Last night I had my first stranger comment on my pregnancy. As I was paying for sandwiches (have I mentioned my love of Which Wich, yet? Oh, I will. It deserves its own post), the twenty something cashier asks, "How's the baby?"  I looked up at him with a mix of disbelief and joy. My coworkers who know -- no one in my department yet -- keep telling me I don't look pregnant. One thinks I'm punking everyone. When she saw my Facebook post she didn't believe me. "I thought, that's just some weird joke she's posting." What the hell kind of impression have I made that people assume that an ultrasound picture of a real life fetus growing inside of me can't be real? I wouldn't joke about that, Jesus.

The cashier's face grew red. "Oh, the baby? It's good," I finally said, fighting the urge to mess with him. What baby?

"The moment that came out of my mouth, I regretted it. I'm glad I wasn't wrong."

"No worries, there's a baby in here. I was just surprised because you're the first person to notice, or more like, the first person to mention it."

His female co-worker looked at him with incredulous amusement, "You're not supposed to say anything!"

So my uterus is finally jutting out. We think it's a boy. I've named him Nikolai, though Eugenio won't have any of that. We find out officially in a couple of weeks.

Your pee stinks and it's too yellow. You need to drink more water.

This is what marriage is like. I constantly analyze the piss he refuses to flush.

"Don't they serve bread here?" I ask with not a hint of patience. At a certain point, I'd rather embarrass myself by eating two loaves of stale bread than wait an extra 30 minutes for my meal.

"Yeah, they serve the chocolaty bread here."

That made my night. My 31 year old husband, chief fellow in oncology referring to rye bread as "the chocolaty bread." He does this from time to time, renaming ordinary items, making me so so happy. He also still asks me, "Now which ones are the white cheeses?" when selecting the fixings for his sandwich, even though I've answered that question no less than 30 times now. He doesn't like "the yellow cheese."

A patron recently called to ask me the author of a book she caught her niece reading. "They're into weird stuff, alternative universes and what not. Her mother lets her read that stuff too." It was a Deen Koontz novel; I let her know, assuming she'd be relieved. I mean, right? At least she's reading. She thanked me adding, "I research these authors. Most people don't, but I do. That Harry Potter author, she's a witch you know."

I answered by blinking my eyes.

She continued. "I read a 23 page report, it's true. A witch. No wonder these kids turn out so demented."

"OK, well is there anything else I can research for you?"

"Oh, I bet you're into that stuff too. Sorry if I offended you. Bye." Click. Ugh, muggles.

So it's all J.K. Rowling's fault.

I'm on my last 65 minutes of work before a 10 day break. Thank gawd.

This is going to be a very stream of consciousness post because I feel the need to spread my sadness and anger out into the world, too.

Probably like most people, I could not sleep last night. I couldn't stop thinking about those little kids, teachers, and their family members. Fucking five year olds. Who's heart isn't breaking? What the hell is wrong? I heard a father of students who attend the elementary school on NPR saying he was just having a conversation about a mass shooting with his kids not too long ago. I can't remember if they were speaking about what happened in Oregon at the mall, in Wisconsin at the Sikh Temple, or at the movie theatre in Aurora, since all of these are in too recent memory. His son asked him when it would happen next. He told his kids not to worry, that they were safe; nothing like that would ever happen to them. He pondered on air, "I have to think about what to tell them now."

 Nobody wants to live in fear but these "incidents" are seemingly less and less "isolated." These evil people are mocking us all as they receive their dying wish -- to go down in infamy, one upping the last crazy white man with legally purchased weapons. I see goodness in people, even with all of our flaws, so I have a hard time blaming our culture for such evil crimes, as if we personally cultivated the seeds of hate in these men. But I do believe in enabling. Then again, where there's a will, there's a way...

I have nephews who are four and five. They are the reasons I stay on Facebook -- thousands of miles away, I stalk my sisters' and niece's pages for pictures and stories. Sometimes I print their photos out and hang them on my wall. I know, it's a tad creepy. But kids are so funny and cute and innocent. They make everything more bearable. My sister told this gem the other day: My nephew announces he wants to give Santa a present. "That is such a sweet idea, Papa! Why do you want to do that?" my sister asks him.

