Monthly Archives: October 2012

I’m Sexy Damn It!

I miss trying to be sexy; those hours of putting on loads of makeup and uncomfortably tight clothes just to try to look as hot as I wish I was. There’s no point in trying anymore. It would just be wasted on my body for the next six weeks because I am just so damn cute right now. Absolutely adorable. With my large round pregnant belly on my short frame, I am just a precious little kangaroo roaming the planet. And if I have to hear another person tell me just how cute I am, I am going to slap them right in the face. Don’t get me wrong, getting the “Oh You’re So Adorable” face is a million times better than the dreaded “OMG You’re Deformed” look I get from a stranger or two daily, but still, neither of them are what I want to be seen as. After all, I’m a woman and Latina—I can’t be cute, I have to be sexy.

It baffles me how a woman can be Latina and pregnant at the same time. You’d think God would know better. Sure everyone thinks the genes from my part of the world are built for maximum baby production, but socially we are the least programmed for it. From a young age we learn that we must develop into bare all clothing to look good at all times. Even if you’re a hipster that works ugly clothes that only a pretty girl can wear, if you’re Latina, you’ll be the one hipster who can’t help but show off her hot legs and butt. That’s because for us there is no excuse to not be sexy in some way at all times. And don’t think having babies or being old is considered a ticket out; unless you’re laying in that inevitable sexless coffin down the road, if you’re Latina, you must always find a way to make sure some form of hot damn is emanating from you. I’m not a stereotypical Latina and even I feel the pressure to work it. That’s because somewhere deep down we believe that if you are not showing off some skin or skin-tight clothing at some point in the day, then you have failed as a woman.

But what can I do? I can’t even wear the right shoes now! Sexy shoes are high, high heels, hands down. Guess what heels do to pregnant women? Give them swollen feet and ankles. Not sexy. But what other option is there? Wear comfortable sensible shoes? I am conditioned to make men want to salivate not to want hot cocoa before taking me home to meet his mom and dad. And Latina lesbians, you’re not off the hook either. You know if you’re on the femme side, then you still have to use straight men’s taste as your bench mark. This sexy ideal best suited for a fit slim body will not quit!

Oh but enjoy your pregnant body. It’s so sweet to see you with your little round belly!  Truebut it doesn’t make me fuckable. And face it, that’s what we’re talking about here. Thank God my pregnant shape hasn’t stopped my husband’s desire to jump me, but out in the world you can’t help but value yourself just a bit by how desirable you are to the masses. And right now—only one company will hire me. This kind of insecurity is what you’d expect to find in a college student not a married woman in her 30’s. But guess what? I’m a human being—I will always want to know I am attractive to people in some way or other. Wait, no…take that back. I want to know that I am seen as sexy to people, not in a cute sexy kangaroo way, but in a plain old down and dirty sexy way.

So is there anything a Latina can do to survive pregnancy? Well lucky for us there is one styling solution the majority of us can work, and that is to play the ethnic card. Elegance and femininity after all are better expressed in the fashions of other cultures than in the States. Pregnancy and American sporty do not fly, but pregnancy and old world elegance can tip the scales in your favor. It’s the earth mother look that best suits soft round shapes. Those bohemian layered flowy clothes say, “I got pregnant because I am such a strong virile woman that a man and I fucked the hell out of each other and I am proud to display the results of all of that hot sex… that I am still getting…that I know you want…because you want me to have your baby too…because I still look that damn hot in spite of the most adorable cutesy wootsy widdle round belly a precious little kangaroo could ever have!”

I can’t wait to have my body back.

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Gift Registry Hell And Babymoon Existentialism

View on our babymoon – Point Lobos State Reserve in Big Sur, CA

This week my husband and I are on our babymoon. Some people say babymoons are the last hurrah before your baby arrives outside your belly, but since it’s impossible to hurrah with a child inside your stomach who doesn’t like to drink, I see it more as a vacation from putting together a baby registry.

If you’ve never done one or started one, a baby registry is the one gate of hell every woman must pass through to earn her child. No one warned me, so let me warn you: if you are pregnant, no matter at what stage in the game, start your registry NOW! You would think it would be easy to pick out cute things, but no, it’s not easy because it’s not just about the cute stuff—you have to think about how many diapers and for what stage, what kind of diapering you’ll want to do (disposables or cloth), what size bottles and how many, do you want to risk an all-in-one convertible car seat or change them three times. I held off for as long as I could to dive into this mess so I could try and enjoy the different stages of my pregnancy before making our new way of life a reality we were still not required to live. Thing is, once you start picking out things, you learn it’s impossible.

