So, February, 2000. I took the plunge and bought two of those dreadful tests

I break my pregnancy up into two parts: it started in Seattle, but we were living in Phoenix and remained there until I was about five months along. For the second half, we moved to Shoreline, which is just north of Seattle.

I got knocked up on New Year’s Eve, 1999. Yes, that is how I party like it’s 1999. Mr. Husband’s parents did something totally ridiculous for 500 of their closest friends: they rented the Seattle Asian Art Museum for a party. I had been jogging for about six months at that point and looked pretty good, so I bought myself a very cheap floor-length, velvety-cranberry gown at Ross Dress for Less. Now that I can fit into it again, I sometimes sit around in it while I’m typing on the computer or feeding the chickens.

I wish I had myself for a neighbor, instead of the squares I do have. I also wish I had an editor. Moving on!

I didn’t start drinking the champagne until eleven or so, because I always drink champagne very very fast. So by the time the fireworks popped over the Space Needle, I was pretty lit. I remember mooching many British cigarettes off of Mr. Husband’s friend who was there, and also giving him a chaste kiss at midnight, since his girl had been recently left back in England. I went to the bathroom and found that most of my lipstick had migrated to the left side of my face, because I hadn’t yet discovered that lipstick that is like house paint and doesn’t go motherfucking anywhere until you sandblast it off.

I wonder what it’s like to live in a country that has the word “gland” in it? I know people emphasize the “Eng” part, but I think I am going to start saying “En-Gland.” That will show those…people from the only country who is still talking to us.

Mr. Husband, his friend, and I ended up at the Canterbury, having an impromptu “afterparty.” We tossed back a couple more drinks and said goodbye to the friend and went back to the bed-and-breakfast we were staying in. And you know you have to get your hump on New Year’s Eve. That’s one great thing about being married, right? You always have a date.

I feel like things happened pretty fast. It was normal, happy married-couple sex. I got up though, and something felt off-kilter, right away. Everything was all sparkly for a minute, like when you stand up too fast, but different. I just knew, right away. I have heard of this happening, but I didn’t read about it until later, when I was frantically researching the pregnancy deal.

What I did next was stop thinking about it. It was the middle of my junior year of college, and we were young(er). I was gleefully childless, to the point of being one of those dirty-looks bastards and leaving restaurants with too many kids in them. I had my little cat-babies and was downright phobic about little kids. Plus, with my upbringing, I just assumed if I had any children I’d be smacking them across the room every day. I just wasn’t a very nice person, then, at all.

Five weeks later, Mr. Husband found me on the floor when he came home from work. I was asleep on my back, with my leg still corked up in that hurdle-jumping stretch with my jogging shoes on and everything. He woke me up. “Are we still going running tonight?” he asked, presumably without much hope. I said, “Mmm,” and rolled over. Sweet, comfy carpet.

I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Aunt Flo for weeks, and was taking random naps in comfortable places such as in my desk at school and standing up in the shower. I was being pretty good, at that time. I had had one cuba libre one night when we were playing cards, and one cigarette when I had a January yard sale (January is yard sale season in Phoenix). Apparently, I did not have a drink on the day that the mutations can happen or whatever, because my Frannie does not look at all like a Fiji mermaid.

I did not come fully out of denial about my situation until early February.

My mom got pregnant with my sister when I was nine. I was excited, but I felt trepidation because of the shitty environment we lived in, courtesy of my crazy-go-nuts stepfather. I wondered if this baby was going to have to deal with years of stupid shit like I did.

There were other babies too. My mom is convinced that my stepfather whacked the first one out of her when she was seven months along. He was at the nadir of his nuttiness then, so I can say (but not without a horrible stab of regret) that it

In honor of Miel, and of lots of people who are going to spawn in the next few months (Dooce comes to mind), I would like to have a Very Special week at I, Asshole. The gleefully childless may come back next week, because you will not want to sit through this. For those who can stand it, I present: a week of sprog stories.

My life began in one of the most clich

Oh my Jesus, what a morning I had yesterday. I am scrambling to paint the office before school starts; it is about to become the Girlie

I am having one of those mornings where my head is all Random Word Blender, so you will have to bear with me. I ramble when I’m nervous….

