What am I going to do?

December ^7th, 2004 25 weeks, 2 days

December 7^th is Pearl Harbor Day, “a day that will live in infamy” and also the day I found out the greedy ambulance-chasing law firm I thought was going to sue my former employers for firing my pregnant self was not, in fact, quite as greedy as I thought. They called to say they wouldn’t be taking the case! Actually, they left a message on my machine to that effect, which I thought was a pretty weasel-y thing to do.

So now I’ve been fired by both my bosses and my law firm. I called back to find out why they spurned me, expecting to learn that my case was too small-potatoes for them to trifle with, and they added insult to injury by telling me they’d determined I had no case. That I deserved to be fired, according to my former bosses, and that it had nothing to do with my condition.

“Well, OF COURSE they’d say that,” I patiently explained to the lawyer-drone I got on the phone, “that’s why you guys are supposed to tear their argument apart, do some lawyering, show them who they’re up against. They’d never get away with that kind of garbage on The Practice! Show some mettle; you guys are going to be advertising on subways next to Dr. Zizmor the ill-named dermatologist forever if you don’t learn to step up….”

And that’s when I found myself giving a pep-talk to a dial tone. The jerk hung up on me!

So I don’t know what to do. I’ll be OK for a while, but I have to get another job. I mean in addition to calling up my old corporate headquarters every fifteen minutes to call them spineless, backstabbing, baby-hating, devil spawn. And signing them up for subscriptions to The Watchtower and office visits from the Scientologists. And ordering them a dozen Bowflex machines to work off inevitable the weight-gain caused by being recent members of the fruit, organic goat cheese and smoked-meat of the month clubs.

These endeavors have been soul-satisfying, to be sure, but they don’t pay the Visa bill. And since it now seems unlikely that a seven-figure settlement check will be direct-deposited into my dwindling bank account in the near future, I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do for work. That Olympic judge idea doesn’t seem to be panning out, and I don’t see any runway work on the horizon, given my current figure.

(OH!! I forgot to report on this little news flash: in addition to the whole ‘it’s Pearl Harbor Day and my greedy lawyers aren’t greedy enough’ debacle, today marks another low point for me: I am at a horrific state of equilibrium in which my 6 months swollen belly sticks out exactly as far as my giant pregobreasts. I’m glad I finally look pregnant and not just “damn, Marnie’s really packed on a ton”, but with breasts this frighteningly huge, I never thought I’d reach the point I’m at now.)

((And this isn’t any false-modest, I’m Gwyneth Paltrow and I look dewy and wonderful with my new pregnancy breasts in this month’s In Style magazine; these are enormous “old Russian lady with knee-high stockings rolled down to her ankles, pushing a shopping cart down the avenue” cantaloupe-sized, low-riders I’m sporting here.))

So I have to admit, my job prospects seem somewhat grim.

Got to think, got to think…

I wonder how one gets work as a voice for animated cartoon characters, because I bet I could do that. I mean I know they hire celebrities to do the big Disney movies, but what about the millions of cartoons on cable TV? Or maybe voice-overs for commercials? I could do that pregnant, so long as they taped them and I could take bathroom breaks. Does anyone out there have any connections in the voice-over or cartoon voice businesses?

Please let me know.

Or what would be even better is if I could invent some baby product or come up with some service or idea to sell. Like the baby-wipe warmer I saw the other day, or the rubber ducky that changed colors if the bathwater was hot enough to poach an infant. Just some hunk of plastic that would cost a nickel to manufacture and could make me millions AND make the world a safer and/or happier place for babies.

Like dog-walkers. Who had ever heard of dog-walkers ten years ago, and now they’re all over the place in Manhattan. Maybe I could spearhead a trend like that, and hire a legion of college students to do baby-walking, or baby-changing or something. Doulas are big right now, and I’d never even heard of them until a few months ago.

(They are like combination maternity coaches, midwives and cleaning women, from what I can tell. They advise you on breastfeeding, keep kids from contracting jaundice and will even move your car on alternate-side-of-the-week days.)

((But please, this is an uninformed opinion. If you or someone you love is a doula and I’ve grossly misrepresented the work you do, please take pity and let this one slide. I’m under a lot of stress, here.))

But this may be the answer – come up with a thing or an idea instead of getting an actual job.

Got to think, got to think…

Hey, whatever happened to wet-nurses? You used to hear about them all the time in Jane Austin novels and the like, but what about bringing them back? Maybe I could hire a corp of supermodels that belong to Mensa and charge covetous Manhattan moms a fortune for the chance to have little Madison nurse at their gravity-defying, formerly in Italian Vogue superbreasts…

Forgive me for my hasty exit, but I’ve got a business plan to start.

You know who you are

December 5^th, 2004 25 weeks, 0 days

I am crushingly, epically tired, but if I mention it to ‘friends’ or family, all I get is a lecture along the lines of “you think you’re tired now…” Well thanks for reminding me that things will get worse in the sleep-deprivation department; I really appreciate your bringing this up. Do you, by any chance, also have any “48 hours of labor” horror stories to impart or helpful anecdotes about your secretary’s sister’s brush with death courtesy of pre-ecclampsia? No? Well then maybe you’d like to show me your cesarian scar or describe your battle with a hemorrhoid the size of a turnip….

