It's All About Me

This is, for sure, a lame excuse for a post, but an honest question:

Am I alone in thinking I am the single brown-eyed girl in the universe when Van Morrison sings?

Also, among the things I wish I could blame on the pregnancy but, alas, cannot:

• That occasional chin hair.
• Furiously baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies because I was craving one, and then proceeding to eat almost half of said batch in one sitting.
• Varicose veins.
• Crying over Hallmark commercials.
• Forgetting to feed the cat (as she wonders, How will she ever take care of a child?).

(I'll be back when my G(eriatric)4 can hold a charge for longer than 5 minutes. I'm procrastinating making an appointment with an Apple Genius, not because they're slightly pompous asses and I find it difficult not to mock their job title to their faces, but because I'm a lazy piece of crap.)

Figlio o Figlia?

(Sorry, Carrie, I robbed your style of Italian titles.)

The newness of the iPhone is slowly wearing off, so I'm becoming reacquainted with my ancient G4 in order to blog about the most eagerly-anticipated event of my life thus far. On March 10th, around 9:30 in the morning, we will find out if the human I'm growing has a pair or doesn't (of course, more importantly, we will hopefully also find out that (s)he is perfectly healthy). I am having the most difficult time coping with the suspense, and really can't imagine waiting the whole 9 months. Sure, my kid will probably be curled up in a ball, taking a long snooze, modestly concealing its gender so that I will have no choice but to wait. That would happen to me. Truth is, I have no actual preference, and I kind of suspect it's a boy, though there is one thing that makes me nervous about this. It isn't the peeing in the air; I'm well-equipped to deal with this, as I've learned how to turn a clean diaper into an effective face-shield instantaneously. It isn't the rough-housing, since I have two brothers myself and sometimes feel like the third. It isn't boy humor, stinky feet, or the notoriously longer process of potty training a son. It's that I have NO IDEA what to name him. I am at war with boys' names, and it's really becoming a source of stress for me. I've already picked out a name for a girl (no, I won't reveal it). It's the perfect balance between a name with historical significance, feminine strength, syllabic balance, pleasing consonants, and familiarity while maintaining a status of "rarely used." I love this name, and this is not because I'd prefer a daughter. It just came to me, and it stuck. But there's about a 50% chance that I can't use it (at least not this time around). I have two baby name books and approximately 4 or 5 websites bookmarked for the purpose. I peruse donor lists on concert programs, flip through the books on our shelves, and eavesdrop on mothers talking to their children in my neighborhood, though this, unfortunately for the child, usually means I've overheard a little boy being called "MontGOMERY!!!!!!!" by a shrill woman in a cardigan. Some of the boys' names that I really do like -- Noah, for instance -- seem a bit too common among the tots these days. I guess I'm not the only one who thinks they're swell. A couple of them have been poo-pooed by Steve: I am a big fan of both Rory and Ezra; if you don't like these, please don't tell me, because I've already cried about it and buried them in the name grave, for use on future pets only. The other name is my youngest brother's, and I'm not about to flatter him in that way. (Sorry, Uncle Josh.) One might think, after reading this, that I'm taking it all a bit too seriously, and fretting prematurely. But have you noticed that my name is Jennifer? The number one name given to baby girls in the United States during most of the '70s and all of the '80s? And in case you weren't sure, my middle name is Lynn. So not only was I usually 1 of at least 5 Jennifers in my classes growing up, but chances were huge that I was also about 1 of 3 Jennifer Lynns. This is how I inevitably became "Jennifer B." and, later, "JenBoorum" (one word). In my baby name books, when I flip to my own name for kicks, I am personally -- along with all the other Jens -- addressed: "Hi, Jen! Looking up your name? Yep, Jennifer is the most common name for today's expectant mothers." And under Jenny, a nickname I adore but grant few the license to use: "Jenny...sounds like pure 1970s....Back then Jenny was a nickname for Jane, but the recent Jennifer glut has numbed us to that possibility." (Emphasis mine.) So needless to say, though I kind of like my name and understand it was given to me out of a genuine fondness for it, I'm pretty sensitive to naming my child something wildly popular and eventually cliché. I take this process of naming a human being for LIFE to heart.