It took me two months to figure out and compile mine. I spent hours every day trying to make sense of this world I had never thought about before. What kind of person am I and what kind of parent will I be? Will I want to travel the world with my baby? Do I want my child to be babied or strictly raised with little extras provided? What kind of career do I need to set myself into motion for and how will that affect what I need for the baby? I spoke to four different women, perused over three different registries, read recommendations written by five different mothers, devoured the Oprah hailed book BABY BARGAINS, and, if you’re like me and have poor girl neurosis that makes you think everyone else is just as hard up on cash as you are, spent twice as much time as other mothers-to-be making sure I had a range of reasonably priced items so, as if I have the power to do so, don’t let the world throw itself into greater debt.

And then just as I finished, it was time for our vacation and what turned out to be the drug-like experience of a babymoon.

To get high without getting high takes a lot of noodle dancing or somehow throwing yourself off-kilter by exposing yourself to a dizzying number of unknowns. Not that this was planned—the best trips rarely are—but we ended up throwing ourselves into this otherworldly spiral by spending our first morning of vacation in LA by getting our things together for the trip in an unusually relaxed state, followed by a drive down to Joshua Tree where we stayed somewhere we had never been to to attend a wedding outdoors somewhere in the desert with a jaw-dropping star-filled sky, a moving heartfelt ceremony, beautiful friends and more dancing than my back could handle. Eight hours later and no time to get acquainted with our surroundings, we drove north eight hours up to Monterey and went from dry brown landscapes with stickly shrubs to green-filled roadways atop mountains covered in healthy redwoods and cypress trees. That sequence of events in only 24 hours could not have been more disorienting.

After the long drive we passed out for a bit in our hotel room and when I awoke, I had no idea where we were or who I was. I tried focusing and reminding myself of our travel plans but could not resolve the feeling of being misplaced to save my life. Without anything to ground me, nothing seemed real. It was as if I was in the middle of a real-life version of THE MATRIX and at any second I could wake up with my brain attached to some world-imagining machine. My only recourse was to ride what was a feeling of weightlessness and near non-existence.

Hoping some movement and change of scenery would help, I accompanied my husband to a nearby British Pub and kept staring at him like some psychopath in desperate need of clinging onto some semblance of sanity. And then I remembered… I’m pregnant. To think about being pregnant with no relation to who you are or where you are is, as hippies like to say, a trip. I was sure the cognizance of my pregnancy would bring me back to earth, but it didn’t. I was surprised to find that something so settled in my body could still be a part of my feeling so out of my body. Pregnancy it turns out is not the grounding experience so many people make it out to be; it too can float right along with you wherever you go. All of those decisions on who you are and what you hope to be with your new family are made from habits accumulated over time. It’s those habits that get you stuck and make you feel a false sense of being grounded, not babies, because babies are not a habit they’re just babies.

As a result, I was able to experience pregnancy in relation to me and my husband solely for what it was—time for a human to develop inside of me and time for us to grow with it. It was kind of cool to realize that no matter what our circumstances and way of life, there will always be one constant—the three of us exist. No matter the rocker, the carrier, no matter if I go back to school, if I’m rich or poor, we have this baby and the meaning behind it? Nothing. It just is. It is just growing. A little Zen I guess and not all that snuggly fun, but there was something so freeing about it all. We’re in this together and being a part of it means just being with it and each other. Suddenly the registry, who we are and all my worries about our future went out the window and our babymoon, as a time for one last relaxing hurrah, was free to start in earnest.

P.S. – Start your registry NOW!

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Drunk LA Girl Reviews This Year’s Debates

For the past few weeks I have been writing in character as Drunk LA Girl–the political correspondent for Scallywag Magazine. The article listed below is reprinted from today’s scallywagmagazine.com online post. Right away you will see that she is not pregnant.

PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE #2 AND I DON’T WANT TO SNUGGLE-by Drunk LA Girl

So I’m on vacation with this guy I’ve been going out with from work for a few weeks. He wanted to impress me so he got us a place in Carmel ‘cause he kept saying how beautiful Big Sur is and that I’d really like it. Ugh.

Does this look like a place you’d want to watch a debate?

Anyway, in Clint Eastwoodland where breakfast does not come with senior discounts or credit card machines to pay for it, I heard a bunch of retired old rich people talking about their money and the debates. What the fuck? Old people have money?

Knowing my luck with these stupid debates I called around to see if any bars were going to be playing this one. Good news! Nobody gives a shit about our elections because they care more about sports! So I invited Mathew for a drink that night at a British Pub that only plays soccer but Mathew said he wanted to order in a bottle of champagne and snuggle. I should have known better the second he said, “Snuggle,” but I just kept hoping he was being ironic.