Because I have to say, you’re really not helping. Not with the “Worried? It’s after they’re born that you really start to worry…” and most especially not with the “You like the name Jade? Don’t you know that’s a stripper name?”

Now think a moment: I just said it was a name we were considering for our innocent, peachy, unborn baby, and you go and make an association to women who work on the pole. Do you think I think it’s a stripper name? Yet I’m supposed to find that comment constructive? It wouldn’t be so bad if I’d asked for your opinion, but to voluntarily cause me to associate strippers and my unborn daughter is really beyond the pale.

And you do know, when you volunteer criticism of the names we’re considering, that I run through my mental rolodex, call up the names of your progeny and pass a little judgment of my own, right? Along the lines of “She named her daughter Madison and I’m supposed to take her opinion to heart? Works fine for a college town, Manhattan thoroughfare or Square Garden, but for a second-grader? Maybe not so much.”

I read that last part over just now, and I have to say, I think I’m feeling a wee bit touchy, so I apologize. I get cranky when I’m tired. And despite the fact that I’m in the second trimester, the supposed “dream time” when I’m supposed to be filled with energy, euphoria and purpose, I still feel the same numbing fatigue I did during the first 14 weeks. I still feel nauseous some days and I still have to pee with metronomic regularity.

But there is a huge upside, and that is that I am finally starting to believe that this may actually happen. (Yeah, I did just knock on my wooden desk, but at least I’m able to say I feel less nervous.) I have had no medical reasons to think things wouldn’t work out, but given the fact that it was supposed to be more likely that I’d be knighted than pregnant, I know where the worry comes from.

And the fact that I’m 25 weeks into this and getting huge and looking at cribs and a contemplating the purchase of a frightening assortment of day-glow plastic and petal-hued terry-cloth items seems to indicate that at least part of me thinks this is actually going to happen. Wow. I mean I know sexually precocious 14 year olds and crack moms across the land give birth on a daily basis, but the fact that this might actually happen to me fills me with awe and gratitude.

So sure I complain about the fatigue and the nausea and the fact that I did a round of ‘female grooming’ by feel the other day because I couldn’t see past my stomach, but the big truth is I couldn’t be happier about this all. I just don’t want to sound too happy and cause something bad to happen by way of cosmic retribution.

I guess I’m just trying to lay a little low.

Stage 2: Trying not to go postal

December 2nd, 2004; 24 weeks, 4 days

All right, so I'm off the couch. I've moved past shock and am now firmly in my 'anger' phase. (A big shout out to Kubler-Ross) So now I’ve hired a lawyer who came highly recommended by the subway ad I read while returning from my prenatal yoga class, and the plan is to slap those morons with the biggest wrongful termination suit since Omorosa got kicked off The Apprentice.

And I’ve been taking deep, cleansing breaths between bouts of cursing and trying to figure out what I’m going to do for money as I enter this new chapter in my life……after all, this is an opportunity, not a setback!

Note to self: pick up a Learning Annex catalogue.

Question to research: how does one become an Olympic judge? Because this is something I could really see myself doing. I’d have a lot of time off, travel to exotic locales and meet male gymnasts. Surely some of them are straight….I would have to hide these peccadilloes from my Dear Husband, but aren’t indiscretions that take place on the other side of the international dateline considered free passes?

I rather enjoyed watching the trampoline-based events in this last Olympics and remembered wondering at the time how one became accredited to judge a ‘sport’ that didn’t actually exist. The judges all sat there, taking notes according to what one supposes were the ‘rules’ of the apparatus, but since the trampoline, unlike, say, the marathon, cannot trace its roots back to an ancient Greek practice, who can really say what they were doing. And if the field of applicants for trampolining judges is full, maybe I could get in on the forefront of some new exhibition sport…maybe freeze tag or nucumb. Or maybe Monkey-in-the-Middle, which I was always very good at, could be renamed the Synchronized 12-yard Dash or something.

There did seem to be a good many events added to that Olympics by virtue of their being made into synchronized competitions. Ask Trevor to petition the Olympic Committee to include Synchronized Beach Volleyball in their next foray…I could sell commemorative t-shirts and make a fortune. And if you’ll permit me a further mommy-brain digression, did anybody find watching beach volleyball rather like watching a David Hasselhoff-less version of Baywatch? Who designed those uniforms? You can’t tell me sand didn’t get under there with all the lunging and diving into sand those girls did. Trust me; a pregnant woman knows what she’s talking about when it comes to chafing.



December 5, 2004, 24 weeks 5 days

After a temporary, though short-lived, period of exultation following my untimely dismissal from my full-time job, reality struck me swiftly and hard. (Olympic judging? What was I, insane? Oh wait: stage 3 is denial, right? Maybe I'm just getting better.) While it was fun to ponder the various career options open to me, I am forced to face the painful fact that I am unemployed, 6 months pregnant and dangerously hormonal. These facts, coupled with the unfortunate truth that I have to take potty breaks roughly every 14 minutes, renders me something other than the ideal new-hire

So I’d like to make a radical suggestion. One of you should hire me. I’m smart, as you know from reading my column, I’m strong, as evidenced by the way I dispatched that belly-rubber in the Pathmark, and I’m able to learn from my mistakes. I can now freely admit that I may have over-reacted in both my violent treatment of the afore-mentioned belly-rubber and in my somewhat excessive maternity leave request to my previous employers.

Just give me the chance to show you what I can do.