Last night after work, Mr. Husband said “fuck these leftovers” and took me out to the Very Schwanky Outback Steakhouse (motto: “Our ‘Australianized’ Names Will Make You Want To Stab and Maim”). I started with one of those salads that are not really salads at all, because they are half cheese and croutons. If I ate salads like that at home, I might as well give up and have a Dick’s burger every night. This was followed by a chicken burger that was named Sweet Chook-O-Mine. A person could die of jealousy; someone got paid to make that name up for a major restaurant chain.

I am going to start a restaurant that celebrates the history of hip-hop and rap. “Yes, I’ll start with a Run-D.M.tini, and–what? Oh, yes, B.I.G.-size it–and then I’ll have the Biotches and Fries.” The waitress will reply: “Sir, be sure to save room for the Kool Moe Lime Pie.” That would be crappity awesome; I want my name on that. Ludacris will come to my grand opening, and will cut the ribbon…oh, wait, all the sudden this just got dirty. Oooh, Ludacris! Tiny!

Aherm. Like any good American chain restaurant, the waitress at the Outback was gakked out of her mind and veryveryvery efficient. After we consumed more calories in one sitting than I have probably eaten all week, we got up and I saw a golden light emanating from the only thing that was open in the strip mall…The Dollar Tree (motto: “Everything’s really a dollar. Unless it isn’t.”)

I love the dollar store. I first discovered them in the town I grew up in, but like everything else in that town, the dollar store there was pretty lackluster, with stretches of empty shelves and dust that blew around in snowy drifts. But here we have the Dollar TREE! Where movie tie-ins go to die! Currently you may purchase a Hulk paint-by-number, or some Hulk shampoo. Hulk-poo! Your choice! U-S-A! U!S!A!!!!!! lol!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11

When I lived downtown, unmarried and too cool (read: too poor) to eat at the Outback, I used to unironically shop at the dollar store in the University District, because it was the closest thing to an affordable nearby department store. I used to buy accouterments for my sexy bachelorette lifestyle, like candles and incense and corduroy velvet underwear and smoking donkeys and pot scrubbers.

Last night Miss Frannie and I skipped into the Dollar Tree gleefully. One thing I love about little kids is that if they are in a good mood, you can get them excited about anything. If she was awake right now, I could turn to her and say, “Root canal! YAY! Root canal!” If I started chanting it and jumping up and down, she would, too. They are kind of like dogs in that way.

I bought a bag of Smarties at the Dollar Tree and Frannie got a fancy ponytail holder for her first solo day of school (today). And a little “princess dress-up top.” I really liked that they included the word “princess” on the tag…those fuckers really know their market.

I was at The Fred the other day, and I saw a bunch of Big Girl bikes. Frannie did too, and ran right to the pink one with all the foo-foo shit hanging off the handlebars. I think there were sparkles involved as well. I had a black dirt bike and black hi-tops, and a general disgust for all things girlie, and now lookit me. The heterosexuals got to me too, but I says it’s a damn sight better than those Mormons, or however that saying goes.

First Day of School:

Today Franny gets her trial run of one hour, in which I have coffee and curse the fact that I bought into a school that believes in sensitively acclimating your little twit to the learning environment. Take her, all ready! At this school, they want you to drop your kid off curb-side, and they walk them in. The assistant looks very nice and all, but is is weird that I am paying this school so that a strange man with a rocker goatee will open my car door and take my little Frannie out of her cat seat, and take her away. I think I have been trying to prevent this from happening for three years, and that I could get it done downtown for free.

But it will be good, in the end, and I will go have coffee for the hour at my favorite new coffee place in Phinney, Herkimer. I am so stealing their colors for my future kitchen remodel. They have dark green, and light green, and honey wood, and yellow accents. This room will fall between my sexy glossy red/velvet-painting-adorned living room and Frannie’s fuchsia room with silver stars, so I figure there should be something soothing in-between, colorwise.

So if you are at Herkimer this morning between 9 and 10, look for a jittery mummy with pink hair and too many roots, and she will say, “I’m not SJ. SJ’s face never fuckity breaks out like this, dammit.” Yarr.

In Other News

I always like to think I am all gangster for going through natural childbirth at home, blah, blah, blah, superior-cakes, when I go and read this: Daymented�s Lasik surgery. I am not this punk rock. Just read the story, and I guarantee your eyes will water, too. I LOVE stories that provoke physical reactions, don’t you?