Wax on, wax off.

So it's five days and counting til your favorite obscene prego is made an honest woman in Sin City. (That's on Halloween, for anyone that's doing the math. A picked the date if he promised that he'd stay out of the planning process -- thanks to this deal, we are not having a themed costume wedding or getting married by Elvis.) Being the dutiful almost-wife that I am, I decided that I should give him a wedding gift. Being the oversexed hornballs that we both are (which is, incidentally, how we got to this state), I decided the best wedding gift I could give him would be a full on Brazilian wax.

If you're not familiar with the Brazilian wax, it is essentially having every semblance of hair ripped out of your pubic region. I had never waxed down there. I'd kept it shaven, shorn and well-groomed in the year we'd been together, but never waxed. It had gotten Amazon jungle-esque in the last month or so, however -- out of sight, out of mind. Once your pregnant bump covers things like that up, you just sort of stop worrying about it. Do I still have feet?

Interesting note about my prudent preening: I wasn't OCD about pubic hair until I started dating A. On "the date" that I knew we'd inevitably "hook up," I shaved it all off. I thought I would try to be sexy. Boy, I wish I knew what I was getting into, because after that I thought he thought I was like this ALL the time, so I then had to spend a year of constant shaving and grooming down there so as to not disappoint. So note to girls: if you think you're going to marry the guy, or if there's even the slightest possibility, don't get his hopes up early. Let him see you in all your hairy glory. If he can't handle it, then it wasn't meant to be. I call it the Pube Test. You can pay me for this golden advice later.

Living in the Midwest and trying to find a salon that does Brazilian waxing is like looking for a cleavage shot in Iran. There aren't any salons that do it. It's bad enough that I had to suck up all modesty I had and render whatever courage I had left, waddle my pregnant ass into a salon and ask if they did Brazilian waxes. You get looked at like you're some sort of brazen hussy. So I don't like having hair on my vajayjay, and yes, I am asking if you'd like to rip it out for me, DAMN woman stop persecuting me. So when a stylist friend of mine pointed me in the direction of the only salon in the city that does Brazilians, I ran to the place to make an appointment ASAP. It was like a magical, hairless oasis in a desert of conservative bush. (Great, now that I typed that, anyone looking for political talk is going to come to my blog... sorry, Republicans, I'm liberal AND I preen my naughty bits. How's THAT for a Halloween scare?)

I spent the morning leading up to the appointment debating whether or not I really wanted to go through it. I could just shave like I always do and it's not like he'd know any different. He just sees vagina and goes for it, like any man. And I could save the pain and the $50. I turned the car around once. A told me, "Don't be doing this for me." (No, darling, I LIKE having scalding wax poured onto my nasty bits and having all the hair ripped out, fuck you, this is for me and my sadistic jollies!) So he's got his liability taken care of because he offered that disclaimer. But I decided, you know what, this is my wedding and my honeymoon. If all goes well, this is the only time in my life I'm ever going to do this. I should go all out and get waxed and just, fucking, do it.

So I did. I showed up. Said I had an appointment. Got a lot of sympathetic looks around the salon. And I went to the back room and per the waxer's instructions, stripped down everything from the waist down.

Contrary to the rumors about me in high school, I'm not a slut. I'm not used to having everything out there all laying out for just anyone to see. But my friends who've had the waxing done (and Google) all told me it's no different than going to your gyno. Okay, I've been seeing the same gyno (and he is now my obstetrician) since I was 16. That's a six year relationship. That's a lot of commitment to show up and spread your legs. I have known this woman, WOMAN!, five minutes, and she's about to see everything. If you can be nonchalant about such an intimate moment, you're a stronger (and whorier) woman than I am.

I'll spare you the details. If you want to know, google it. It's how I learn about the world and it has taught me everything. But from the first rip to the last rip over my holiest of holies, I will say this: HOLY. FUCK. I have a strong pain tolerance. I've endured two tattoos, one of which is on the top of my foot which is notoriously painful, and ten piercings (and only five are in my ears, I'll let you start speculating where the others are, but whatever you're thinking, you're probably right.) I've broken my nose, I've sprained and dislocated things, stubbed toes, pounded hammers on thumbs, and I will say: this hurt like I have never known. I saw Jesus. Yes, I saw Jesus hovering above me, welcoming me into his arms as I was having my sinful naughty little hoo hoo waxed and abused by a very unsympathetic woman (I'm overreacting -- she was very sweet, just not when she was ripping hot, dried wax off my crotch). SAVE ME, JESUS, SAVE ME FROM THE PAIN! I AM A SINNER AND A HUSSY AND HOLY YOU, IT FUCKING HURTS! I'M SORRY I JUST SAID FUCKING, JESUS! GOD BLESS YOU, GOD! (Name that last reference, win a cookie.)

