Pregnancy

All’s Fair in Parking and Pregnancy

Feb 26, 2009 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Pregnancy | Tags: Personal

I drove all the way — yes, all 12 miles — to Sherman Oaks today for my Maternity Clothes Shopping Premiere, because the only maternity clothes available in West Hollywood are $100 fitted tees announcing “My lovely baby bump” with the requisite arrow splashed out in rhinestones. And I am just not precious (or rich) enough for that kind of t-shirt. Even though my body is not yet in prime maternity wardrobe shape — onlookers are more likely to assume I’m ready to give birth to a six-pack of Heineken than a bouncing baby girl at this point in my pregnancy — I just feel like I need to have those maternity pieces in my closet for that moment the button on my regular jeans finally says, “GIVE IT UP ALREADY, WOMAN!” and pops off in search of a less stressful life of unemployment under my bed.

Not to mention I desperately wanted to walk around the mall with my A Pea in the Pod shopping bag, so that passersby could finally make the connection that I am 18 weeks pregnant with child, and not with beer. Because, you know, I’m sure EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD is wondering. Yes, it’s true. Everybody.

‘Round and ’round I went in that damn shopping mall parking lot looking for a space, blindly following an army of other drivers who steadfastly REFUSED to park on the second or third levels. ‘Cause heaven forbid our lazy asses should have to walk more than ten steps to the mall entrance in the gawd awful 70-degree L.A. weather. After a while, The Search almost become a competition. Like, if THOSE drivers aren’t willing to park in the second-tier spaces, hell if I will either!

Then I saw it. It beckoned to me. But did I dare? I couldn’t tear my eyes away:

Did I dare?

I know, I know… those spots are meant for, like, really pregnant chicks. Really, really. As in, so-pregnant-they-could-end up-delivering-in-front-of-the-Wetzel’s-Pretzels-stand-pregnant (SPTCEUDIFOTWPSP). And yet, I felt like I’d paid my pregnant lady dues. I was so nauseous during my first trimester, a mere whiff of Hubba Bubba brought me to my knees. My breasts feel like water balloons. I now suffer from a lovely thing called pregnancy rhinitis, which gives me a good, oh, two-to-three hours of sleep a night. I AM A ZOMBIE LADY WITH WATER BALLOON BOOBIES BECAUSE OF THIS BABY, DAMMIT! DO I NOT DESERVE THE SAME PARKING SPACE RIGHTS AS A WADDLING NINE-MONTH-PREGNANT LADY WHO, I MIGHT ADD, IS NOT EVEN USING THIS SPACE RIGHT NOW?!

You’re right. I don’t. But I took it, anyway.

Appalled by my behavior? You’ll be happy to know that not even fifteen minutes later I was using the restroom facilities — when am I not these days? — when a fellow bathroom goer slammed her stall door, causing my hastily locked door to FLY WIDE OPEN and expose part of my fat pregnant belly and unmentionables (I was wearing a dress, thankyouverymuch) to a line of unimpressed ladies waiting outside.

Yes, I’m sure they assumed it was a beer gut. And, yes, Karma is still cackling.

But at least I only had to walk ten steps. Suckas!

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Fun at Quiznos

Feb 22, 2009 | Filed Under: Pregnancy | Tags: Personal

INT. QUIZNOS SUB SHOP — WEST HOLLYWOOD — DAY

ZOOM ON CANDY’S FOUR-AND-A-HALF-MONTH PREGNANT STOMACH, which growls loudly enough to throw local seismologists into a tizzy, then:

CANDY:

I’d like a small sandwich with just turkey, cheese and lettuce on wheat, please.

SANDWICH MAN:

So you want guacamole with that?

CANDY:

No. Just turkey, cheese and lettuce.

SANDWICH MAN:

(AS HE GRABS A HANDFUL OF TOMATOES AND ONIONS)

What kind of cheese?

CANDY:

Mozzarella. Um, I said ONLY turkey, cheese and lettuce?

SANDWICH MAN:

(AS HE ANGRILY DUMPS THE TOMATOES AND ONIONS IN THE TRASH)

Fine. Cheddar cheese?

CANDY:

Mozz-a-rell-a. JUST turkey. Lettuce. Mozzarella.

SANDWICH MAN furiously slices the bread, fantasizing that the wheat bun is CANDY’s head, then shoves the clearly complicated sandwich into the revolving oven. CANDY anxiously awaits the arrival of her toasted sub on the other side of the oven, her stomach now growling vociferously enough to make the nearby Doberman Pinscher cower in fear. Then Candy sees it — the unimaginable has happened:

CANDY:

OMIGOD, HOW DID I END UP WITH TOMATOES?! I AM A HUNGRY PREGNANT CHICK WHO JUST WANTS A FREAKING TURKEY AND CHEESE SANDWICH, DAMMIT!

