I’m not sure when the sweetness of grapes became classified under personal information, but it’s one of the few things I know how to say clearly. Unfortunately, after the exam I realized that, in addition to blathering on about grapes, I told the professor that the city of Sacramento has no telephones, but there is a city called Tahoe very close to Sacramento. In Tahoe there is a large telephone, and it is very beautiful. But I never use Telephone Tahoe because it is very cold.
Crap.
I’m not sure when the sweetness of grapes became classified under personal information, but it’s one of the few things I know how to say clearly. Unfortunately, after the exam I realized that, in addition to blathering on about grapes, I told the professor that the city of Sacramento has no telephones, but there is a city called Tahoe very close to Sacramento. In Tahoe there is a large telephone, and it is very beautiful. But I never use Telephone Tahoe because it is very cold.
Crap.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Modesty, vanity, and my breasts
I made a mistake in my previous post. Actually, I made two mistakes. My first mistake was not taking a clearer picture of the monstrosity I found hanging in my shower. I was too vain (and also not skilled enough with a camera) to let anyone see the full details of the under-apparel I’ll soon be forced to wear. Pregnancy has been rough on my body image and, while I’m willing to share some underwear woes if it will generate a few laughs, I would still prefer people to think of me decked out in scarlet Dolce & Gabbana lace instead of beige Motherhood Maternity polyester.
My second mistake was euphemistically calling this thing a “maternity” bra. It is not, in fact, a maternity bra, if such a thing even exists. It is a full-out nursing bra. I was too modest to use the word “nursing,” and for good reason. For years, my breasts have been the subject of great interest among the masses, creating general mayhem wherever I go and a fascination that borders on mania. Women feel compelled to ask me intimate questions about my breasts (as if their very gender makes such questions acceptable) and men seem to lose what little minds they had to begin with when presented with them. The reasons for this are not entirely clear to me as I’ve never exceeded a medium C cup.
When I got pregnant, my tolerance for this nonsense went down while, conversely, the floodgates of inappropriate questions opened. Here’s a sampling of some of the conversations I’ve been subjected to:
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
her: “Wow, are your breasts, like, you know, going to get super huge now?”
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
him (while staring intently at my chest as if effort alone could produce a clearer picture): “Are you going to breastfeed?”
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
her: “Can I touch your breasts?”
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
him: “So are your nipples getting really big? Are they changing color? Are they super sensitive?”
Given these facts, perhaps I can be forgiven for my reluctance to use the word “nursing” even while being bold enough to publish a fuzzy picture of my ugliest bra. I was simply hoping to avoid a flood of e-mails containing predictable comments by stuttering idiots excited by the idea of me breast feeding. Oddly, though, as soon as I published the post, I got two comments and no less than SIX e-mails, all saying basically the same thing: “You ain’t seen nothing yet. Just wait till you buy a nursing bra.”
Note to self: Take clearer pictures. Stop using euphemisms.
My second mistake was euphemistically calling this thing a “maternity” bra. It is not, in fact, a maternity bra, if such a thing even exists. It is a full-out nursing bra. I was too modest to use the word “nursing,” and for good reason. For years, my breasts have been the subject of great interest among the masses, creating general mayhem wherever I go and a fascination that borders on mania. Women feel compelled to ask me intimate questions about my breasts (as if their very gender makes such questions acceptable) and men seem to lose what little minds they had to begin with when presented with them. The reasons for this are not entirely clear to me as I’ve never exceeded a medium C cup.
When I got pregnant, my tolerance for this nonsense went down while, conversely, the floodgates of inappropriate questions opened. Here’s a sampling of some of the conversations I’ve been subjected to:
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
her: “Wow, are your breasts, like, you know, going to get super huge now?”
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
him (while staring intently at my chest as if effort alone could produce a clearer picture): “Are you going to breastfeed?”
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
her: “Can I touch your breasts?”
me: “Guess what? I’m pregnant!”
him: “So are your nipples getting really big? Are they changing color? Are they super sensitive?”
Given these facts, perhaps I can be forgiven for my reluctance to use the word “nursing” even while being bold enough to publish a fuzzy picture of my ugliest bra. I was simply hoping to avoid a flood of e-mails containing predictable comments by stuttering idiots excited by the idea of me breast feeding. Oddly, though, as soon as I published the post, I got two comments and no less than SIX e-mails, all saying basically the same thing: “You ain’t seen nothing yet. Just wait till you buy a nursing bra.”
Note to self: Take clearer pictures. Stop using euphemisms.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
High-tech crash test safety restraint system
I found this thing hanging in my shower this morning. The last time I found something this ugly in my shower it had six legs and the ability to fly, but apparently this item belongs to me. I think it might be a maternity bra. But it could be a high-tech crash test safety restraint system. One way or another, I don’t think I can bring myself to wear it.