She asked me if I wanted to check things out when she was finished after the longest twenty minutes of my life. I told her I was going to need a unique contraptions of mirrors in order to see everything, and just took her word for it that it was all good. I mean, if you're going to be waxing peoples' sin lips, you've gotta have some degree of pride in your work, right? This isn't some sort of Bush administration where you just do things all willy nilly with no consideration to the needs or opinions of the people you're working for.

I waddled to my car feeling violated and liberated all at once. Then I went home and took one of the frozen barbecued chickens out of the freezer and laid on the couch feeling sorry for myself for the rest of the afternoon. (Don't worry A, I kept the chicken in the bag, you'll never know the difference between the regular chicken and the crotch chicken.)

He better fucking realize how much I love him.

No. You can't touch my belly.

Being a grown-up also means you have to be patient. I am not a patient person, not at all. Not ever, not in the slightest. I'm getting better, but truth be told, I am generally intolerant of people, I think most people are idiots, and at any given point in time (thanks to the magic of hormones), I hate 95% of the people I encounter during the day.

I'm especially intolerant to being touched. Coming from a non-touchy-feely family, I am not a big hugger. I don't like touching people. I'm weird about strangers touching me, or even friends and family if the physical contact is not initiated from my end first. So you can imagine how my patience and my neuroses take a double-hit with strangers that feel that because I'm pregnant, I must obviously have no problem whatsoever with them touching my belly.

I don't mind Andy touching it. I don't mind family or even friends, or most of my coworkers. It's taken me nearly six long months to finally come to terms with my knockedupitude, and now that I'm embracing it, I'm proud to share it with the world. But this doesn't make me any less pissed or weirded out when strangers, complete and total strangers in completely ambiguous, generic public places, feel the need to rub my belly.

If you are not pregnant and don't know anyone that is pregnant, and somehow just stumbled across this blog, if there is ANYTHING you take away from my documentation of pregnancy, know this. NEVER question what a pregnant woman wants to eat, and NEVER, EVER, EVER touch her belly. It's like approaching a sketchy-looking man walking with a rabid-looking pitbull. You ASK before you touch. Otherwise, I really can't promise I won't bite you, claw your eyes out, or verbally insult your mother.

Old ladies are the worst. You can't get mad, but at the same time, I think they do it because they're old and think they can. Like driving 10 mph on the Interstate, urinating on themselves in public, or never, ever tipping when they eat out (not that I'm bitter... oh no). I have lost count of the number of old ladies that come up and touch my stomach when I'm somewhere like Wal-Mart and then want to strike up an hour-long discussion of how I'm too skinny to be 23 weeks along. Look, lady, I just want to take my keylime pie and brownie mix (which I assure you will never see the oven, just a bowl and a spatula) and make my way over to Krispy Kreme and gorge. I don't want to talk to you. You want to talk to or about something rotund and equally disinterested in you, I recommend going over to produce and talking to a melon. You will never know the difference, I promise.

I've had a couple creepy guys come up to me too, and I think they are almost WORSE than old ladies. Apparently because I'm knocked up, it can be assumed that my "creepy guy radar" is no longer functioning. You're wrong. Don't talk to me. Don't touch me. Yes, I am pregnant, Captain Observant. No, you can't rub coacoa butter on it. There are plenty of websites out there for sickies like you, just let me look for frames and matting here in peace.

Maybe I'm callous and rude. Maybe I should embrace the beauty of my glowing pregnancy and let the world in on my joy. Or maybe I should just walk around with a gigantic neon sign above my head warning people not to touch the prego.

But... considering my varying hormone levels... I wouldn't necessarily mind the occasional physical assault on one of those weirdos, either. I actually might welcome that.

Epiphany.

I now interrupt this otherwise obscenity- and inappropriate humor-filled blog for a brief post that's halfway deep and serious. I promise after this post I'll go back to being the usual offensive Prego that we all know and love... or not, whatever.

Have you ever noticed that life's big epiphanies occur at the strangest moments? I always expect them to hit me at movie-perfect moments where I stare wistfully into space and some deep and moving song comes on in the background and the camera slowly pans in to a close up of my face, and through my eyeball and pupil into my brain and you can see all the little goblins in there coming together to produce important life lessons. Or something. I always picture my life being way more dramatic and cinematic than it is.

