Mario Batali? Huh. I guess I am a freak.

According to highly respected think tank BabyCenter, it is not uncommon to begin experiencing strange dreams during pregnancy — like about wallowing in a pile of kittens, say, or taking a crowbar to the windshield of your beloved mate, that no-good cheating hound.  Their article mentions "a sexy encounter with an old flame," but, curiously, has no interpretation to offer of the smoking hot sex dream I had last night about none other than celebrity chef Mario Batali.

I doubt, as BabyCenter opines, that the dream had anything to do with "concerns about [my] changing figure," or feeling "more sexually charged than ever."  I think it had to do with the lure of the forbidden: giant bowls of pasta, not the whole wheat kind, all I can eat, generously lubricated with extra-virgin olive oil.  Accompanied, of course, by the relaxed inhibitions of a really good bottle of red.

I know.  I know.  Mario Batali.  Too much information?  Hey, you got off easy.  I could have described his giant knobbly pepper mill.

...

JuliaKB over at I Won't Fear Love has a beautiful post today about a feeling plenty of us can relate to, wondering if her reproductive experience has turned her into a freak.  About an encounter with a pregnant woman — a normal — she writes:

She is a perfectly nice woman, she is. She just happens to live in this universe I don't ever remember occupying. And when I get glimpses of that universe I can't be sure who is the freak. Are we freaks? We who hold our breaths, individually and collectively, for every pregnant friend, be it online or IRL? Or are they? The unaffected? The ones who have either never been close enough to infertility, to miscarriages, to dead babies, or have been, but are still somehow sure they are not going to be touched by this?  [...]  I feel that we are the realists, for we know that there is no rhyme or reason, and anyone can be hit, even the happy shiny pregnant women.

Go read it, you magnificent bunch of freaks, you.

...

Today Charlie and I are going south.  I am trying to teach him the most important principles of organization, as I understand them:

1. The mother of organization is bone-deep laziness.  (Coincidentally, so is the mother of Charlie.)
2. If you write things down, you never need to exert yourself to remember them again.  You lazy slob.
   

So we made a list to simplify our packing.  We went down the list, item by item, putting his shirts, pants, pajamas, and other needful items neatly into the suitcase.  And then I went downstairs to do I don't know what — daydream about getting it on with James Peterson, probably.  Charlie stayed upstairs and industriously completed his packing.

Here is what Charlie thinks we need for a trip to Louisiana at the beginning of the month of March:

1. swimsuit
   
2. velour footed sleeper, size 12 months, "if we meet any babies.  Just in case, Mama."
3. knitted sweater vest bearing the jolly disembodied head of one S. Claus

He has also asked to take along his stuffed bear, Janet, and another, smaller stuffed bear, Janet's baby, "because she would be so lonely if she didn't have her baby."  (Damn skippy, kiddo.)  Oh, and yet another manky-looking stuffed bear, whose identity is not entirely clear but whom I suspect of being Janet's baby daddy.

We'll be gone for ten days while the other half of my house is gutted and — they promised, y'all — restored.  I certainly hope so, because I can't see myself sleeping out in the car with a preschooler, a young mother, a baby, and a wild-eyed matted drifter with a wicked honey jones.  To say nothing of that creepy-assed Mr. Claus.

Posted by Julie at 09:52:38 AM in Charles in charge, Jesus gay, I'm pregnant.

Comments

Mario Batali? Huh. I guess I am a freak.

According to highly respected think tank BabyCenter, it is not uncommon to begin experiencing strange dreams during pregnancy — like about wallowing in a pile of kittens, say, or taking a crowbar to the windshield of your beloved mate, that no-good cheating hound.  Their article mentions "a sexy encounter with an old flame," but, curiously, has no interpretation to offer of the smoking hot sex dream I had last night about none other than celebrity chef Mario Batali.

I doubt, as BabyCenter opines, that the dream had anything to do with "concerns about [my] changing figure," or feeling "more sexually charged than ever."  I think it had to do with the lure of the forbidden: giant bowls of pasta, not the whole wheat kind, all I can eat, generously lubricated with extra-virgin olive oil.  Accompanied, of course, by the relaxed inhibitions of a really good bottle of red.

I know.  I know.  Mario Batali.  Too much information?  Hey, you got off easy.  I could have described his giant knobbly pepper mill.

...

JuliaKB over at I Won't Fear Love has a beautiful post today about a feeling plenty of us can relate to, wondering if her reproductive experience has turned her into a freak.  About an encounter with a pregnant woman — a normal — she writes:

She is a perfectly nice woman, she is. She just happens to live in this universe I don't ever remember occupying. And when I get glimpses of that universe I can't be sure who is the freak. Are we freaks? We who hold our breaths, individually and collectively, for every pregnant friend, be it online or IRL? Or are they? The unaffected? The ones who have either never been close enough to infertility, to miscarriages, to dead babies, or have been, but are still somehow sure they are not going to be touched by this?  [...]  I feel that we are the realists, for we know that there is no rhyme or reason, and anyone can be hit, even the happy shiny pregnant women.

Go read it, you magnificent bunch of freaks, you.

...

Today Charlie and I are going south.  I am trying to teach him the most important principles of organization, as I understand them:

1. The mother of organization is bone-deep laziness.  (Coincidentally, so is the mother of Charlie.)
2. If you write things down, you never need to exert yourself to remember them again.  You lazy slob.
   

So we made a list to simplify our packing.  We went down the list, item by item, putting his shirts, pants, pajamas, and other needful items neatly into the suitcase.  And then I went downstairs to do I don't know what — daydream about getting it on with James Peterson, probably.  Charlie stayed upstairs and industriously completed his packing.

Here is what Charlie thinks we need for a trip to Louisiana at the beginning of the month of March:

1. swimsuit
   
2. velour footed sleeper, size 12 months, "if we meet any babies.  Just in case, Mama."
3. knitted sweater vest bearing the jolly disembodied head of one S. Claus

He has also asked to take along his stuffed bear, Janet, and another, smaller stuffed bear, Janet's baby, "because she would be so lonely if she didn't have her baby."  (Damn skippy, kiddo.)  Oh, and yet another manky-looking stuffed bear, whose identity is not entirely clear but whom I suspect of being Janet's baby daddy.

We'll be gone for ten days while the other half of my house is gutted and — they promised, y'all — restored.  I certainly hope so, because I can't see myself sleeping out in the car with a preschooler, a young mother, a baby, and a wild-eyed matted drifter with a wicked honey jones.  To say nothing of that creepy-assed Mr. Claus.