I’ve never spent much money on myself, but gifts that have appeared in my lingerie drawer over the years include a Dolce & Gabbana scarlet lace balconnet bra, a pleated silk Agent Provocateur bustier, and, the pride of my existence, a cashmere-lined muslin silk work of art from an obscure little company called Guia La Bruna.
I’m ready to gain nine thousand pounds. I’m ready for ugly leg veins, swollen ankles, a mellonbelly, and pants that look like they could comfortably accommodate a buffalo’s ass. But I’m not ready for this contraption. Not just yet.
I’ve never spent much money on myself, but gifts that have appeared in my lingerie drawer over the years include a Dolce & Gabbana scarlet lace balconnet bra, a pleated silk Agent Provocateur bustier, and, the pride of my existence, a cashmere-lined muslin silk work of art from an obscure little company called Guia La Bruna.
I’m ready to gain nine thousand pounds. I’m ready for ugly leg veins, swollen ankles, a mellonbelly, and pants that look like they could comfortably accommodate a buffalo’s ass. But I’m not ready for this contraption. Not just yet.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Hypothetical questions
Question 1: Pretend for a moment that you’re a man. Pretend you live downstairs from me and you know I’m six months pregnant and single, and you’re on reasonably friendly terms with me. Pretend you have a clue how hard it is to be pregnant because your wife, who I’m also on friendly terms with, just had a baby five weeks ago.
Now say you go out Monday at 6:30 in the morning to clear a six-inch casing of ice off your car and find me floundering in the snow, trying to get my car door open even though it’s sealed shut by a solid sheet of ice. You know I’ve already been trying to get the ice off my car for half an hour because you looked out your kitchen window when I first came outside at 6:00 a.m. (I saw your ugly mug through those curtains jackass).
Do you:
a) smile and say hello, then proceed to chip the ice off your own car for an hour, side by side with me, without a single offer of help
b) when you see me kneel down in the snow to chip away at the ice encasing my tires, go get a large bag of road salt from your apartment, pour half of it under your tires, then return the bag to your apartment without offering any to me. (Think carefully about this question because we all know that road salt must cost a whopping fifty cents per metric ton. Plus you’re a one-car family.)
c) “accidentally” shovel the snow off of your car and dump it directly behind mine, creating a large heap that I will have to drive over to get out of the driveway.
Question 2: Your car is free from ice before mine even though I’ve been chipping away at mine much longer because:
a) your car is parked in the sunniest parking spot, which you stole from me when I went away last summer even though I’ve lived in this building longer than you and have ALWAYS parked in that spot
b) I’m six months pregnant and can barely bend over because of my huge belly and therefore must kneel in the snow to get the ice off my tires, whereas you simply poured a bunch of salt under your tires, then hacked away at it with your high-tech ice-hacking device while watching me try to break through Wisconsin permafrost with a $2 window scraper.
c) in addition to cleaning all the other snow and ice off my car, I now have to shovel the snow dune you just created behind my car.
Question 3: When you drive off, you:
a) spin your tires, kicking snow all over me and my half-clean car, then pretend not to notice even though I caught your eye in your rear view mirror as you did it.
b) get stuck in the ice at the end of the driveway because you’re too much of a cheap-ass to have decent tires on your car.
c) stay there spinning your wheels and blocking my exit from the driveway until I’m so late for class I offer to help get your useless ass out of my driveway.
d) instead of taking my advice and getting the salt out of your house, you insist on trying to push the car backwards while I rev it in reverse and strip your tires for 45 minutes. Once I’ve completely missed my class, go get your salt and be merrily on your way a minute later.
Question 4: Now it’s Tuesday. Because you made me miss my Monday class, my car has not been moved since the enormous ice storm we had on Saturday. At 6:00 in the morning I am again warming my car up and trying to free the tires from ice.
Do you:
a) lounge in your kitchen window, sip coffee and watch me try to free my car from what has become the next great ice age.
b) continue watching (IS THAT A SMIRK ON YOUR FACE?) as I alternately spin my wheels, go back outside to chip away at the ice, pour table salt from a container of Morton’s under my tires, and spin my wheels again.
c) continue watching and sipping your coffee as I slip on the ice, fall down and lie on my back for five minutes in the snow with what feels suspiciously like a labor pain.
d) continue watching as I concede that I will not make my morning class for the second day in a row, rest my head on my steering wheel, and break down into wrenching tears at the unfairness of life and the hopelessness of my place in it.
Question 5: After all that, do you seriously come to my door on Wednesday and ask me if I have any quarters for the washing machine? Then give me a dirty look when I say I don’t (even though I have about $15 worth in my desk drawer)?
