Mumbling Madly

With pregnancy comes a very delicate sense of fragility. It pops up when I drive over a large pothole and ‘oof’ I feel it in my whole body. Living in the city, one typically has to carry themselves with an air of toughness–especially if you’re a lady. You need to be able to get to your car at night after a late show and know that by mere stride and height that no one is going to mess with you. But now, I feel transparent and fragile. I don’t walk the same, I’m constantly navigating around the belly, and the Tough Girl feels exhausted. This fragility appears when strangers stare at me, when I catch myself longingly looking at the handicap parking spots, or when my hair dresser says crassly, “Yeah, this must be a new experience for you, carrying weight in your stomach. You’re built like me, after all: you typically carry weight in your butt and your thighs.”

While protecting this fragility, I find myself lapsing into the defensive whenever I’m in public. Asking me for change on the street? Expect me to be a little more hostile; Lately, I want to say, “Seriously? You’re going to bother ME?” I actually gave someone ‘the hand’ the other day while walking down Broadway and surprisingly, it totally worked.

A few weeks ago I was at 7-eleven making a bank deposit into our credit union account when suddenly I realized I HAD to use the restroom. The clerk with the turban on his head looked at me apprehensively when I asked, “Can I use your restroom?” He wouldn’t look at me and muttered, “Uh, no…well, no it’s not clean and well–” I cut him off, “I used your bank machine, I’m pregnant, and you’re not going to let me use your bathroom?” “The floor is very wet,” he started to say, “You might slip on it and–” I turned swiftly and walked away with a “Fine, whatever.” Maybe he had a point; perhaps the store’s bathroom was so embarrassingly disgusting the idea of a pregnant woman squatting over the toilet filled him with dread. But come on, this was a 7-eleven complete with a gas station–folks expect to be able to use their bathrooms. Interestingly enough, the bathroom I ended up using after being rejected by 7-eleven was a nasty, public park toilet by the arboretum that was missing its seat. Did that matter? Hell, no…

I’d love to say that I am able to feel less fragile at home, but unless Josh is around, I tend to feel nervous. The neighborhood has been scattered with bad activity–most of it north of us–but plenty of it disconcerting. Josh has been taking random overnight trips for work. I honor these trips–with the understanding that they will dwindle and die after the baby shows up for a while. Today a solicitor banged on my door twice and both times I hid. Normally, I wouldn’t care but I felt really bothered by the fact that the same person took the time to stop by twice and that he dared interrupt my nap. I was unable to fall back into my restful state so I made meatballs instead–which disappointingly led to lower back pain and foot soreness. (Aww, I can’t make meatballs without feeling the uncomforts of pregnancy?)

Baby Schlag is slowly running out of room and I can feel him trying to flip around with the same ease he used to. Instead he sloooowly rolls over, a foot flails out, and then he is very quiet. Occasionally I can sense his fists punching and sometimes little fingers tickling. Sometimes I try and try to make him move but he is very resistant. Is he sleeping? Is he being stubborn? Is he preoccupied with something inside the womb? “You’re like your dad already,” I say, dismayed. “Impossible to wake up once you’ve passed out.”

Nervously, I pull my friends closer. I try to go out and socialize. I’m blabbing to anyone in my prenatal yoga classes that look my way. I’m collecting emails and birth stories, quizzing women who are further along, have had children, who’ve been there. Pregnancy is the ultimate rationalization for things like my recent addiction to Columbia City Bakery’s Sicilian Prune Bars, sleeping in the middle of the bed, and reading whole works of Fiction in one weekend. I cheated and found myself snarfing down a bunch of soft brie cheese recently. This is a no-no because it is unpasteurized, but who cares…it tasted delicious. I’ve been listening to classical music day in and day out. Originally it was to block out all the bass in my neighborhood, but I find that when I’m home alone I don’t like a quiet house (and it reminds me of my parent’s home). Recently, I stumbled across the hideous VH1 reality tv show, Daisy of Love, and started watching the reruns. It’s the lowest of the low, a reality show of truly horrible proportions filled with fake breasts, teary confessionals, and total idiots. However, it merely fuels my recent sense of overindulgence. My sister-in-law gave me a fancy Dove chocolate bar along with two cute little onsies. The second she left I found myself eating the entire thing in three bites. Guilty pleasures don’t seem so guilty any more…

Nothing is more incredible then hearing the baby’s heartbeat. It chimes in near my own, a steady and fast chug, chug, chug. Today I also learned that my uterus has reached just below my belly button (a far cry from the pubic bone) and that the baby now sits a few inches below the naval.