Steve, my otherwise doting and involved husband, isn't really into the naming thing yet. Ever the logical and calm one, he seems to think we should just wait until we know the baby's sex, instead of stressing over a name we may or may not even need. I guess this is a fair perspective, but the way I see it, less than 5 months' time is not enough! We are naming a person for LIFE, as I've said before. And it has to be something we can all live with. Well, honey, March 10th is fast approaching, so you'd better get out your pencils and put on your game face. Mama means business.

In the meantime, I'm asking you all for suggestions. If we choose your idea, you get to babysit for free!

myPhone!

You guys! You guys! Steve and I got iPhones today! We are now part of the 21st century, and our house is officially Apple'd out. I am so excited about this little gadget, more so than I ever thought I would be. I'm not a gadget person, and I'm no material girl, but I'm pretty obsessed with this new little grown-up toy. Only catch was that, in order to be on a Family Plan with Steve, I had to change my phone number to a local one. I'm a sentimental fool, and so I cried when I heard the sad, sad news. Not enough to let the tears stream down -- I've gained control over this over the years -- but enough to blur my vision for a few somber moments. So this is as much a celebration as it is a mourning period. Goodbye, 631/838.7340. You were my first and only cell phone number. We've been together since I turned 18 and went away to college; I can still remember the ring tone on my first phone -- a ghetto fabulous Nokia -- and can dial you with my eyes closed. I hope you'll go to someone who'll take good care of you. To said person: there is a woman who calls from the Caribbean who is lovely and will bless you several times per phone call, but she can't seem to understand that she's calling the wrong number. You will hear from her monthly, which is a small price to pay for the possession of such a sing-songy phone number with such a stellar record of past-ownership, if I do say so myself. Tell her I said farewell. Also, I will probably call you once to see what you're like. Don't hate.

But seriously, I love this thing.

Green With Envy?

Since we subscribe to The Smithsonian, The New Yorker, Cooking Light, and Consumer Reports, Steve, in an effort to assert his manliness (when he's not playing the flute), also gets weekly issues of Sports Illustrated. (OK, I read it sometimes, but usually to argue with that guy who writes a column in the back, or laugh at the foolish answers in the Pop Culture Grid. Good thing we pay these people millions.) The magazine is actually very intelligently-written and even interesting. And anyone who gets SI knows what comes around in February (this year, alongside the issue with a drug-abusing A-Rod on the cover): dun dun dunnnn... The SWIMSUIT EDITION!!! Thanks, Sports Illustrated, for timing its arrival to line up precisely with the week my baby bump shows up. (It's here! It's here! In a matter of days, it popped.) So, fine, convictions aside, even I can appreciate the exquisite body paint and beautiful scenery. The ads throughout the issue are absolutely terrible, though, including sell-out Danica Patrick, practically naked, splayed across an automobile, and an Arby's ad likening two burgers to a pair of breasts. I really hate sexist advertising (there were some gems among the Superbowl commercials, as usual), but I tried to put it aside as I thumbed through the issue, admiring the bikinis I definitely won't be wearing this summer. The inside of the back cover stopped me in my tolerant tracks, though. And I can't resist asking this: HAVE YOU, TOO, NOTICED THE RECENT SEXUALIZATION OF THE GREEN M&M?! You know, M&Ms, that little candy-coated chocolatey treat, the marketers of which have decided to humanize them in recent years. Great, adorable, makes me want to eat 'em. In even more recent years, they introduced the green M&M and figured they'd better make her a woman, as to avoid under-representation and such. But then they decided to harass her. Here is where I rant.

Just take a look at this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfiAAB6NIl0

Not only does this ad glorify cat-calling and belittle a supposedly "unattractive" woman in the meantime, but it involves men hootin' and hollerin' AT AN M&M.