Remember kids, there are no stupid answers, just REALLY BAD NEIGHBORS.
Now say you go out Monday at 6:30 in the morning to clear a six-inch casing of ice off your car and find me floundering in the snow, trying to get my car door open even though it’s sealed shut by a solid sheet of ice. You know I’ve already been trying to get the ice off my car for half an hour because you looked out your kitchen window when I first came outside at 6:00 a.m. (I saw your ugly mug through those curtains jackass).
Do you:
a) smile and say hello, then proceed to chip the ice off your own car for an hour, side by side with me, without a single offer of help
b) when you see me kneel down in the snow to chip away at the ice encasing my tires, go get a large bag of road salt from your apartment, pour half of it under your tires, then return the bag to your apartment without offering any to me. (Think carefully about this question because we all know that road salt must cost a whopping fifty cents per metric ton. Plus you’re a one-car family.)
c) “accidentally” shovel the snow off of your car and dump it directly behind mine, creating a large heap that I will have to drive over to get out of the driveway.
Question 2: Your car is free from ice before mine even though I’ve been chipping away at mine much longer because:
a) your car is parked in the sunniest parking spot, which you stole from me when I went away last summer even though I’ve lived in this building longer than you and have ALWAYS parked in that spot
b) I’m six months pregnant and can barely bend over because of my huge belly and therefore must kneel in the snow to get the ice off my tires, whereas you simply poured a bunch of salt under your tires, then hacked away at it with your high-tech ice-hacking device while watching me try to break through Wisconsin permafrost with a $2 window scraper.
c) in addition to cleaning all the other snow and ice off my car, I now have to shovel the snow dune you just created behind my car.
Question 3: When you drive off, you:
a) spin your tires, kicking snow all over me and my half-clean car, then pretend not to notice even though I caught your eye in your rear view mirror as you did it.
b) get stuck in the ice at the end of the driveway because you’re too much of a cheap-ass to have decent tires on your car.
c) stay there spinning your wheels and blocking my exit from the driveway until I’m so late for class I offer to help get your useless ass out of my driveway.
d) instead of taking my advice and getting the salt out of your house, you insist on trying to push the car backwards while I rev it in reverse and strip your tires for 45 minutes. Once I’ve completely missed my class, go get your salt and be merrily on your way a minute later.
Question 4: Now it’s Tuesday. Because you made me miss my Monday class, my car has not been moved since the enormous ice storm we had on Saturday. At 6:00 in the morning I am again warming my car up and trying to free the tires from ice.
Do you:
a) lounge in your kitchen window, sip coffee and watch me try to free my car from what has become the next great ice age.
b) continue watching (IS THAT A SMIRK ON YOUR FACE?) as I alternately spin my wheels, go back outside to chip away at the ice, pour table salt from a container of Morton’s under my tires, and spin my wheels again.
c) continue watching and sipping your coffee as I slip on the ice, fall down and lie on my back for five minutes in the snow with what feels suspiciously like a labor pain.
d) continue watching as I concede that I will not make my morning class for the second day in a row, rest my head on my steering wheel, and break down into wrenching tears at the unfairness of life and the hopelessness of my place in it.
Question 5: After all that, do you seriously come to my door on Wednesday and ask me if I have any quarters for the washing machine? Then give me a dirty look when I say I don’t (even though I have about $15 worth in my desk drawer)?
Remember kids, there are no stupid answers, just REALLY BAD NEIGHBORS.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Bad birthday, saved by good present
Today is my birthday, and even beyond being stalked by a dangerous criminal, things are not as they should be. Yesterday I went to an all-day how-to-give-birth class, then I was supposed to get dinner with a couple of friends at my favorite restaurant. Unfortunately, in the middle of the class Wisconsin got approximately nine feet of snow followed by ten inches of freezing rain. Planes slid off runways, semi trailers overturned on the highway, and my dinner was cancelled, probably never to be rescheduled since we’re coming up on finals.
On the way home from class, my car got stuck in the snow and when I put it in reverse I slid diagonally across the road into a fire hydrant. By the time I got home, I was so distracted I left my butt-pillow in the car. (Butt pillow: the pillow that protects your skinny butt from your incredibly hard study chair, without which you simply cannot study, but which you nevertheless took to the how-to-give-birth class and carelessly left in the car overnight.) When I woke up this morning, the plow had dumped a mountain of snow on my car, leaving me without a butt-pillow for the rest of the weekend.
On the positive side, I got the best birthday gift EVER from my mom. This is a woman who just gets it. She got me a pro electronic stud finder with a laser line level. I’ve wanted one of these forever! For those of you who don’t know, I have a super tricked-out tool kit, complete with a high-end cordless electric drill, and it’s the pride of my existence. The only thing missing was a level and a stud finder. I complained about this when my mom visited last month and helped me hang shelves in my nursery. At the time, I said I didn’t want to acquire a level because they’re too big to fit into my tool kit, and a stud finder is just too extravagant. But now I have a super compact laser level AND stud finder all in one. Awesome.