We continue to browse a gigantic baby name book for boy names. The funny and horrible names always shout at us first (Hershel, Folker, etc)…decent boy’s names are actually harder to find with hubbie’s last name. We have created a very short list containing several exotic names and two ‘old’ names from Josh’s side of the family. When I say ‘old,’ I mean that there isn’t a single person under fifty with these names…

We learned that “Michael” is probably THE most popular boy’s name in the country, spanning decades as the number one or two name on the list.

My dad jokingly suggested the name “Wolfgang” as a great partner to Josh’s last name. It’s pretty sensational and made the short list–if only to remind us of what we want: a name with an impact. While watching “Die Hard” we realized one of the bad guys was named “Wolfgang” (pronounced wolf-gong by the stereotypical villainous Europeans with the terrible hair). When rated on a baby name site, “Wolfgang” received low marks under “Friendly” and “Youthful.” Huh…

Before the conception I’ve been rambling on and on about was a bleak period of infertility. Within a year I had lost the cheery idea of conceiving on a whim, quickly, or before any deep thought about what I was actually doing. It is a dark, bizarre, and deeply painful period when one wonders if their supposedly God-given right to pro-create may be compromised. I spent many anguished nights writing in my journal questioning my purpose in life if I wasn’t able to conceive naturally. Sounds dramatic, I know, but infertility taps into a very primal and personal space inside a soul. Because, currently, I spent more time trying to conceive then actually pregnant and I still have a lot of insight about the topic of infertility. Insight and anecdotal input:

Written in January of 09:
Sitting in this rusty doctor’s office in a scrappy part of Renton. This is the clinic I go when I have to see someone the same day. It is a walk-in clinic with a kindly Indian doctor who is fast and efficient. His nurses tend to be round, homely, women in Disney print scrubs. This time around I’m there because I have horrible mouth sores due to (what is later diagnosed) as a bacterial infection in my throat. While the nurse takes my blood pressure she asks, “Are you on any medication?”
“No,” I say. “Oh, wait…I’m taking prenatal vitamins.”
“Are you PREGNANT?” the nurse is all bug-eyed.
“No,” I say, shortly. I pause, and if by explanation say, “It’s taking a long time.”
“Oh,” the nurse seems unsure of what to say. Then she bursts out: “Well…do you want one of mine? Heh, heh, I have two boys…”
Do I want one of hers? WTF?
“Ha heh,” I garble, awkwardly. My throat is killing me. The nurse trails off…first about her boys then about, what? I don’t know. Why does it offend me that she jokingly offered one of her offspring as a consolation for my infertility? I don’t know, but it does…

Spent the afternoon with Kris, taking pictures all Top Model style in pseudo-costume on his patio. The idea was that it would be sunny out, Kris’ spectacular view would lend itself to a hip fun press shoot, and I would be fresh with ideas. Instead it started snowing a little bit when I was driving over to Queen Anne. I sat, shivering my guts out, on Kris’ patio wearing my homemade party hat–illustrating my fourth year. Wheee! All in all, it went really well. I’m indebted to Kris. To celebrate our own home shoot, we watched two hours of Top Model and ate cheese with beef jerky.

A bacterial infection has struck down my throat…I feel like I’m swallowing glass, my glands are the size of oranges, and when I went to the doctor I learned that the white patches on my soft palate are actually pus. I was thrilled to receive antibiotics…thrilled.

I started a book at a friend’s house and then couldn’t put it down. Instead of borrowing her copy, I decided to purchase my own. It was 14 dollars at the U bookstore–’That’s so much!” my sister and I exclaimed. We’ve both been spoiled by the half priced book store where she currently works. Books are rarely over ten dollars. Plus, this was a paperback! 14 dollars!