 Staring thoughtfully ahead he responds,  "I don't want to be on the Naughty List."

A few weeks ago he played a soccer game where, as my sister tells it, he scored two goals! One of them for his own team. He was equally happy for both. "I did it!" he shouts with glee.

Someone abruptly taking away that warm innocence with such an unspeakable act of hatred as murder is unfathomable. We are all so sad and angry.

Me: When is your mom's birthday?

Eugenio: March...3rd?

Me: That's my birthday.

Eugenio: Oh, uhhh, I think her birthday is in March too?

I have a feeling he still uses Facebook to remember my birthday.

This has been another episode of putting my husband on blast. Love,love, love.

something they built by hand

This year I was so much better about gift shopping than last year. Everyone is not getting DVDs from the Best Buy sale bin. I started early -- like August! -- and slowly selected items when I had the money thus avoiding my last minute poverty meets The Grinch. I hate the holiday crowds, all the hysteria; it's all very embarrassing to watch. BUT! I still sincerely want to give good gifts to my friends and family. I did some of my final purchases last weekend on Etsy. I've decided to shop exclusively online for mostly books and handmade gifts next year, with the same start early and slow tactic.

Over dinner on Friday I tell Eugenio about my purchases and plans, explaining all about Etsy and the handmade jewelry I bought for my niece and friend. He looks intently in my eyes, shaking his head, agreeing that it's so much nicer to give real, thoughtful gifts, to support small, pathetic businesses. The next day while shopping for wrapping paper he asks, "What are we going to get for Britney?" referring to my niece. "Do you not listen to anything I say?" I ask laughing. He looks at me with a mix of indignation and guilt, his mouth open and shoulders shrugging in that stupid way.

"I TOLD you. I bought her gift on Etsy."

"Oh, yeah....What did you get her?" he asks, a tad trepidatious.

"I TOLD YOU. I got her a handmade necklace."  Truthfully, I don't know how handmade the necklaces were. I don't imagine the seller was actually molding those delicate charms herself with a blow torch in her closet. I probably could have "hand made" those too. Let's be real.

Last night over dinner as we discussed plans for shipping our gifts in lieu of traveling with them,  he asks again, "What was it you got for Britney?" Feeling the heat from my blood and cowering from the rage in my eyes, he shouts before I can say anything, "Something they built by hand!" smiling with pride at his correct answer.

Yes. Next year you'll all be getting something-they-built-by-hand.

I know you don't poop and I'm really jealous of that, but I needed a moment to talk about it. I wrote a long post about my workplace restroom situation, where we are purposefully dissuaded from shitting without shame. Seeking therapeutic introspection, I detailed my history of public restroom shyness, which delved into my familial bowel movement history, including a funny, karmic truck stop bathroom incident, and culminated with almost telling the most embarrassing thing that's ever, ever, ever happened to me and maybe anyone -- at least I hope that was it. Please allow that I've already crossed that threshold, or I don't know how I could possibly handle living through anything more embarrassing. It happened almost ten years ago and I still shout out, "You are so stupid! You are so stupid! Ugh! I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much! You should just die," whenever that memory parades itself through my mind, mockingly. If you ever catch me saying disparaging words out loud to seemingly no one, it's just my impulsive reaction to the ghosts of moments past making an appearance in my brain. If I happen to catch you catch me talking to myself, that too will wind up haunting me for years. It's a never ending cycle of self loathing. Keeps me humble.

Where was I? Oh, yes. My shitty blog post. It was a thrilling read. I'm sorry to disappoint, but it's one for my book. Look for it in 3013 or thereabouts when my descendants dig up my unedited manuscript -- archaeologist will be digging on the Internet then, I imagine. And I suppose my descendants will be archaeologists, because that's a convenient story. And by that time humanity will have erased the degrading need to poop, so my stories will serve as triumphant tales of 'how far we've come!'