giovedì, aprile 05, 2012

No eating on an empty stomach, or with a bunch of assholes

I think I've cracked the riddle of why I'm not puking anymore, despite continuing to feel a little nauseous from time to time, and it does have to do with jet lag; since I'm not even close to getting an uninterrupted night's sleep and always have a little snack when I have to get up and around, my stomach doesn't get to that empty point where it starts puking. I'm avoiding, for the moment, that disgusting merry-go-round of empty tummy, puke, no appetite, more puke, try to eat, it's disgusting, empty tummy, et cetera. We'll see if this lasts but I'm pretty chuffed. Never thought it would feel so good to sleep so bad.

What I am a little concerned about, though, is getting as big as a fucking whale because I'm eating constantly. I already look like I'm showing, probably from a combination of water retention and having spent the last couple of weeks eating everything I could hold down and then falling asleep in exhaustion after something as easy as climbing three flights of stairs.

I'm not too concerned, though. My energy levels seem pretty decent now. And I'd rather be overweight than underweight while there's a bun in the oven, that's for damn sure. But I am a little concerned. Oh well. I'm just making sure that anything that goes down the hatch is wholesome, and I'll keep getting an hour of exercise a day, even if it's not all running anymore. The run yesterday was lovely. I think I'll keep going out for a half hour a couple of times a week until I'm too big. I take it really easy and my joints weren't playing up at all - they seem to get iffier when I'm moving around the house in a sudden-type of fashion.

Another thing on my mind is family, of course. How couldn't it be? Today it's the F-word's family. There's a whole big swathe he's become estranged from in the last year. I'm not getting into it, of course, but suffice it to say I don't blame him for the estrangement, and I'm a little surprised by how I wish it to extend to our children - I don't want my kids to have anything to do with this set of people.

That's not the way I ever expected to feel about members of my kid's extended family - I'm Italian enough to feel fairly strongly that family is identity to a very large degree - but there you are. They're the sort of people that I want my children to understand are not the sort of people you sit down and eat dinner with. I'm not talking drug dealers or slave traders or government assassins or merchant bankers or commodities traders. The world is more complicated than that, some of my favorite people are for-realsies fascists, and I'd sit down for dinner with a pig (although these non-vegetarian days, the pig'd probably be on the dish), because pigs can have quite decent dispositions. But these people . . . well . . .

Anyways, I guess the F-word'll be the one to decide if the estrangement continues or not, but in any case of course it throws my own family into relief. They're great. Not strange or estrange or anything. And they're so fucking far away . . . oh well. We'll get round to doing something about that before long.

mercoledì, aprile 04, 2012

The reassurance of pukery

Well. I've now been in Australia for something like 32 hours and haven't puked, or really seriously wanted to, once. Some nausea, especially last night, which I suppose my body has decided is the morning now, but nothing serious. And you know what I think of that? I'm fucking petrified. After everybody telling me it's just gonna get worse for the next month or so, I'm afraid this means there's a problem.

But I'm already tired of thinking everything's a problem. (Also even as I type I'm starting to feel pukey.) There is just so much "information" available about what to panic about, and what not to panic about, that I'm just gonna say fuck it; I'll panic when I feel like panicking, attempt to keep feeling like panicking to a minimum, and just enjoy my massive new porno boobs. Anyways, I've signed on with a local midwife, and Luke Duke's midwife-wife is accessible anytime with a phone call, so it's not as though I don't have experts to refer to when I lose faith in my own gut instincts and the creepily ubiquitous What to Expect When You're Expecting.

One thing I feel a bit funny about is running, not because of the fetus, but because of me. I'm hyperextensible, which has caused more fun than pain in my life, but was behind the tearing of my ACL a few years back, and I suspect is behind some common-ish loose-ligament symptoms I'm feeling now, like sneezing hurting my tummy and odd spots of back pain.

Last night I had grand plans to head to the pool, even though I kind of hate swimming in pools, and then didn't when jet lag hit me like a tonne of bricks around six pm. I guess I'll try a little run on a playing field this morning and see how that goes, but maybe I'll be better off focusing on kayaking and trying to develop a taste for swimming this next little while. Pools are fucking disgusting, though. It's like taking a chemical bath with hundreds of strangers. Eeurgh. At least when you're in a lake or river there are actual creatures in there that keep things regulated, which reassures me even though sometimes, as in Lake Nipissing, the creatures cause mild skin diseases.

martedì, aprile 03, 2012

Feeding the fetus, part 1

Well, vegetarianism, you and I will probably meet again. Godspeed and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.

