wealhtheow

Syphilis

Do you have syphilis? Only a test can answer that.

It's not important how you get syphilis. It's only important that you get it treated, because it can cause serious harm to your body.

Lately, the buses have been covered in PSAs with the above text (both in English and espagnole). The graphic for the latter is a rather contemplative-looking woman. She appears to be thinking hard about how she might have gotten syphilis. Was it the massive orgy back in college? That wild night in Vegas a few months ago? Or perhaps something simpler, a little closer to home.

The signs are plastered all over the bus, so there's really no way to avoid them. I understand syphilis is a growing problem, and to say it can do lasting damage if left  untreated is an understatement at best. But do I really need to be reminded of the ravages of the French disease every morning and every evening? My commute is unpleasant enough as it is without eyeing my fellow bus passengers and wondering how many have syphilis. And the worst part is, were I to ask them, they probably couldn't tell me. Only a test can answer that question.

UPDATE: Y'all, I just had my 16-week appointment with the OB. And sure enough, the test has answered that question. I do not have syphilis. I was pretty sure I didn't, but thanks to the good work of the signs, I knew I couldn't be absolutely sure. But now I can rest easy.

names

R and I have decided we're most likely not going to reveal the name  of the expected progeny until said progeny makes an appearance itself. We'll see how well we stick to that plan, but since we don't actually have names picked out yet, it's not that difficult.

I was discussing names with my mom a couple months ago, and I told her the name I really want for a boy (not saying here in an attempt to stick to The Plan). She said, "Oh. Really? I had a dog with that name." A few minutes later, I told her of The Plan in regards to names and the revealing of. She wondered what that was all about, noting that it seems to be a new trend. I told her that it was two-fold--we plan on finding out the sex of the baby and telling people, so keeping the name to ourselves will be a nice secret between the two of us. Also, people are significantly less likely to make derogatory cracks about a name after it has a baby to go with it. My mom said "People don't really do that, do they?" I said "You'd be surprised." She said "Like what kind of things do they say?" Then she paused, and said, "Things like 'I used to have a dog with that name,' huh?" Bingo, mom!

Fortunately all the prospective grandparents are cool about that issue. They know they had their chance to name their kids, and they know that we're the only ones who get to make this decision. Ideally we'd like to pick names to honor family members, but we'll see. I don't want to lock myself into anything. R very much wants to name a girl with a name beginning with M to honor his grandmother, but he doesn't like any of the M names I suggest. Actually, the only names he's suggested are the names of people in his family. Which, although I'm not opposed to naming the baby after someone in his family, the kid is already getting his last name. And I'm the one who has to push the baby out, so I feel like maybe it would be nice to also honor my family as well, especially since I lost my grandmother just a few months after Rick lost his. And although I was very close to Rick's grandmother, I'd hate to feel like I was ignoring my own grandmother. Maybe we'll just pick the top 5 names we like and put them into a hat and let fate decide.

A boy's name would be much easier. I promised Rick's grandmother several years ago that we'd use a name with the first letter S, to honor her husband. Since my grandfather's name also begins with S, we could use the name to honor both our paternal grandfathers. Although it's Jewish tradition to name kids after dead relatives, what isn't quite as widely known is that it is Sephardic tradition to name kids after living relatives--and for whatever reason, that's the tradition Rick's family has followed. So I don't have a problem naming the kid after his mom or my mom or anything like that.

Right now we're calling the kid "Slagathor" for a girl and "Lando Calrissian" for a boy. Just think of all the tail Lando Calrissian would get in high school!

Wordslut!!

On the counter next to the fax at the office, we have a little daily calendar put out by the Princeton Review. It's one of those word-of-the-day calendars, and I imagine should contain a list of hard-core vocabulary.

Y'all, I know I'm a certifiable wordslut, but really, is "redoubtable" not a commonly known word?* Jesus Christ.

Also, I am deeply in love with people who take the time to come up with new palindromes. And I find it rather disappointing that "palindrome" itself, isn't.

*Still, nothing, nothing, beats my crushing disappointment when I learned that Gloria Steinem isn't a household name.

Hopefully back for good (like you haven't heard that one before)

So in case you haven't heard the news (which y'all have because there are only 2 of you who read this), I'm having me a damn baby!

I'm now (sort of) officially in the second trimester (depending on whose count you go by) at 14 weeks 4 days. That first trimester--not so much fun. Morning sickness (which incidentally can hit at any time) is nothing compared to the deep bone-crushing fatigue that is just now beginning to lift its ugly soul-destroying head. A fatigue so complete that I was unable to do any housework for over a month. A fatigue so complete that I was driven to re-reading old Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter (and Buffy Wannabe) novels instead of anything good. A fatigue so complete that the very idea of putting together enough original thought and effort to compose a post, even a 3-word one, left me cowering and gibbering in a corner of the couch. Also fun? Rampant acne, the kind not seen since my teenage years. Fortunately that's clearing up as well.

But now I'm in the feel-good trimester--and I'm waiting to feel good. There's been a little tiny bit of spotting, which sends regular hormonal-driven anxiety into overdrive. As I remarked to R this morning, "If I need to squint and peer and examine the toilet paper in different lights to determine if there's a tinge of pink or brown, there's probably actually nothing there to be concerned about, huh?" To his enormous and eternal credit, he just nodded and smiled, instead of hauling me off to the loony bin post haste.

R has been ridiculously excited about this whole turn of events, which is gratifying beyond words. He thanks me every day for carrying the baby (which makes me nervous, because OH MY GOD WHAT IF I DROP THE BABY) and he has even purchased a first mother's day gift of maternity pajamas, this fulling my long-held fantasy of receiving  a pajama gram of my very own. He's taken over the vast majority of the housework--something I'm hoping to change now that I'm starting to get a little bit more energy back.

I'm starting to show. Not enough to really look pregnant, but enough to look like I plowed my way through a couple boxes of Cheezits and a half-gallon of ice cream. I look nothing so much as terrifically bloated, but am wearing maternity pants because surely it is Not Good For the Baby to be stuffing my belly into my old pants. I know the extra lump is baby, but it will be really nice to have that apparent to the rest of the world. I feel like getting one of those shirts that defensively proclaims "BABY!" so that total strangers on the Metro know that I haven't just been binging away. Sometimes I realize how insane I am, because does anyone really look at other people during the commute and play "Fat or Pregnant?" And if the answer is yes, please don't tell me.