Anyway, I don’t want to give too much of this book away because I’m sure many folks are reading it. The crux of the book is an illicit affair between an eccentric artist and a progressive woman in the early 1900’s. Both parties leave their spouses and their children in order to pursue their affair in Europe–a truly radical act in 1910. The book is based off of their letters, journals, etc.

Anyway, I was half way through the book when I decided to look up the artist and his lover on wikipedia for a little extra insight. Bad idea. Turns out the woman was brutally murdered–her house set on fire by one of the men building their home. Then he goes crazy with an axe and chops up 7 people–including her children. I was shocked. I flipped to the end of the paperback and sure enough it ends with fire, murder, and despair. So, I totally spoiled the end of the book. And, I have to say I was really duped into thinking this biography was going to have a happy ending. I had been lounging around in the sun, enjoying a mini-vacation at my parent’s house, reading all about the progressive artist movement in the early 1900’s. Now I don’t want to pick this book up again…not if it ends so tragically.

Subsequently, I had a series of nightmares last night. None about fire, but lot’s of hiding, seeking, worry, weaponry, and general discomfort. Twice, I woke up and told myself sternly, “Now, stop this…you need nice dreams.” It didn’t matter, one bad dream would simply turn into another and now I”m all tuckered out.

Stupid book.

I’ve been thinking about my relationship with the different parts of Seattle:

In Capitol Hill, I’ll be walking out of dance class wearing green pants, a red bandana, and an orange windbreaker and this looks completely normal.

Magnolia is associated with Pamela and her baby. After the baby was born, I spent time over at her house helping out. Magnolia is fancy if not totally isolated, a maze of roads and bridges to get to, (similar to Ballard, which I unconscionably scoff at).

The U District and I are unusually close. I spend three days out of five in this neighborhood working, visiting my sister, and occasionally walking down memory lane. Yesterday, the smell of Thai food wafted over me and I was filled with the hunger that only inexpensive ethnic food can bring.

Georgetown is where my husband’s secret life is. Over the past year he has rigged up security cameras for a popular bar on the industrial strip. You can find him there when I’m at rehearsal, drinking off his extended bar tab and blending in with the locals.

My sister spent her first year living in a sublet in Greenlake, which is why I ended up spending so much time there. We did the usual Greenlake-y things: walked around the lake and made fun of all the rich people.

Queen Anne is the awkward home of Seattle Center–where I rehearsed constantly for Soft Rock. I’ve gotten very good at finding secret parking in this neighborhood…and I have a few friends that live there. For some reason, Queen Anne always feel ‘far.’

I baby-sit in West Seattle and it’s OK.

Freemont used to be the easiest place for me to get Peet’s coffee, (now I go to Cap Hill). In the 90’s it was way cuter and quirkier. Now it’s traded its hipster glasses for contact lenses.

I lived in Madrona for a year and loved its easy-to-walk streets, Cupcake Royale, and St. Clouds. However, despite being filled with children, none of the locals send them to the nearby public school, so the facility is floundering.

Downtown may be a mystery for many Seattleties, but since it’s the home of the Market Theater, I have that neighborhood wrapped around my finger. Every weekend I drive all over the grid searching for parking and every week I find it–the tricks and the secrets are mine!

Columbia City is worth it for the bakery, the famer’s market and its exemplary gentrification.

Rainier Beach is unique, diverse, fragile, and the place I call home. It is close to the water, cheap eats, and always seems to be walking a fine line as a transitional part of the city. Not a neighborhood I would have ever picked to rent in, we bought a house there instead! And that’s worth the adventure….right?

I know it’s wrong to buy blueberries in the winter, I KNOW…but feasting on them in the morning brings a little festivity to a dull, grey morning.

