Debbie Does Drivel

Always feeling on the verge of pukedom really saps a girl's energy. I suppose I could write vivid descriptions of intestinal detritus to evoke some imagery, but who really wants to know about the explosive yellow custardy barf bits I blew out yesterday? I'm sure I've made my point.

Anyway: Today, I saw the baby on ultrasound! He/She burped, bounced and bobbled away in my unterine sack! It was so cute. My uterus kept contracting and constricting he/she's head in disturbing live-action kung-fu-like sequences and I watched helplessly as my baby tried to make a run from my placenta on many occasions, only to be held fast in miles of soft tissue.

The ultrasound tech kept me on the table for two hours (no joke) as she tried to bounce the fetus into proper position for picture-taking. I was having a relatively new procedure called a nuchal translucency that measures the skin fold on the back of the fetus' neck. This is a pre-indicator of Down's Symdrome.

The tech had me in many interesting positions as we tried to bop my baby from its uterine head lock so she could measure the neck.

Finally, I had an epiphany: if this kid was anything like mom, chocolate was the only remedy. So I had a piece of milk chocolate, savored it's creamy goodness and sent it down to my burping baby.

Instantly (this is NOT a Debbie exaggeration: one of the few times I can truly claim that assertion) -- but the baby popped right out of its placental crevasse to suck down the chocolately bits! (This is a hypothesis).

At any rate: baby was in perfect position to be nuchally measured! AND, the neck fold was in proper limits, plus, the baby had all five fingers...and actually WAVED to me in a "thanks! mom! I think we're gonna get along just fine!" high-five gesture.

IT'S COOCOOBOO TO YOU

My dad used to call me coocooboo when I was a baby and still occasionally when he thinks I'm cute.

I haven't heard the pet name for a long time, but when I went home last weekend, dragging my puking, battered intestinal tract to my Dad's front doorstep, he took such pity on me and instantly assumed the paternal role, calling me "his coocooboo."

It felt really good.

Until I realized, "maybe in his head, he spells it "cuckoo-boo," like the crazy bird."

I KNOW YOU'VE BEEN WONDERING

So last weekend, Kev calls me on Friday around 6PM.
Barely able to speak he tells me he cannot be held responsible for what he does that night in Vegas, and that he has to handle the "overflow," and his scruples have left him. Then, he verbally lurches out an "I love you," in the fashion of "though I may fondle a strip-tease artist, I will feel awful about it tomorrow."

He hangs up.

I am understandably in a state of distress, as most insanely insecure women would be under the circumstances.

I ponder the meaning of the term "overflow."

I approach my dad and step-mom with "I'll have to raise this child alone" scenarios. (I had me in a really cool two-bedroom condo next to a park. I had me as a strong, graceful single mom who had many dates and whose dates absolutely loved my child, who wore glasses, was precocious and smart, and made many wisecracks. I worked in a sports agent's office and fall in love with an agent who decides to strike out on his own. The guy loved me, sure, but he loved my kid more and I was left wondering if I should marry him. But I do, then leave him because it's just not going to work. However, during my sister's "up-with-women" group, he walks back into my life and I see once and for all, that he had me at hello.)

Somehow, I make it through the night.

Kev calls me the next day with absolutely no recollection of the previous evening's phone call. He doesn't know what he meant by "overflow." He thinks it's a funny choice of words.

He assures me he is still wearing his pants right side out, and that he has no hickeys. And no overflow.

He laughs at my single mom scenario.

He says I probably couldn't afford a two-bedroom condo by the park.

I love my man.

DISTURBED

I'm so flabbergasted at the news that a good friend of mine (friend #1) confessed to another friend (friend #2) that she (friend #1) feels she "settled" with her husband and that she never loved him.

She said she just wanted a family.

I never once heard friend #1 express a desire to have a family. EVER. Sadly, I think she wanted a 3.5 carat ring and an upper-class lifestyle.

I guess it is true that people marry for money, not love.

So when I asked Kev if he married for love and he said yes, I ironically added, ..."and not money, right?"

His laughter is the backdrop to this post.

FLAB

Back fat is so unnattractive. Especially the way it pools under your bra strap, jingling jangling, pulsating, and blubbering beneath your lycra shirt; occasionally forming divets between mountains of lipid cells.

It really is ever so unappealing.