Anyway, we get back to the hotel room, he brings out a really nice bottle of something French and bubbly and puts on the TV. For a second I thought we were gonna watch Breaking Amish, which is great ‘cause I missed the last two episodes, but then he changed the channel and put, I am not fucking kidding you, the debates. He must have noticed how not happy I was ‘cause he asked me if I was into politics. I’m like, “Duh! You’re hot! Why the hell would I ever tell you the truth?!”

So I lied and said, “Yeah,” but that I have to get wasted first. So I laid there in a big fluffy bed with this big handsome dumbass, who it turns out was not being ironic about snuggling and watched the debates… AGAIN!

Mama said knock you out

Sure enough it wasn’t even the smiley old guy from the last debate, it was the same two guys from the first boring debate! This time though they weren’t at teacher podiums, instead some lazy set decorator with no budget just gave them two chairs to sit on. But I guess somebody told them they couldn’t sit on the chairs for too long though ‘cause the two guys couldn’t stay in them for anything.

It’s like, if you have a chair, use it! One thing’s for sure, even though they’d get up all the time, neither of them wanted to lose their seats ‘cause they’d talk and go right back to them after making some statement or promise to some random person with nothing better to do than to ask questions.

It was dumb too, ‘cause you could tell nobody believed either of the guys when they answered. But why should they? Their answers were just as pointless as the questions. Almost everything asked had nothing to do with the presidency. How is the president gonna help with the economy? How is the president gonna help with women getting better pay? How is the president gonna help me find a job without a boss I hate? It’s not a dictatorship, stupid undecideds! The president has to work with other people in Congress and business owners who suck.

Correction: Undecided voters really chosen from extras casting rejects from Walking Dead except for the hot chick with the mic

And who chose these undecideds? Commercials cast good-looking people to represent everyday Americans, why do debates cast ugly people? ‘Cause frumpy people who don’t wear fun colors or interesting outfits are more believable? Fine then– everyone I know is a liar!

I don’t know anyone as drab and tired looking as the group they picked up from an IHOP after a Boring Stiffs Who Do Something Nobody Cares About convention. If this is what politicians think of Americans then I don’t want to vote for anybody.

And the moderator? Seriously, she needed to see how the lady last week did it. I hate passive aggressive people. This Candy lady just nervously giggled her way through every interruption.

And don’t think telling guys, “I need you to stop,” and then letting them keep talking is gonna work. You’re bigger than them and you’re the moderator! The woman from last week’s debate wouldn’t have let them keep talking while walking in circles. She would have said, “Bitch Romney… Bitch Obama… shut up!” And Candy, those overworked ringlets did not help your case. But I do like your hair color.

Seasoned political reporter Candy Crowley obviously chosen from the Likes to Drink with Secret Service binder

Oh and then Romney has a five point plan ’cause it’s easy for people like me to remember since I always have five fingers on each hand no matter how drunk I get. Thing is I don’t remember what those five points were. What I do know is that Romney likes to cut taxes a lot. You know why? ‘Cause he’s Republican.

That’s how they solve everything. They love talking about taxes and the Reagan years—like they were so good. Does nobody remember the late 80’s?! I was a kid, cartoons sucked and I still remember they were the shitty years that led to the really shitty years of the early 90’s.

And then Romney tried accusing Obama of not being a supporter of gas and coal, like those two things are soooo great or have anything to do with each other. But then Obama would say, “Nuh-uh. That’s not true.” And Romney would say, “Uh-huh, it is.” And then Obama told everyone that it’s Romney who never liked coal. And I’m like, who gives a shit about coal?!

Isn’t there a reason we have to suffer through Earth Day every year with my roommate running around turning off ALL our lights?! Then they just talked shit about each other and let everyone know that China must be a great place to invest in since both of them do. I wanna be part of the one percent that invests in China. Too bad I like eating at McCormick & Schmick’s after work so I can’t starve myself enough to marry a prince or get past my stupid team lead to take over a VP post.

Oh wait, but I’m a woman, so the two debaters had to let me know that if I vote for one of them I’ll make tons of money like the hot loser guy I was stuck snuggling with. Gross.

Honey Boo Boo endorses Obama and free birth control. “Ain’t all free stuff good?”

Obama kept saying that if women get free birth control or child care they’d make more money but that’s dumb, ‘cause I already use cheap birth control and don’t have kids and I’m still not making enough to live on my own.