On the way home from class, my car got stuck in the snow and when I put it in reverse I slid diagonally across the road into a fire hydrant. By the time I got home, I was so distracted I left my butt-pillow in the car. (Butt pillow: the pillow that protects your skinny butt from your incredibly hard study chair, without which you simply cannot study, but which you nevertheless took to the how-to-give-birth class and carelessly left in the car overnight.) When I woke up this morning, the plow had dumped a mountain of snow on my car, leaving me without a butt-pillow for the rest of the weekend.
On the positive side, I got the best birthday gift EVER from my mom. This is a woman who just gets it. She got me a pro electronic stud finder with a laser line level. I’ve wanted one of these forever! For those of you who don’t know, I have a super tricked-out tool kit, complete with a high-end cordless electric drill, and it’s the pride of my existence. The only thing missing was a level and a stud finder. I complained about this when my mom visited last month and helped me hang shelves in my nursery. At the time, I said I didn’t want to acquire a level because they’re too big to fit into my tool kit, and a stud finder is just too extravagant. But now I have a super compact laser level AND stud finder all in one. Awesome.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Who hates me?
I’m not the type of person to acquire serious enemies. Plenty of casual ones, sure. I’m outspoken, I live a scandalous life by anyone’s standards, and I refuse to buy into silly notions about how women should live their lives. It’s a great way to acquire casual enemies. But I’m not the type to inspire glass in toe shoes. So on the rare occasion that someone does something really vicious to me, I’m truly taken aback.
A couple of days ago I got a letter from a prisoner here in Wisconsin. He said he got my address from “a friend” of mine, and he wanted me to be his pen-pal. Even apart from the fact that some strange prisoner was sending me mail at my home address, the letter was creepy and I promptly threw it away. I assumed he somehow got my information off the internet.
But today I casually mentioned the letter to one of my law professors and she freaked out. She’s a former defense attorney, runs a criminal appeals clinic at the law school, and is an expert on all things criminal. As it turns out, the letter came from something called “W.S.P.F.,” which is Wisconsin’s supermax prison. According to her, under no conditions would a prisoner in supermax have access to the internet or any other way to acquire my personal information, which means that somebody specifically gave it to him. She also showed me how to use a nifty thing called “CCAP” (check it out: http://wcca.wicourts.gov/index.xsl) which reveals that this is a Very Bad Guy Indeed. Besides a nasty rap sheet about a mile long, including twelve battery convictions, this guy landed in supermax after successfully escaping from a medium-security prison.
I feel sick to my stomach, and it’s not because some scary dangerous criminal knows where I live and I’m six months pregnant and I can’t move apartments and I have nobody to protect me and won’t be able to sleep at night and will never feel safe in my apartment again and already have more than I can handle in my life with being single and pregnant and a full time law student and oh my God somebody’s going to somehow hurt my baby. Okay, yeah, it is all that. But mainly I feel sick to my stomach because somebody out there hates me enough to do this to me, and I don’t even know who they are. That's all.
A couple of days ago I got a letter from a prisoner here in Wisconsin. He said he got my address from “a friend” of mine, and he wanted me to be his pen-pal. Even apart from the fact that some strange prisoner was sending me mail at my home address, the letter was creepy and I promptly threw it away. I assumed he somehow got my information off the internet.
But today I casually mentioned the letter to one of my law professors and she freaked out. She’s a former defense attorney, runs a criminal appeals clinic at the law school, and is an expert on all things criminal. As it turns out, the letter came from something called “W.S.P.F.,” which is Wisconsin’s supermax prison. According to her, under no conditions would a prisoner in supermax have access to the internet or any other way to acquire my personal information, which means that somebody specifically gave it to him. She also showed me how to use a nifty thing called “CCAP” (check it out: http://wcca.wicourts.gov/index.xsl) which reveals that this is a Very Bad Guy Indeed. Besides a nasty rap sheet about a mile long, including twelve battery convictions, this guy landed in supermax after successfully escaping from a medium-security prison.
I feel sick to my stomach, and it’s not because some scary dangerous criminal knows where I live and I’m six months pregnant and I can’t move apartments and I have nobody to protect me and won’t be able to sleep at night and will never feel safe in my apartment again and already have more than I can handle in my life with being single and pregnant and a full time law student and oh my God somebody’s going to somehow hurt my baby. Okay, yeah, it is all that. But mainly I feel sick to my stomach because somebody out there hates me enough to do this to me, and I don’t even know who they are. That's all.
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