But instead the big realizations hit you at strange, otherwise mundane moments. I had one tonight as I arrived home from my job waiting tables at a high-end Italian restaurant. My feet, legs and back hurt. I wasn't even sure if I was going to be able to actually get out of my car. I had the cell phone prepared to call A to come outside and cart my prego ass into the house. I was exhausted from a long shift and a long day and just wanted to come home.

When I pulled up to our house, I realized how happy I was to see the lights in the house on. To have someone to come home to -- my best friend, the man that in less than two weeks is going to be my husband, and the father of our child. Inside the house, he's probably sitting in his boxers on the computer, and our dog -- OUR dog now, he used to be MY dog -- will be rolling on the floor with his stuffed toys. Probably his stuffed Bear.

If you'd told me a year ago that this was going to be my reality, I would have blown you off and told you to go fuck yourself. Even when I first realized I was pregnant, the only thing I could think was, this isn't how it's supposed to be. I was supposed to graduate college, I was supposed to find a fabulous job that would kickstart my career quickly after graduation, I was supposed to get the hell out of this city/town and travel the world. I was supposed to never get married and never settle down, and probably never have kids. I'm talented at what I do, I'm pretty and smart and motivated and the whole world lay at my feet.

Instead, I'm 22, still waiting tables because the job market in journalism is so depressingly shitty, getting married in a quickie Vegas shotgun wedding, and visibly pregnant with my first child. There was a point in my life where I would've thought this was all wrong. And I'm sitting there in my car looking at the front door of my house and can't wait to go inside to my almost-husband and lay on the couch feeling my baby kicking.

I used to think this isn't how it's supposed to be -- but now I'm realizing there is no "supposed to be" in life. I read a quote somewhere... probably Facebook... that said, "If you want to see God laugh, tell him your plans." It amazes me how much that's true.

In the meantime, I'll be here, in our little house on the cul de sac with cats in the front yard that run when they see people because they've been kicked so many times (I wouldn't know why), with my fiance' in his boxer shorts and torn up Bad Religion concert t-shirt and our dog that is species-confused. Just in case you need me.

*end serious post*

The official information...

... that I haven't gotten around to directly mentioning...



Yes, that's right, I am having a girl. Tentatively, at least. The doctor couldn't get the greatest view of her girly parts at the last visit (as it should be -- my daughter should be chaste and prudent), but he did say to me, "Do you see those three lines right there?" as he pointed to what looked like nothingness on the ultrasound screen. Apparently we were looking at baby vajayjay. We find out for sure next Wednesday at my next routine check-up, so either we'll be leaving on the 29th for our Vegas getaway feeling vindicated that we now know for sure it's a girl, or I'll be leaving horribly disappointed surprised that I'm having a boy.

ANYWAY... pending that it is indeed a girl we are having, A and I have chosen the name Sophia Elaine. We will call her Sophie for short. The name, however, like the gender, is also tentative. By "tentative" I mean he keeps coming up with names and I keep giving him exhausted and pained looks wishing he'd quit. She is not being named after anyone. I decided that after getting pressure from both sides, and knowing the horrible disappointment that would inevitably ensue regardless of what I chose, I just decided to give this little girl a chance to start life off as HERSELF and not in the expectations that come with being named after someone. If that makes sense in a hippie sort of way.

My due date switched around quite a bit in the beginning due to her small size. However, the original date I was given was too early, and the date I was later given would have placed conception in a time frame that was impossible (long story but I know we weren't having sex then). But the doctor finally settled on February 14, 2008 as the date of Sophie's Great Escape. Easy to remember, but I'm just hoping that if she IS born on time, she isn't set up for a lifetime of disappointing Valentine's Days by boyfriends that can't live up to the expectations of an already high-expectation romantic holiday PLUS a birthday. But if she's anything like her father or myself, she'll probably be late. I don't think A or myself is capable of being on time to anything.

So there's the important stuff I get asked about a lot. Stop asking. I'm getting hormonal and less patient about answering questions. Or having strangers touch my belly without asking. But that's a whole 'nother post.

You're so vain...

If there's one thing I'm learning about pregnancy and impending mommyhood, it is that vanity is a concept unknown -- and unwelcome -- in this strange new territory.

