Monthly Archives: December 2012

Gone Fishing


I just had a baby. As traumatic and awesome as it was and is, the last thing I can do is think beyond ME WANT PIZZA, ME WANT WATER. So I will spare you any uninspired posts and instead invite you to look through the archives of the Platform for the next couple of weeks while I recoup and stare at my baby.

Happy holidays and see you in the New Year! Well, if we survive the end of the world, that is.

Dear Diary


Dear Pregnancy Diary,

I’m one day away from being two weeks past my due date and getting induced! I know I should be upset yelling out, “Are you F’ING KIDDING ME?!” but I’m not Dear Diary, because after waiting this long, I no longer believe I’m pregnant. Isn’t it wonderful? I can’t remember anything I learned in my birthing class, I am no longer excited about what’s about to come because I don’t know what I’m waiting for anymore, and I don’t even believe I’m a woman. You would think that enduring 10 ½ months of the most female-specific experience would convince me otherwise, but no one in this episode of Twilight Zone can fool me anymore. My name’s Harry, and I’m just your friendly neighborhood trucker with a bloated belly.


How could I have gotten it so wrong Diary? Spending half of my year’s blog writing about pregnancy when I really shouldn’t have been writing at all. You know how many projects I left untouched in the garage as a result? I’m actually a little embarrassed. What kind of a man am I to forget who he is? I should never have complained about swollen ankles, fearing giving birth, or even trying to balance getting my career moving and having a family. Boring! Wow, I must have sounded like a real woman.

Ouch, my back. Hold on… No I’m not having a contraction. Backaches are what real men go through from all the hard work they do during the day. I just can’t wait to get this blog back on track. No more being scared of anything and getting all personal. I mean obviously I’ll need a few weeks to regroup–you don’t think you’re a woman for as long as I did and not need a few beers to recover. Oh wait Diary… sorry my stomach is tightening. Must have been the extra spicy sauce on those chicken wings I picked up at Big Wangs. Anyway, I’ll finish what I can for the rest of the year, but believe you me, by January this blog is going back to making comments about politics and the way we live here in the United States of America. Obviously I won’t be able to talk about women ’cause I wouldn’t know about that. But I will talk and not listen ‘cause that’s what a man does. Yep. Real manly like. Holy hell, Dear Diary! I think I’m gonna have a baby!

Fear Of Expulsion

childvictimI should be excited right? That’s how mom’s are supposed to feel as the time nears for fetal expulsion. We’re supposed to seem unstoppable walking for hours off-balance in hopes of getting that baby out. We eat spicy foods, drink castor oil, make a restaurant in Studio City, CA very rich by perpetuating the myth of its birth inducing salad. But in the frenzied impatience, does anyone stop to think what we’re impatient for?

For weeks I’ve been on standby expecting my child to blow out from whence it came, but it does not cometh. We’re now post-due-date and the time is maddening; everything’s been taken care of so I have little to do and can’t venture too far because I know I could go into labor at any second and give some poor stranger the awful task of mopping up my mess. So instead I’ve been lying around, brushing up on phone skills with family and friends, watching entire seasons of America’s Next Top Model and reading through Facebook every five minutes. As you would guess these passing time activities have led to boredom, boredom leading to frustration, frustration leading to impatience, impatience leading to killing time by taking long looks at my naked pregnant body’s proportions in a mirror which at last led me to realize: Holy Sh**! HOW THE F*$% IS THIS BASKETBALL SUPPOSED TO GET OUT OF MY COOCH?!

So while everyone is cheering this baby on, I’m feeling stuck and scared–real scared and with no one in my corner. My husband is talking to my belly: coaxing it, threatening it, bribing it. Friends, families, neighbors, the maintenance man at our apartment complex, everyone is cheering for me and my baby like we’re on a rooftop and they want to see us jump.

At this late in the game, I know I should be much tougher and cooler about it. It’s not like I’m a 13-year-old boy being told to imagine having a baby; I’m a mature educated woman who took a 12 week birthing class called Bradley Method. I’ve watched the creepy videos with grainy footage of exhausted mothers pushing babies out oozing in purple sauce, vaginas stretching (funny they never show the after shot…hmmm) and embarrassing private moments of mothers moaning in pain. I know what’s coming up, and you know what? To hell with the beautiful power of maternity and the excitement I’ll feel after the baby comes. For now, me and 13-year-old boys agree–this is some crazy shit and OMG it’s gonna suck.

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