And then Romney said something about finding qualified men but no women to work on his team so he had to make up qualifications so his staff could find a way to get some women in a binder.

Well then, stick me in a binder, pretend I’m qualified the same way guys pretend their friends are qualified and get me a real job!

Anyway, my favorite part was when the two guys almost got into a fight. They got close enough to punch or kiss each other but nobody was drunk enough to make the first move. BORING. It probably didn’t help that Obama’s taller and younger than Romney so Romney was smart and went back to his stupid chair. I really hated those chairs.

Worst part of the debate though was afterwards when some woman on ABC whined about Romney not getting as much time as Obama and that she thought it was obvious that nervous-face Candy was letting Obama take over.

REALLY?! I hate when women totally make up something totally fake just ‘cause they can’t handle the fact that they didn’t get what they want. You know what? Sometimes people fail ‘cause they fail. When everyone said Obama failed last time did you, whiney woman on ABC, say, oh man, Obama wasn’t treated the same as Romney.

This is what I call “Snuggling”

No—because you don’t give a shit. You and every other whiner out there are like my friend Christina who whenever a guy broke up with her, would blame it on the guy not being ready to commit even though the guys would tell her it was because she was super self-centered and didn’t know how to have fun.

It’s women like Christina and every other whiney Republican who can’t face the fact that Romney didn’t beat Obama this time around that should have been in that lame crowd of questioners at the debate.

By the time the debate ended, I finished the bottle of champagne and pulled out my own box of wine from my suitcase. It shocked Mathew to see it but you know what? I can only lie about myself for so long.

And you know what else Mathew?

I hate snuggling. It’s over!

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I Don’t Want To Be A Mini Van

Getting emotional is definitely a side effect of pregnancy. Then again it’s a side effect of being a woman. At least now with a baby in me, my hormonal imbalances make sense. Before when I was PMSing my desire to cry would pop up at unreasonable places like the grocery store in the cereal aisle while looking up at a box of Rice Krispies. But now I get emotional for real problems like a cafe running out of soy the one day I want a soy chai, or I’m running late to a meeting and no gas pumps at the gas station seem to be working when I need gas, or I read up that Saudia Arabia removes women from advertising because it turns out they’re not a country they’re a large hardcore woman-hating gay club. This is why when I get emotional these days, I know I can’t brush it off as merely a chemical imbalance. So the other morning when hanging out with my husband making breakfast and truly appreciating how lucky I am to have the man and the life I have, hormonal induced emotion hit me…I won’t be having this much longer. The reason: soon we’ll be in charge of another person rather than doing whatever we feel like doing together. “Oh sh**,” I thought, “I’ve so enjoyed enjoying my husband for almost twelve years now…I think I’ve sabotaged a good thing!” The water works were instant and non-stop. Only a year ago I couldn’t think of life without trying to have a baby. I never came up with a conclusive reason as to why I needed one, all I knew was that it was something I wanted and was ready to have at this point in my life. Now two and a half months before the due date it hits me…WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?! Why did I do this to myself and my husband?! My marriage suddenly turned into a person with little time to live, and I became the mourner experiencing anticipatory grief while sobbing into my husband’s arms before sobbing into our Texas shaped homemade waffles.

So what is it about this upcoming change in my life that I’m so afraid of? The part where I turn into parent. Not a mother, there is a difference. Mothers and fathers I think can be incredibly sexy and alive, but parents, well… it’s like becoming a walking mini van. Everything becomes sensible and focused on the child. Even the way parents dress says, “I need clothes that are comfortable to deal with my kid not to turn-on my partner.” No wonder mini vans don’t hook up with other mini vans; mini vans have a kid to bus around, chores to take care of, they’re a mini van for crying out loud–they don’t have time for anything but what’s practical and efficient.

It’s clear that with new responsibilities and work it can be hard to keep the flame that made you want a baby with your partner alive, but why is that the case? Is there a good reason why we let children smother that spark? I still don’t know because I haven’t shot out my kid yet and taken to wearing capris, but I wonder if it isn’t just an American stereotype of “Family” we let ourselves fall into without question. Changing who you are to fit the norm of a parent doesn’t make you any better suited to be one, and just because you become more focused on your kid than yourself doesn’t make you a better parent it just leads you to a greater chance of unhappiness and divorce. No wonder Americans have so few babies, we make it look life-sucking, unsexy and HORRIBLE! I don’t want that. I love the life I’ve got and want the baby to reap the joy from what my husband and I have, not kill it. So please America, let’s come up with a cooler way to raise kids and change the standards of what it means and looks like to have them so I can finish my breakfast without crying before November.

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