I've never been extremely high maintenance. Okay, maybe a little high maintenance. I just happened to spend the majority of my life being extremely spoiled so that I enjoy nicer things. I love my $80 Editor pants from Express (have you tried them? They make your ass look AMAZING). I love my Seven jeans. I love my Dolce & Gabbana shoes. And my MAC makeup, Tiffany jewelry and Coach purses. I like nice things. The more expensive the better. I maxed out the "just for emergencies" credit card from my parents numerous times to the point that it was closed the day after graduation. Thanks Mom...

I have an amazing genetic makeup that makes me a freak of nature. Before I became pregnant, I lived off of Italian food (hello, carbs!) and fast food. If it was deep fried, sugar-filled and chock full of trans fat, I was all over it. And I still maintained a svelte 5'10, 140 lb. figure. I sparked bulemia rumors back in the sorority days, and those that didn't believe I had an eating disorder just thought I was one lucky bitch. So when I did become pregnant, up until my fifth month I had gained a total of one, yes, ONE, UNO, EINS... pound.

Then it happened. The baby decided she was going to be making herself known in all her radiant glory (oh yeah, it's a girl by the way), and all of a sudden, BOOM, I had the prego belly. I never went through the "chubby or pregnant?" phase. I just went straight from overactive metabolism to pregnant orca whale. There was no gradualism to it. So you can imagine how excited I was shopping for clothes for our impending Vegas wedding/vacation and realizing I was now too big for even the sizes I'd once deemed entirely too large.

Oh yes, and another thing -- shopping for sexy lingerie in stores like Victoria's Secret (and racier stores, it's my honeymoon, give me a break, a girl's gotta get her freak on once in a while) is always fun when you have an obvious pregnant bump. You get the strange feeling that everyone looking at you is thinking, "Haven't you had ENOUGH sex? Haven't you learned your lesson you little harlot?"

My vanity was gone and I was shopping in the plus size department, until finally I mustered up the courage to peek in the maternity store.

I will say this: everyone working in the maternity store is pregnant. I am thoroughly convinced they strap those empathy bellies from high school on these chicks. And I decided after one trip -- and getting totally freaked out, I don't know why -- that all maternity clothes are ugly and overpriced. I'm looking at these jeans with these GIGANTIC kangaroo freaking pouches in the front and I'm thinking, "What is THAT?" I told my mother of this and she said, "Oh, just wait." This isn't not reassuring.

In the meantimes, I hate maternity clothes. Besides being ugly, they're just... no, that's pretty much it, they're ugly. I don't want to look like used goods sent packing in a muumuu and sweatpants. I want to be hot. I mean, seriously, how the HELL do celebrities like Angelina Jolie look so damn hot? It's not fair, I thought to myself as I stared begrudgingly at the empire-waisted empire laid out before me.

My bump is cute. My newly expanded ass is not.

And so the battle against maternity clothes continues...

Prego vs. the Neighbor, Round 1

One thing I am learning about being a grown-up is learning how to deal with people you don't like, especially when they live thirty feet across the street from you. The world is filled with people. People of varied colors, backgrounds, cultures, orientations, and stances on just how much control they can wield over their pets. My conflict with our neighbor across the street comes from the latter of these options.

A little background information, first. I hate cats. I grew up in a house full of cats that despite my mother's best efforts, pissed everywhere. Have you ever smelled cat piss? It is probably the foulest thing I have ever smelled, and you can't get it out of the carpet. It lingers, forever. On top of that I just plain don't like cats. My neighbor across the street, whom A and I call "Creepy Guy," disagrees. And that's fine. I choose to have one dog and no cats, he chooses to have no dogs and 20 cats. Okay, cool.

The point where conflict comes in is the fact that Creepy Guy does nothing to contain his cats. They run the neighborhood. His idea of feeding them is opening a bag of cat food and spreading it through his backyard. They are everywhere. They like to lounge in the middle of the road in our cul de sac. They crawl on A's black car and leave footprints. And a few times they have found their way into our house. Don't ask me how. But they do. I frequently find them on our porch, on our back deck, in our garage.... it gets annoying. It isn't my job to care for, or house, or not feed antifreeze to, this man's cats.

Now that we've had enough background information, I present to you the confrontation. I woke up around 10 a.m., per usual, and went into the kitchen to let Bo, my dog, out of his kennel and let him out to potty. I am wearing my normal sleeping attire -- size-too-big wife beater and a pair of A's boxers -- as I open the back door to let Bo out. He normally goes out the back deck to the backyard, does his thing, comes back inside. I don't chain him up or restrain him. He pees on the bush, comes inside. I am 3% conscious, running mostly on routine. I open the door, and out goes Bo...

