Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Serious Protection

This is so wrong it actually doubles back on itself to make it so right.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Product Placement

For the man who has everything...
And for the special lady in his life...

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Must-See TV

Finally, pharma advertising that smacks of reality. All credit goes to alittlepregnant for writing about this, and providing the link. There are 5 videos altogether -- they are worth a viewing.



Monday, March 22, 2010

Over the River and Out of the Woods

So, at 12 weeks we are fine and dandy. The NT scan went well, and my doctor is getting more aggressive about staying on top of my nausea. He wants me to come in more than once a month until it's better. I love this practice. The doctors I've rotated with so far are like wise, kind grandfathers. Minus the Werther's. Perfect.

Behold!
The kid has hands, knees, and a big ol' noggin and is measuring a couple of days ahead. This is the next to last ultrasound I will have, so I'd better get used to "no news is good news." It's good for me.

My mother-in-law, oblivious as she sometimes inadvertently is, wants me to make a bunch of phone calls to family to tell them (this, after I asked her if she could call some people since I have so many to call or email overall). Blech. I would be fine with NOT sharing this far and wide for a while longer, but I'm popping out of my pants, anyway (making it harder to hide), so I may as well get it over with. Don't I sound enthused? I just don't want people bugging me about it all the time, giving me assvice, or asking questions I don't feel like answering (I've already had to explain to a few people why we don't want to find out the gender before birth -- because we don't fucking want to, that's why!). I guess I want more time to cope with all the changes and the reality of it before other people get involved. Control freak much?

On a deliberately unrelated note, I need to get my blogging ass in gear and try to post something marginally interesting one of these days. Promises, promises. I have some ideas that may or may not be funny, but they crack my shit up, so hey.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Lord, I Was Born a Ramblin' (Wo)man

Stream-of-conscious bullets is all I've got, people:
  • I ate a cream cheese brownie and prune juice for breakfast this morning. Gross but oddly satisfying.
  • I have a baby shower to attend this weekend. I will probably tell the small group of friends that I am pregnant (if I can figure out how to do so without stealing the guest of honor's baby-thunder). I am nervous about it but I think it's time to start acting like a pregnant person. A normal one.
  • I broke down and bought a be-band so I can be less obvious about wearing unbuttoned jeans in public. I would rather that strangers know I am pregnant than think I am Al Bundy.
  • Still sick. All the time. We went out (of the house!) to dinner and to see Alice in Wonderland in IMAX 3D last night and I was losing my shit (and nearly my cookies) by the end of the night. Hard to just exist right now. I have medium hopes that this will resolve in the coming weeks. Uncomfortable.
  • A fb "friend" from high school (hint: we're not really friends) posts everything about her life, including her intimate medical details: like her second IVF cycle. It pisses me off because it's all done as pandering for attention (like her posts about her awesome house, her attractive husband, her 3 perfect kids [although she bitches about them a lot as well], her overdeveloped sense of self-admiration....). She runs a small business and has "friended" many of her clients, so I fail to see how posting info about her vagina is acceptable. She posts EVERY day now about her IVF meds. And she's on a long downreg cycle (how do I know this? fb!) so this will go on for a while. We all know the date of her embryo transfer. We all know what her TSH and antral follicle counts were. What slays me, though, is her strange naivety about her second IVF cycle: she posts crap like "I'll be pregnant in [X number of] days now!" and "Having my last drink for the next 10 months!" and that does not ring true to me. I have never encountered that kind of blind optimism after a failed cycle. Just weird. Then again, I'm a cynical bitch who won't hide or "defriend" this person because I like to make fun of her. [Whew. That was my useless mental dump for the day. Blame it on the prune juice.]
  • One week from today, KB gets the see the bebe, looking like an actual human and doing the chicken dance, for the first time. I think he's gonna love it. I know I will.
  • Despite the title of this post, I do not plan to birth my child on a Greyhound bus. Eww. Unsanitary.
  • Peace. Word to your mother.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Hunky Dory

My first official OB appointment was long but awesome. Baby B is measuring 10w1d and is about the size of a kumquat (and at the risk of revealing my redneck past, whatthefuck is a kumquat?):
You're getting a full moon in this photo. There was a lot of wiggling and gyrating going on during the ultrasound; I'm pretty sure I saw some solid popping and locking. Maybe a little running man.