And check this one out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUHpbb4GTZI

Reminds me of the commercials involving cleaning supplies like mops and sponges speaking seductively to women (don't believe me? pay attention next time you're home sick watching daytime TV), who are -- NO DOUBT! -- turned on by cleaning all day long, or any car ad featuring a female driver, or every other commercial objectifying women. I could go on, but I won't, because this is about a print ad. The Swimsuit Edition's back cover featured the following images, front to back:
Here she is, Ms. Green, though I can't tell if she's being a tease (every guy loves a tease) or has actually been caught naked and is mortified. Look at her eyes. I personally think she's being stalked. But, again, it's OK to make women uncomfortable . Their bodies are meant for your ogling. This one here is literally eye candy.Here she looks like she's been slipped a little something and is now enjoying the camera's eye. She's also sweating. Have I mentioned she's an M&M?

I don't know. Maybe I'm over-reacting, but I'm simply not one of those women who feels she needs to be a "good sport" and not only avoid complaining about such things, but actually pretend to like it. You won't find that here. So at this post's best, it will make you stand up against this kind of crap, too. At its worst, it reveals I'm jealous of an M&M. You decide.

And now for another rhetorical question:

What is so good about Frank that one can say "Let's be frank," and what the heck did Josh do that whenever you're screwing around with someone, you're just "Joshin'" him?  

Honestly, though...

I'd like to take a moment to say that, despite my jokes about remembering your birth control pill and being nice to your mother, I am so overwhelmed by the beautiful experience of carrying this baby.  It's the most awesome thing, and it isn't lost on me.  I am amazed by the female body and its capabilities.  It is at once the most ordinary occurrence and a miracle of great magnitude.  I will probably make a lot more facetious remarks here than anything else as the months continue, but know that privately I am humbled, honored, and grateful.  It is so much better than you can ever prepare for, and I just can't wait to meet my child.

Sorry, Elsie.

When it comes to being inside a candy store, I am always like a kid. I love candy. That's why it was no different during my trip to Rite Aid this evening, as they are preparing for VALENTINE'S DAY (ahh, harks back to the days when I used to do 90% of my food shopping at the Rite Aid in North Philly -- if they'd have accepted Diamond Dollars* it would've been the full 100). Anyway, Steve and I went in together to pick up my refill of prenatal vitamins, and I was drawn to the aisle of red, pink, and chocolate. But I decided I wasn't in a chocolate mood when I saw that, for a mere 88 cents, a 4 oz bag of (artificially) Vanilla (flavored) Marshmallow Hearts could be had. Bingo! I'd like to blame this on the pregnancy, but I'd have gone for these any day. Now, you may or may not know this, but not all marshmallows are created equal. They are not all vegetarian. This is because most are made with gelatin, which Wikipedia defines as "a translucent, colorless, brittle, nearly tasteless solid substance, derived from the collagen inside animals' skin and mostly bones." Ew. And so I've avoided marshmallows for the last year or so. But tonight I thought, maybe these are the exception. I subconsciously decided not to check. 88 cents later, Steve and I were in the car, and within seconds of buckling up I had opened the bag. (I do this whenever we leave the supermarket, too; my favorite item stays out of the trunk and rides in the front seat with me.) The fragrance that escaped was, as Steve put it, simply, "unnatural." He judges my snacks sometimes, so I, determined to enjoy my purchase, popped two of 'em. My exaggerated attempts at enjoyment were met with his disgust, until suddenly the word "gelatin" came up. I'm not even sure who said it first, but knew I must read the ingredients. And there it was: gelatin. But that's not the worst part. Beside it were parentheses, enclosed in which was the word "BEEF." BEEF?!?! Why, Frankford brand Marshmallow Hearts, must you be so... specific? Ordinarily I might have shed a tear, but this was really funny in the moment, and as Steve cried "Poetic Justice!" I had a good, hearty laugh. And put away the marshmallows for good. I guess I got about 2 cents' worth of the 88, but 2 is usually all you need anyway.

*Diamond Dollars is Temple-ese for your parents' money toward a meal plan and anything else you could get your grubby owl hands on freshman year.



<--- Who wouldn't buy these?!










Pass the beef. --->