And there's a cat on the back deck. Bo sees cat. Cat sees Bo. Bo barks at cat. Cat tears off down the street. Bo tears off after cat. I tear off after Bo and cat, all while muttering obscenities I think are reserved only for the dirtiest of sailors.

The cat eventually finds its hiding place under Creepy Guy's car. Bo pursues the cat under the car and I find myself on my hands and knees trying to retrieve my dog, with my naughty bits hanging out for all the world to see. As Bo is barking at the cat, I hear a front door open. Out comes Creepy Guy, which I think is just great.

And I hear, before I even have a chance to look up, "Keep your goddamn dog in your own yard."

Okay. normal, sane, non-pregnant Prego would have been pretty peeved, but oh no, this bastard was getting barely-conscious, very pissed off, hormonally-charged Super Prego. I grab Bo and stand up -- pretty sure half a boob is hanging out and I just don't care -- and I stare at him for a cold, awkward second.

"FUNNY YOU SHOULD MENTION THAT," I said. "Because MY dog would stay in MY yard if your GODDAMN CAT would have been in your yard... but wait, your cats are never in your fucking yard! They are in our yard. They're in the neighbors' yards. They're in the street. It's not the neighborhood's job to take care of your damn cats! If I see YOUR cats on MY property again, I will call animal control. And your cats are so damn FERAL that I'm sure they'll rot and die in the shelter..."

By this point Bo is so pissed that he can't get to the cat and he has now pissed on me. So I'm holding a peeing dog, have at least half, if not full, boob exposure, and I am LIVID. And I'm continuing to scream threats at him as I walk back to my house...

I still see the cats all over. A keep suggesting we leave out a bowl of antifreeze out for the cats, since it's apparently sweet, and the cats basically fry from the inside out. But now that I've had confrontation with Creepy Guy, I'm afraid he'd KNOW it was us. So I just resign myself to deliberately kicked the cats in front of him if he's outside and I come out and find cats in our yard.

I'm pretty sure this is going to be an ongoing thing.

Finger Lickin' Crazy

We now take a break from our regularly-scheduled chronological storytelling to flash forward to a now five-month pregnant and newly engaged Prego and her beloved.

By this time, A and I were finally officially engaged. Yes, he was going to make an honest woman out of me. Rather than planning a full-on wedding, we decided to go to Vegas and tie the knot -- something that really didn't surprise anyone who knew either or both of us. Part of this planning process included buying wedding bands, something we decided to do on a day we were both off work.

We opted to take my car with me at the helm. A frequently mocks my driving, and I'll admit it, I drive like shit. I drive with the craziness of an elderly blind woman combined with the reckless disregard for human life of a NASCAR driver. I am an asshole driver, and put me in situations of higher volume traffic and added frustration or distractions, I really can't promise the safety of anyone in or out of my car.

We were relying on the directions provided by A's phone to find the jewelry store. Just a note, don't rely on directions provided by a 3" by 4" piece of plastic and microchips. Also, when looking for a location you've previously never been to, don't allow a crazy pregnant woman behind the wheel.

So after driving back and forth in front of the same strip mall where I was convinced the store was, we were discovering there was no store. No jewelry store in sight. We drove around the area. Surveyed the area. Went into little strip malls that we were about 90% certain the store was not located. I was pissed. I was frustrated. I just wanted to find the goddamn store and buy the goddamn wedding band for my goddamn fiance'. My car was almost out of gas, I was frustrated, tired, hungry, and getting cranky fast.

I don't remember what A said or did, but I snapped. I'd fucking had it. And A, never one to put up with my shit (which 99% of the time is something I've always loved about him), and he in no uncertain terms let me know that I was crossing the fine line between loving, darling, demure fiance' and Crazy Fucking Pregnant Bitch.

It was at this point I, for all intensive purposes, lost my proverbial shit. I was crying. Nay, I was sobbing. Snot, tears, and saliva everywhere. I was crying because I couldn't find the jewelry store. I was crying because I'd lost my temper with the person I love more than anything in this world. I was crying because I was hungry and tired and needed a nap. I cried for my unborn child having a seatbelt across her head. I cried for Ohio State losing to Florida. I cried for runt puppies not being able to reach their mother dog's teat, for kittens that can't unravel a ball of yarn, for the Indian who just saw you litter on the side of the road. I cried for the simple fact that I'd forgotten what I was crying about.