My new clinic is ridiculously nice; it's a spa. I mean, they actually have a spa on-site. Holy shitballs, Batman. I will have to keep this in mind for future visits. "Oh, I was running a little behind, doctor...I got tied up with getting my nails done. Sorry to keep you waiting." And the waiting room reminded me how the good the people-watching in my posh community can be. My husband and I live in a lovely suburb, but we are not Hummer-driving lawyers like many of our neighbors. We just got a good deal on a house. My fellow patients were a riot. I started giving them names once I got bored with iPhone games and let the people-watching commence -- Maureen Dowd, Twiggy, a couple of Kardashians, and the Real Housewives of Oakland County. One yuppie couple came in and jabbered loudly to some other couple about their 3rd baby, ultrasounds, the new nursery, blah, blah, blah. I just stared (kind of openly) at one of the husbands in this 4-way conversation: he had on a suit and tie, no jacket, covered by a northface vest. Douchenozzle. I refuse to buy northface (even though it might be practical in Michigan winters) only because it's like a d-bag uniform around here. You know, color-coordinated to match the Escalade or the Beemer. Ugh.

I had a great talk with the doctor and asked a zillion questions about the practice. They have a C-section rate half that of the national average. They do not perform episiotomies unless absolutely necessary. They do not shave your ladybits or give enemas during labor (and ohmygawd, I did not know about enemas during labor...glad we cleared that up because, just, no -- I am not letting anyone poke anything in my bunghole while I am trying to shove a baby out of my virginy). They offer small classes on childbirth, breastfeeding, infant CPR, and infant care. Their goal is a natural delivery, with analgesia if you ask for it. I am totally down. (I should add, too, that this doctor did the fastest pelvic exam and pap smear in recorded history -- the speculum was in, he said Big Blue is closed and >3 cm, and then out. Wham, bam; thank YOU, sir.)

My next appointment is at 12 weeks, for combined screening. It's really just an excuse to get another ultrasound.

Another milestone today, a little less worry.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Reading is Fundamental

I made it out of the house yesterday! A shut-in no more. I went a whole six blocks away (by car, because it's ass-cold and I am not walking) to the grocery store to stock up on soup, ginger cookies, and ginger ale. And a few impulse buys. Because I NEED strawberry gummy candies and mustard potato salad. Yum.

I should have read the label on the fancy ginger ale bottles a little more closely. It is no ordinary ginger ale, people -- it is ginger beer. Jamaican-style ginger beer. And above all else, it is gross. It tastes like medicine. Like a cocktail of Listerine and Robitussin. Nasty. I got about three sips of this Rasta Weed Juice down before I threw in the towel. Honestly, nausea is better than this stuff. [sigh]

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Paint It Black

I got an offer (pre-qualified! limited time!) for a Visa black card.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Ha.

Okay, that's out of my system. They have clearly mistaken the flow of money out of our household for wealth rather than the medical desperation it has been. Fools. Anyway, I am wholly uninterested in paying an annual fee of $495 for the privilege of making myself more broke. Although, the rules and regulations have a footnote that informs me, only 1% of the US population is offered a black card. Oooh. It entitles me to 24-hour concierge service! An exclusive(!) rewards program! VIP(!) airport lounge access! Luxury gifts! And it's made with carbon! Wow. So is most everything that resides on Earth. Like pencils, bacon fat, bong water, and a fair percentage of dog turds. Well, you know what they say: I bet once you go black, you don't go back. Or something. But haven't these banktards heard about the credit, mortgage, foreclosure, unemployment, and healthcare crises? Where have they been? Partying with Goldman Sachs? I'm still paying off the five-figure IVF clinic and pharmacy balance on my Mastercard, so I'll pass.

In other not-so-equally amusing news, I learned today that my group at work is mandated to overtime (45 hours of billable work per week, with any nonbillable internal meetings or training piled on top of that) from now until whenever. Apparently several business units that I suspect are comprised primarily of lazy assholes are falling far short of their productivity goals for the first quarter; now the rest of us more responsible and industrious employees in the successful business units get to pick up the slack. This just kicks ass seven ways to awesome. My usual 40 hours per week already feels like eternal damnation right now -- this can only make it rock harder. Supposedly, if we make up the slack by second quarter we will return to business as usual. If not, I will locate the homes of the lazy a-hole squad and knock some skulls. Detroit what?