Being "Bad"

When I was a kid my parents were very strict about the kinds of music I listened to and the movies I watched. Only G-rated and pre-screened PG movies were permitted. We mainly listened to oldies with some Natalie Cole mixed in and one time when a George Michael video came on TV my parents changed the channel and gave us a lecture about what a BAD MAN he was.

Not being allowed to watch and listen to the forbidden media naturally just made me more curious to find out why such things were in fact forbidden. And I did.

Such is the purpose of cool aunts.

My mom's youngest sister, Jackie, is ten years younger than her and only 15 years older than me. She got married when I was six (a story for another day) and she and her husband Greg were much cooler and more worldly than any other family members. I loved spending the night with them, mainly because they would let me watch and listen to things that weren't allowed at home. And to a ten-year old kid there is nothing better than spending your Friday night watching PG-13 movies without your parents knowing.

Kindergarten Cop and Turner and Hooch are the movies I remember best. Jackie and Greg would also play their illicit music. Like Michael Jackson's "Bad" album. I have vivid memories of trying to moonwalk around their small house while singing "I'm bad, I'm bad." And I FELT "BAD"! Maybe it was "DANGEROUS". My parents would have strongly disapproved if they knew what I was doing and that being bad was just so good.

These memories were the first that flooded my mind at nine o'clock last night when Ann Curry's voice informed us of Michael Jackson's death. I feel like a part of my childhood has died. The part where even doing such harmless things as dancing to the King of Pop at my aunt's house felt so cool.

Now that I'm an adult listening to Michael Jackson (and really, pretty much anything else) doesn't feel risky. I'm allowed. But while freedom is nice, there was something so enchanting about that rush of being "Bad".

Things I Learned this Weekend

1). Do not get in line at the grocery behind a couple wearing matching "Proud Daschound Owner" t-shirts. Unless of course, you like standing in line.

2). Fan dancing = wearing lingerie and making eyes at random men.
Our local lindy hop group hosted a weekend with some very talented instructors. The woman demonstrated a fan dance during one of the band breaks at the evening dance. After she was finished the following conversation took place.
Kara: Jason, you have some drool on your chin.
Jason: oh, that must be...because I was cheering so much.
Uh-huh.

3). After a month without lindy hop, a weekend of doing it exclusively leads to serious pain.

4). I am not pregnant. Thankfully mercy was bestowed upon me and my cramps and nausea were fairly mild. On to month two.

And lead me not into temptation...

...but deliver me from pee sticks.

Today is nine days past ovulation and even though I know there is a minuscule chance of a pregnancy being detected by now, I still tested and proceeded to squint at the test for ten minutes until the evaporation line appeared. I woke up this morning determined not to test but somewhere between my bed and the toilet my resolve disappeared. I guess that's why I buy cheap tests.

Despite the fact that it's so early, I feel very pessimistic about this cycle. There's something in me that wonders, "how could I ever get pregnant?" Part of it is due to some doctors from my past who diagnosed me with some things that meant I would never hit puberty, let alone be a mom. They said I'd be under five feet, flat-chested, and a little dumb. At the time they made this diagnosis I was a straight-A student, but that didn't faze them. They told my mom, in front of me, that when I got a little older my intellectual limitations would manifest themselves.

Obviously they were wrong. I hit puberty, grew over five feet, acquired boobs, and continued making sweet grades. I've got tampons, normal-sized clothing, bras, and some impressive diplomas to prove it. But their statements to me have made a big impact on how I view myself as a woman. While all of the above things partially helped relieve me from their diagnosis, I think bearing a child will be my final vindication.

New template

As promised, I've changed my background. Citrus is considered summery, but where I live it tastes the best in the winter.

I still like it though.

It Starts

Throughout this first real two week wait I've been trying to decide what kind of things in my life I will change when I am pregnant. Of course I'll stay away from the obvious things: alcohol, cat litter (I consider this a major SCORE), raw fish, cocaine...

(Just kidding)

(Not kidding that I'll stay away from cocaine, kidding that I'd do it at all)

Anyway. There are other things in pregnancy where the jury is still out: they may be bad, they may only be bad in excess, or they could be just fine. Take caffeine. While I don't usually drink a ton of caffeine, I'm addicted to what I do drink. Victor weaned us both down to drinking half-caf in the morning and then I have some chai tea in the afternoon. Most of the literature says that it's okay to have less than 200-300 mg each day, so reasonably I know I should be fine.

But...

What if something did happen? If something happened to my baby and I had done anything at all that could be considered somewhat risky I know I would blame myself. And I'm not sure I can handle that kind of guilt.

Obviously every day will be a risk. Driving with a seat belt, breathing in inescapable fumes, for me even walking down the stairs could present a risk. I can't avoid those things.

I'm beginning to think that pregnancy will only be the start of the worry. SIDS, choking, falling, contagious diseases, car crashes... I can just imagine how these things will make me crazy when I have a real live kid.

Loretta, meet motherhood. Oh dear.

Klassy with a K

Neglecting to send a thank-you note OR an invitation to your wedding to the person who throws you a shower.

The First Two Week Wait

So here we go friends. Settle in for two weeks (okay face it, I'm going to test at 10 days past ovulation) of being hyper aware of everything in my body. Even though Fertility Friend hasn't given me crosshairs yet, I'm fairly certain that I ovulated on Sunday. So I should know for sure if this cycle was successful by Father's Day weekend and I can't think of any better way to celebrate than to shove a urine-soaked pee stick in Victor's face.

Of course, if I'm not pregnant I'll celebrate by having debilitating cramps and then drinking heavily.

Sounds fun, no?

Victor is leaving for a work trip to Italy today, so I'll be a single gal until Sunday. I hate when we leaves, but I try to make the best of it by indulging in my single gal behaviors like eating mushrooms, dancing to loud Madonna music, and busting out the old guitar and singing.

I suck at the guitar. SUCK.

In other news, my prospects for being a sane older woman are looking dim. At the beach I played (and kicked ass at) Upwords with my parents one night. While my mama was thinking of her next play she says "that's okay honey". Huh? I asked who she meant. "Oh, I was just talking to myself."

My mama calls herself honey, Internet.

She verified it as my dad shook his head grimly.

Here's hoping I inherited my mental health from my dad.

Maybe I Did Marry a Woman?

On Sunday Victor suggested we go for a walk on the beach. He's ready.

We decided to ease into the "trying" process. I've heard plenty of stories of guys feeling the pressure when it comes to trying to conceive and it affecting their...

Well, you know.

I can see it now.

Victor comes home from work. I'm naked from the waist down. "Oh hubby," I call in a frantic voice. "My cervix is super-high and the stuff in there is really stretchy! Wanna see?!"

"Errr...no?" Victor offers.

"Oh, come on, don't you want to see what your boys will be swimming in soon?"

(Victor runs out the door. I chase him screaming "but I need your SPERM NOOOOWWWW!!")

Ahem.

So for now I'm just going to make sure the baby dancing (a phrase I will never use again because it is stupid) occurs at the right time. If we don't see the correct amount of pink lines in a few months we'll think about changing some things to increase our odds.

Like Victor's underwear.

Not that he doesn't change his underwear, I just mean the style.

Wow, I just told the Internet that my husband wears tighty whities. I'm sure he'll be in the mood now.

Let the insanity begin. And pass the pineapple.