We finally found a jewelry store. Not the one we were originally looking for, no, this was a scary ghetto-looking jewelry store with bars on the windows and Korean people inside. I was still a puffy, red, sobbing mess, still trying to get a grib on myself, when I sobbingly (yes, it's a word, don't tell me it's not or I swear to God I'll cry again) said we can't shop for wedding bands when I'm obviously crying. So A sat and waited for me to compose myself. But as soon as he'd say something like, "Are we good? Are you okay now?" I would lose it all over again. At this point, the jewelry store was going to be closing in five minutes.

"What do you want?" A asked.

Given the situation, one would assume he was asked what I wanted the next course of action to be. Do we seek out an open jewelry store? Do we go into this store despite the fact it's about to close? Do we give up? That would be what you'd think he was asking. But my response was...

*long, snotty, tear-filled, loogie-sounding, longest inhale ever* "I WANT CHICKEN!!!!" *SOB!!!*

And so, we went to KFC because all I wanted at that point was extra crispy recipe chicken legs and KFC macaroni and mashed potatoes. I wanted the damn buffet. I paid for dinner as my apology for being Crazy Pregnant Bitch. And as I stood in front of the buffet, I felt tears welling up again to the point that they couldn't be controlled.

Not because I was happy. Though the sight was pleasant. Nay, it was just because they didn't have macaroni on the buffet.

So I sat through dinner like a four-year-old that has just been spanked, occasionally sniffling and hiccuping and eating my mashed potatoes with a look of resentment previously unknown.

We never went wedding band shopping again. The internet is a wonderful thing.

And then there's the parents.

A and I are two very different people, and this could very well be the result of the fact that we spawned from two very different parenting philosophies. Our next major stop on the magical prego journey was telling the parents... though I was quite alright with the notion of letting them all think I just got really fat, and then babysat a lot.

HIS PARENTS... found out not long after we ourselves found out. Father's Day weekend, in fact. He and I had a course of action for telling them (he would tell them, I would sit demurely and smile like I wasn't a brazen hussy that slept with their eldest son outside of the sanctity of marriage... you know, no big deal). But somehow we moved away from the plan as A commented that all of the pictures of him in the house were disappearing and being replaced with pictures of his nephew (currently the only grandchild, though A's sister was expecting another baby in October, but that's beside the point).

"Well," A's dad said, "Start having kids of your own and we'll put pictures of them up."
"Well," A replied, "What do you think about having another grandchild in February?"

There was a stunned silence. They looked at me. They looked at him. They cried, hugged, were ecstatic. A's mom, ever the joyous grandmother, was in baby heaven. One more grandbaby in October, and ANOTHER in February? I thought the woman's head was going to pop off in sheer joy. Of course the first question (after "Are you serious?") was "Are you two going to get married?"

The rest of the afternoon was quite enjoyable. I've always liked A's parents, namely because they aren't crazy... like mine.

MY PARENTS found out about a month and a half later. I apologize for jumping all over the time space continuum here, but really, in that month and a half, it was just a blur of puking and crying. With that, you're already pretty much up to speed.

In order to understand my relationship with my parents, you first need to understand this: I am the colossal disappointment in my family. The touted "child prodigy," I was very advanced. Took advanced courses, took the ACT for the first time at age 11, tested freakishly high on state administered IQ and standardized tests, won spelling bees, piano competitions against children years older than me, speech competitions, coloring contests... if there was a ribbon or trophy or medal to be won in the tri-county area from about 1994 to 1998, I won it, and it is most likely in a box in my parents' attic.

Then I got tired of being the freak in school and around high school discovered alcohol and marijuana and boys. The pattern since high school has been that as soon as I build up my parents' trust and pride in me, I will, inevitably, crash it down. I was captain of multiple sports teams, involved in various organizations (and president of most of them), and the quintessential "golden child" in high school, then began dating a slew of bad boys, getting ridiculously drunk, and basically doing typical teenage things, only it seemed much worse considering what a "good kid" I had been. In college, I was getting a 3.8 GPA, president of a large sorority, editor of the campus newspaper, and then damn near got myself thrown out of college and had to transfer.

So really, the only next logical step was to screw up after I got their hopes up with graduation. And the only thing worse than getting knocked up a week after graduation, in my mother's eyes, was perhaps killing someone. Or maybe those are reversed. I'm really not sure.

By this point I had my first ultrasound, which if you've ever seen early ultrasounds, they are very boring. If it wasn't my kid in the picture, and if the picture hadn't been taken by shoving a weird ultrasound stick thing up my wazoo, I would have found it very anticlimactic. So I went to my parents' house by myself (A had offered to come, but knowing the huge shit storm that would inevitably hit, I left him at home so fight it on my own... until you've dealt with a bipolar mother firsthand, you are in no way prepared for this), ultrasound in my purse, and after a nice dinner with my parents, I announced I had some news.