Well, either that, or Candy meekly paid for her tomato-laden sandwich and puttered home, where she lamely picked the tomatoes off her sandwich, cursed the Sandwich Man to her unsympathetic cats — and vowed to get pizza next time.

Mmmm… did somebody say pizza? (What are YOU looking at? It’s been a whole half hour since I’ve eaten. And I am a HUNGRY PREGNANT CHICK, dammit!)

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The Laughing Stork Guide: How to Answer Inappropriate Questions When You’re Pregnant

Feb 20, 2009 | Filed Under: Pregnancy | Tags: Guide, People Have Balls

From the moment the stick revealed two lines, I started mentally preparing myself for pregnancy and parenthood: from the ballooning belly to the unwelcome 3AM wake-up calls from Candy Junior. However, nothing has prepared me for one particularly startling development.

My boobs have suddenly become everybody’s business.

“So I assume you’re going to breastfeed,” one of Mr. Candy’s male friends casually inquired.

Um, what?

This dude may have been the first to ask about The State of My Breasts, but he has been far from the last — and I still have almost five months of pregnancy remaining. Which led me to thinking… how can I have some warped fun with these audacious people?

Thus, a new Laughing Stork Guide™ is born: How to Answer Inappropriate Questions When You’re Pregnant.

QUESTION: Are you breastfeeding?

ANSWER: Oh, no, thank you. I’m a vegetarian.

QUESTION: You’re not going to let yourself get too big, are you?

For male inquirers:

ANSWER: No, I plan to stay as small as possible. Like your penis.

For female inquirers:

ANSWER: No, I plan to stay as small as possible. Like your I.Q.

QUESTION: Do you want a boy or a girl?

ANSWER: Yes.

QUESTION: How on earth can you raise children in the city?!

ANSWER: Like all other city parents have before us: by letting the kid play in the busy streets, making him grab a cab to pre-school, and hiring the homeless man in the park to be our manny. Duh.

QUESTION: I bet your husband hopes you’ll give him a son to carry on the family name, huh?

ANSWER: Not necessarily. Since we know you, we have more than enough dicks in our life.

QUESTION: Was your baby planned?

ANSWER: No, that asshole of a mailman told me he was fixed!

QUESTION: How much weight have you gained?

ANSWER: Enough to make your life pretty miserable when I sit on you.

Ed. note: Too polite?

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Ultrasound Reveals… A Belly Party?

Feb 19, 2009 | Filed Under: Featured,Pregnancy | Tags: Personal

Now, I am no doctor, but something about our little girl’s 12-week ultrasound struck me as… curious:

Candy Junior

Unusual, no? I thought the baby was supposed to be the size of a lime at that stage — not have a lime in her fruity cocktail? Yet there she is, smirking and totally chilling in her hammock with a Daiquiri! *SIGH* I don’t remember reading anything about this in What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

In all honesty, the ultrasound technician laughed when she saw Baby posing like that and did indeed say, “Looks like all baby needs is a cocktail in there!”

That’s our kid, all right.

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One Bonus of Pregnancy

Feb 18, 2009 | Filed Under: Pregnancy,Style | Tags: Stylin'

The amazing maternity wardrobe options being sold on the Internet:

Stylin'

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The Virgin Pregnancy

Feb 18, 2009 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Pregnancy | Tags: Mama Likes Margaritas, Personal

Pre-Virgin Pregnancy Candy

The Virgin Pregnancy is a strange time for many women. I’m not referring to an immaculate conception, which is a miraculous occurrence reserved for, as some believe, the Baby Jesus and, according to my Aunt Sharon, for my cousin Michelle. Because, even 36 years later, Aunt Sharon still insists that she did not have sexual relations preceding the arrival of her firstborn.

And if somebody swears s/he did “not have sexual relations,” we know it must be true.

No, I am referring to the miserable nine-month window during which us party girls-turned-baby mamas must refrain from letting sweet, sweet, forbidden alcohol pass our lips. No more Guinness, a.k.a. “nectar of the gods.” No more margaritas, a.k.a. “party in a glass.” Just strictly virgin drinks, a.k.a. “no fun for mama-to-be” for 273.931649 days.

Not that I’m, um, counting down the days or anything.

The most trying part of the Virgin Pregnancy is, of course, the first three months. Mr. Candy and I were not yet comfortable telling non-family members the Big News, so going out with friends — who expect me to buy the first round of tequila shots and finish whatever their pussy-ass tolerances can’t handle — was interesting, to say the least. Among my arsenal of excuses:

“I’m recovering from the stomach flu!”

“I’m laying off alcohol to lose weight!”

“I’m the designated driver tonight! Yes, that’s right — I spontaneously and suspiciously decided to volunteer for that position for the first time EVER!”

“I’ve seen the light and become a born-again Soberologist!”

“I’ve entered AA.”

Sadly, friends only seemed to buy the last excuse. Don’t understand why that is?

Now if you’ll pardon me as I get back to my calculations… hey, check that out: only 152.931649 more days to go!

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