Pregnancy continues carnivorously. Now that I'm back on my home turf and now that my rhythms of what's morning and what's not seem to have been utterly thrown off by massive jet lag, giving me a break from the really severe nausea I was feeling in Canada (I'll let you know if this continues as a cure; Diclectin is so fucking expensive that a trip to Australia could work out to be good value), I'm trying to control what I eat a little better. No more Cheez Wiz. But lots of organic meat, baked potatoes, and pasta carbonara, which, let's face it, is probably no better for me, but at least I know what's in it.

And now that I'm back in the tropics I'm eating more fruit, since it's tastier. The lemonades in our backyard are just about ready - still pretty sour, but always less sour than they start out as tasting, which is a really charming thing about lemonades. Bananas that always taste like bananas. Passion fruit. I'm not enjoying it all as much as sausages, but it's all going down a lot easier than the veggies, that's for damn sure. It's the cruciform ones whose bare idea makes me want to hurl up food I ate thirty years ago, but aside from cucumbers and red peppers, the whole institution is unappealing at the moment.

And joy of joys, the eight bottles of Mado's hot sauce I brought home survived the three plane trips unbroken. Last time I only brought two, and they lasted six weeks or so - the F-word and
I have a habit of spreading it on sandwiches so we run through it fast. Hopefully the eight'll last until someone indulgent visits us from Toronto. Get it at the House of Spice in Kensington, Indulgent Ones.

lunedì, aprile 02, 2012

Crotches and their repurcussions

You know something about Labyrinth? It's justly famous for all that David Bowie cock. There are lots of sweet things about that movie, but David Bowie's cock is definitely in the top five. Frankly I don't give a fuck whether his crotch was stuffed or not. The thing is it's impossible to watch five minutes of most children's/young adult films without seeing vast riches of hyper-sexualized feminine erogeny, if you count boobies, which I most certainly do. And if you count boobs the odds of single one out of dozens of pairs being real in any meaningful way are laughable.

But I can't think of another such movie besides Labyrinth that showcases men's genitals in quite such an exciting way - as something so very obviously attached to some magic goblin dude who can control time, walk upside-down, and do all sorts of other crazy fucked-up shit, but who can still be managed with the application of a little logic, imagination and fearlessness. I either credit or blame - generally credit - that movie, at least in part, for the nature of my relationships with cocks today.

Alright, after a bit of cock talk I think in good faith I can now continue to write about being pregnant. I'm in the middle of the trip back up to L_____, which pisses me off on every level except that of being happy to be returning to the arms of the F-word. I started Canadian Sunday Night, and will arrive back in L____ Australian Tuesday Afternoon. And once again, couldn't be doing it faster. It's been shit - the five hours to Vancouver followed by the 15 hours to Sydney followed by this hanging about in an airport full of Australians. I won't do that again if I can help it - definitely will break the journey in Vancouver with Elvis and Co. But I'd already resolved that, of course, and couldn't help it this time, given that the trip was executed impromptu and in haste. And who knows how many more such emergencies will come?

 Every time I leave Canada I feel a little dumber for doing so, and now I feel super-dumb for doing so, given that I was leaving an environment full of friends and family full of concern and love sparked off by my present delicate state, returning to an environment where - well, where we have some really good friends. But this distance is starting to seem bigger and bigger. The idea of doing what I've just done with a baby makes me want to vomit. I mean, more so than already. Which is less than I had before, happily.

Eating at the moment:

-unlimited helpings of pasta carbonara
-ABSOLUTELY NO cruciform vegetables besides crispy picked cabbage
-most deep-fried things
-FUCKIN' NO cruciform vegetables. GROSS GROSS GROSS.
-Rice Krispies
-Montreal-style bagels. Except now I'm back in fuckin' Australia, with its fucking lack of Montreal  Jews and the attendant Montreal-style bagels.

Ah, fuck this fuckin' place.