I took out the ultrasound and handed it to my mom. I told them I was pregnant, how far along I was, that A and I were prepared for this and we were mature adults and ready to handle it. I have never heard a deafening silence like this before. You could have heard a pin drop in Russia. Mom didn't cry. I would've preferred it if she had. Dad just sighed, and said they were expecting their first grandchild to come from my 17-year-old brother.

The only thing worse than a bad reaction is no reaction at all. There was none. And there continued to be one in the months to follow. It was like my parents were living in a glorious state of denial. For a while, they just didn't speak to me. Then it was awkward speaking, but never about the baby or the fact that I was having one. This is the pattern that continues today with my discussions with the parents. And we won't even approach the subject that their daughter, their firstborn, darling daughter, is on Medicaid to pay for the child.

To date, A's parents have bought us a slew of baby things. My parents have bought us none. His mother can't wait to talk to me again, see my growing belly, etc. I basically wear a burka around my parents so they don't have to see the bump -- not a matter of hiding the bump, per se, but keeping something unpleasant out of sight. My mother refuses to even tell my invalid grandmother about the baby, just because of the strong disapproval that I would face. I'm not even sure who of my extended family knows I'm pregnant. I assume very few, since my parents are embarassed by the situation.

I'm not bitter.

But I am still looking for my purse.

The story continues...by stepping back.

So in order to understand how I wound up sitting in the public assistance office between the angry mother and the smelly raggedy gentile, you have to rewind a little bit. Not quite as far as my college graduation. Actually, it's about a month after graduation. This is where things get hazy as I stare into space with a far off look in my eye.

I had been out of college about a month. It had been one hell of a month. I was desperately searching for a job -- which, thanks to my alcoholic high school guidance counselor, who told me journalism was a "great career path," I was totally unaware of the nearly nonexistent job market til I was post-graduation -- and in the meantime was paying the bills and the rent with my nearly-full time job as a waitress at a higher-end Italian restaurant. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't where I thought I'd be at 22 with a college degree in hand. But I was in the process of moving in with my boyfriend, A, so I figured by splitting bills and mortgage payments, at the very least, my financial situation wouldn't be an absolute disaster.

As busy as I'd been, I'd failed to notice one particularly important missing aspect of my monthly to-do list: my period. It wasn't until I actually had five seconds to myself to stop and think that I realized, I hadn't had one in... well, shit... had it been two months? I looked at the calendar in desperation. I should've been on my period at graduation. Thiking back, I remembered feeling incredibly uncomfortable, sweaty, sticky, and unhappy... unfortunately, vaginal bleeding was not in that equation of discomfort. Now, a month past graduation, I still had not had a period to speak of. I had been so busy that I had forgotten to notice.

Fuck.

I sat in denial for a few days. It occurred to me to stop by the Wal-Mart a few days later to pick up a pregnancy test, but denial is a tricky bitch. I drove past the Wal-Mart and thought... "Maybe tomorrow, if I still haven't started." Tomorrow came. My period did not. So after spending a sleepless night of stressing over it -- and thoroughly pissing off early-rising A with my tossing and turning -- I went to Wal-Mart at 7 a.m. and bought a pregnancy test.

It's a strange feeling, sitting in your bathroom, peeing on a stick and realizing that what you're peeing on could very well determine your next course in life. Your pee is dictating your life in that split second. Pee. Urine. Waste. Then you start thinking about things too much and realize you just peed on your hand, and in doing so, dropped the pregnancy test in the toilet.

That's why they put two in the package, in case you were wondering.

So I tried it again. I put the now peed-on pregnancy test on the side of the bathtub and I went into the living room. And I paced. I watched The People's Court and I rearranged the shit on the coffee table about four times before I decided that it had been long enough. I went into the bathroom and stared down the ominous little white stick, which was now covered in my pee (I had washed my hands, if you were curious).

It was positive.

Holy fuck. I'm pregnant. Holy fucking shit. A's fertile. How the hell were we to know? As much pot as the two of us had smoked, along with his little bout with testicular cancer years ago, common logic (and the fact I really didn't pay much attention in sex ed in high school) would have dictated the fact that his little guys probably didn't swim well. And I remembered back to a very drunken night where we'd gone condomless...which wasn't entirely unusual for us, I was on birth control after all and that's foolproof, right?... and remembering a drunken exchange of, "In or out? Do you want me to come in or out?" and before I could slur out a response... well... you know.