The crew was asked to perform at the Henry Art Gallery’s fundraiser gala last night:

Even though we had just finished performing our hearts out at the Triple Door the previous night, the 7 of us still found the strength to don our glittery unitards and show up at an extremely fancy benefit party. Folks paid upwards of thousands of dollars for a seat at the Henry Art Gallery’s fancy ping pong tables (literally). The party was in a huge warehouse space, complete with gritty cement floors, and high beams. Two guys dressed up like bacon hovered around the dessert table. A decapitated trout perched high above near the ceiling. Screens flickered across the walls and an enormous panel of mirrors gracefully spun clockwise in a corner (see large pic below). The room was bathed in a weird orange light that my camera was only too happy to capture.

Despite a bruised toe from an accident while moving the $100,000 Steinway piano, sore feet from too-tight jazz shoes I once inherited from the Dance Closet, and the general aching ones body feels after performing two back to back shows the night prior, I still talked myself into wearing two inch silver heels with my glitter velvet unitard. The result was pretty overwhelming as I stalked my through the affluent crowd, my fist clamped around a cosmo I had acquired at one of the many open bars. Everywhere I went, I tried to keep one of the freedom dancers close by (safety in numbers), and people wouldn’t stop coming up to us. Everyone wanted to know what a pack of unitard-clad people were up to at this benefit. “We’re dancing,” we yelled over the huge marching band that had just precessed the crowd from dinner to the dance hall. “Are you some sort of troupe?” the women with the fur stole asked us. It got to the point where if I made eye contact with anyone for too long I would be descended upon. Sometimes I hid behind Josh–who had played his part and dressed up for the night as some sort of crazed, art collecting hipster, complete with his hideous mullet wig, shades, and jaunty scarf. (Interestingly enough, Josh got almost equal amount of attention).

While we waited to perform, waiters started showing up with the most incredible desserts: mini-cheesecakes, truffles, parfaits in tiny cups with tiny spoons. I tried as many desserts as I could possibly handle, stuffing what I couldn’t manage into Josh’s mouth while simultaneously snagging a new delicacy off the dessert tray. Josh said it was pretty fantastic watching all of us in our unitards stuffing ourselves with dessert while the majority of the buttoned up crowd watched us incredulously.

When our time came to dance, we had to hastily shed our shoes since the makeshift dance floor was as slick as a Seattle ice storm–despite the baby powder that had been dumped on it. Our dance number was executed so quickly that people came up to us for the rest of the night asking when we were going on? And WHAT? We already went? Are we going on again? It was at this point that several of the freedom dancers started officially drinking.

Several highlights were when I started messing with the video installation (jumping up and down in front of the video camera for Josh, who was recording the image on the wall in the next room with our own personal camera), changing out of my heels and into sneakers (creating a whole new look with my unitard), and watching a drunk woman approach Josh and ask if he was being taken care of drink-wise. I also enjoyed watching Joanna and her man dance all over the place, swinging, shaking, smooching and generally enjoying the hell out of each other. It was with a bit of a heavy, glittery, heart that we left at midnight. My body was slowly turning into a pumpkin–slack, exhausted, and a little bit chubby from all that dessert.

As we all brace ourselves against the worst hit on our economy since the Great Depression, I’m amazed at all the random bad news:

As a kid, I was pretty thrilled with the Mr. Yuck stickers. I proudly stuck them all over the house since the Mr. Yuck stickers give us the poison control number–but what happens if that number is no good? That’s right, our local poison control hotline might be shutting down!

Seattle has always allotted a certain amount of money that goes towards public art. This means if you have a construction site up, expect it to be ornamented. An example would be the future site of the Broadway light rail station. Not any more! It’s true that when comparing the importance of feeding the needy and the aesthetic value of a mural painted on a construction wall….well, feeding the homeless wins hands down.

NPR is always full of coping with the economy stories, from the earth shattering news of busted banks to the mundane, (i.e.): How to Break Up With Your Yoga Instructor.

Despite all of these heart wrenching, ‘aw, man!’ kind of stories, I still feel a certain thrill when the NPR host begins a sentence with, “President Obama.” Really? He’s our president! Really! And with that comes the joys of knowing that finally, finally, someone with the same mind-set as me is in the office. This includes a recent NPR story that made me cheer: Stimulus Package Includes Millions For The Arts