He was at work. I was home alone. It was me and the dog, and Judge Marilyn Milian. And now there was this thing inside of me, apparently. Me, the dog, People's Court, and this thing. So I did what any rational human being in my situation would do: I went to Wal-Mart and bought six more pregnancy tests.

They all came out positive. Statistics couldn't be wrong.

And so I called A at work. Told him to come home as soon as he could -- he was known for taking off early. He thought I'd either found his porn collection (which I found about a month into our courtship and couldn't care less) or that I was leaving him. Much against my own intentions, he dragged it out of me on the phone, and when he came home, it was a strange and awkward silence. It wasn't just us. Or the dog. Or Maury. (Maury was on by the time he came home.) There was now this THING. This future person. Inside of me. Part me, part him, part Long Island Iced Tea and whiskey.

Once the "fuck" and the "wow" calmed down, "fuck" settled back in when the sad realization came about that waitresses don't have health coverage. And because we were not married, he and I could not collect his health insurance. Which left little option besides paying out of pocket, which between a waitress and a retail manager was less than swingable.

And so... three weeks later (that's how long the stages of denial and acceptance take, if you're curious)... here I was, in the public assistance office for the third time (after being denied the first time, being told I didn't have enough information the second time), having now waited 20 minutes for my appointment with my as-yet-unknown caseworker, just trying to get the great State to tell me it was okay to have a kid on their dime. I mean, let's be honest, as least I was working and paying into the system.

The system, by the way... is shit. I realized this as I was sitting sandwiched among the unemployed and the disabled and the over-spawned. It made me rethink being a Democrat, quite honestly. And as I was sitting there, admittedly with an air of slight, and I still feel warranted, superiority, I could feel the angry stares at me. I just kept thinking to myself, "I'm a nice girl. I come from a nice family. I'm smart. I just need health coverage."

(Which on a side note it's interesting to note that when I went to the neighborhood free clinic for my pregnancy test for official medical confirmation that I was pregnant -- which meant more peeing on things -- I was offered information on getting my GED. They seemed both surprised and awestruck as I carefully mentioned I had just graduated with my bachelor's degree.)

So now you know why I was sitting here in a place where I was so obviously fish out of water. I wasn't even fish out of water. I was fish in the middle of the damn Sahara.

I'm a nice girl. I come from a nice family. I'm a smart girl. I am above this. I am... hey, where'd my purse go?

And so it begins...

Considering my high school graduating class had a grand total of 70 people in it, graduating with a college class of over 4,000 took a little longer than I had anticipated. Sitting twenty-some rows back from the stage in the same arena I had seen Rob Zombie, Incubus, Chingy, and Ja Rule, in between two people I only vaguely knew from the few times I actually showed up to class, I really wasn't paying much attention to the motivational speeches intended to "jump start" my entrance into adulthood.

Quite honestly, the cheap Josten's polyester robe was making me sweaty and chaffy (is that a word?), and sitting on sticky sweaty ass for three hours kind of dampens the thrill of the culmination of four years of hard work.

I won't lie. I didn't really work THAT hard in college. I showed up to class maybe half to 75% of the time, rarely took notes, occasionally slept, and frequently texted people from my discreet seat, usually somewhere in the third or fourth row. Yet when test time came around, or final papers and projects were due, I always came through in the clutch. It was the double-edged sword that was my blessing and my curse. On the positive side, I was graduating college as valedictorian of my department and in four years to boot. But on the other hand, here I was, graduating with a very expensive piece of paper that I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with it. For all I was concerned, I was content being a waitress with part-time hours, full-time income, and no drug testing.

And so, with as much pomp and circumstance as I'd applied to the four years leading up to that evening, I graduated college with a pocket full of dreams, only minimal brain damage from four years of binge drinking, and looming student loans that were approaching as ominously as a geriatric in a mobilized Wal-Mart wheelchair.

Who knew that four months after graduating from one of the largest universities in the country I'd be sitting, equally as bored and annoyed, in the public assistance office.

I was flanked by a very large woman with three children under the age of five, all running around screaming (which I can't help but assume they learned from her, as much as she was screaming at them) and a man who smelled a lot like our kitchen when I let the dishes go about a week without washing. I sat there with my $400 Coach purse, my Tiffany bracelet (a graduation gift), and my carefully manicured toes, wondering how the hell I got here, and why it is I couldn't master the system like my current peers in waiting apparently had.

I don't know quite how I got here. But it's quite an interesting story to tell.