Those four years, I wrote compulsively, afraid I’d one day forget the details of days that were starting to melt and months that were starting to blend. At 18 I started marking time by reference to days out drinking and categorizing eras according to romantic interests of the moment. In between the bleeding, blurry, evenings, I documented the color of the leaves in my morning tea, described the exact shade of gold flecks found in his eyes only in a certain light, and recorded the pattern of sunlight creeping in through the pergola on the cafe patio. I was wearing a plaid skirt and fishnet shirt that day, and carefully noted clouds in my coffee on lunch break. This was the summer I worked in a teeny bopper retail store; on this particular day, my friends had gone skydiving.

I did not know that when I was 33 I’d read the deliberate loops and lines and still could not remember anyway; familiar though the handwriting may be, it was as if it was written by a stranger. This stranger was a bit neurotic and disjointed, vaguely touched by hackneyed angst. The whiskey-laden scrawls on some of the pages were less grand than Jack Daniels would have you believe, but rather, vacillated between nonsense and maudlin nostalgia. The stranger woke up at 9:00 in the morning on a Saturday one weekend (early for her), to a phone call from an old man from the coffee shop who wanted to talk about nothing in particular. She thought he had meant to call her friend, but she ended up talking to him anyway, after taking a seat on the kitchen counter of the sorority house, apple in hand.

The next time I saw the old man, he told me the tragic tale of his wife inexplicably leaving him, fleeing to Japan, and absconding with their child, when in reality he had been convicted of possession of child porn.

I eventually went skydiving, and it felt like flying, but I didn’t write about it.


Vietnamese Coffee

Even as the more vivid details of our Vietnam vacation recede into the ever more distant past, something as simple as Vietnamese coffee with condensed milk can bring it all back on occasion. This past weekend, I took just a sip and was reminded of the days at our resort in Phu Quoc, when we developed a brief ritual of taking a seat by the window in the restaurant level of our resort, and starting the day with a small cup and saucer of Vietnamese coffee.

We followed our coffee with a combination of breakfast treats, including a pho bar and bahn mi. Aside from the smorgasboard of Vietnamese delights, there was a large selection of western morning foods as well, though we avoided the boring fare, like cereal. We concluded the daily decadence with an assortment of tropical fruits, my favorite being passion fruit, though the juicy dragon fruit and mango were equally memorable. The juices from these fruits trickled down the back of my hands, dried there, and interacted with the island sun, causing a strange dark patch to appear. I discovered that what I initially thought was a sunspot (expanding at a freakish rate) was actually a temporary tropical fruit scar when I casually consulted with a physician friend via Gmail.

While on the island of Phu Quoc, every morning, we ate and drank slowly in this way, enjoying the contrast between the smoky, dark coffee, and the pellucid, bright island atmosphere, treating ourselves to the ocean view and sea breeze floating in through the gigantic windows like a quiet new dream.


He wrote insincere love letters that were genuine only the minute the pencil was on the paper

She could not turn him into a poet or an artist

So she diluted his memory like the others

Intending to shed him like a transient snakeskin but

His scent originated from a purple star and she could smell it in the streets

On other people’s skin, savage and indelible

Irvine II

she was walking and the paper bag was ready to tear out of her hand from the weight of the hard rain and daydreaming she absorbed the whole cosmos of the winter day into the folds of her brain, streams of hot hatred searing through sulci and gyri until she walked through the double doors of home

found her place before her computer and received communications in cold flashes from an old high school friend who had killed over 50 people in Iraq. because of the lack of tone she could not tell if he was bragging or repenting but she suspected he enjoyed it and thought of his nondescript, beady eyes, slightly pock-marked face, slender frame, easy demeanor, as she knew him before, and shuddered until she closed the laptop lid and infused into a quiet suburban memory.

she had stars and moons in her pocket and a dull tomorrow which promised to lose itself in a mad Los Angeles rush, broken light slipping through cracks of graceless nights, vanishing with feckless abandon and levity into the thinnest dust on its final course

and he had dead bodies rotting eye sockets and a putrid childhood left in a foreign land.

Preggo Complaints

I am making this list because I have read from more than one source that evolution is such that a woman conveniently forgets the discomforts of pregnancy and labor, because if she didn’t, she’d be less inclined to reproduce quite as frequently. This is concerning because I believe in making informed decisions, and if my own experiences and recollections are going to be erased, it seems I would not be making as informed of a decision as is ideal the next time around. I’m only coming up on week 20 here though, so surely this is not a comprehensive description and there will be more to come.


I previously erroneously assumed that peeing at all hours of the night was only a thing once your belly was quite large and the uterus began to push on the bladder. I was disappointed to learn that waking up 2+ times a night begins almost immediately, because your body is in the process of creating more blood and fluids, and your kidneys are working in overdrive! This was certainly a surprise to me. The good news: It only lasted for 4 months, and for the last couple of weeks, I have been sleeping straight through the night again. Whew. I know, enjoy it while I can.

Bad Sleep

I am a champion sleeper when not pregnant. I have the ability to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, and very few things can disrupt my sleep, including earthquakes, doors slamming, or my cats meowing for food. Sometimes, a cat has to give me a pretty good chomp on the hand to wake me up, and even then, I fall back asleep easily. It is only upon hearing one of my cats chew off a piece of our bed frame in hunger that I have felt guilty enough to come to consciousness (this has happened before). However, pregnancy has changed this. Obviously, waking up to go pee is partially to blame, but there are other contributors, like hormones, probably. I found that I often could not fall asleep, and/or would wake up earlier than I wanted even if I was extremely tired. Or, I would wake up to pee for the second or third time, and then not be able to fall back asleep for 3 hours. The good news: The body pillow really helped. In the last couple of weeks, I haven’t needed it, but I did find it of immediate use when I first got it.


Mine wasn’t even that bad, and part of me thinks I don’t even have a right to complain. But it still sort of sucks and even though I did not throw up, for several hours a day, I would feel carsick. Foods I usually loved sounded disgusting. The only things that sounded remotely appetizing were gummy bears and white bread (super healthy). There are still foods I don’t want to eat now because I ate them while nauseous and they continue to seem unpleasant, two months later. The good news: I thought forgoing beer would be difficult, but it turns out the idea of beer is rather vile when you feel constantly carsick.


Even when I did sleep enough, there were 3 weeks where it was really difficult to get through the work day. Every advice column says to be liberal with naps and to take them as needed, but this simply isn’t realistic. First of all, I have always abhorred naps. I am not able to cut them off at 30 minutes to an hour, and I wake up 3 hours later in a dazed, foul, mood, feeling like I’ve wasted my life. This meme accurately captures my feeling about naps:

That being the case, I’d theoretically be open to naps under these new circumstances, but honestly, who takes naps at work? I have a nice private office, but there’s no couch, and I’m not going to sprawl out in the office lobby sofa to snooze for 20 minutes while everyone else goes about their business. That is not comfortable, and I probably would not be able to fall asleep under those circumstances anyway.

By the time I got home, getting the motivation to work out was pretty much a fantastical notion. I just wanted to sprawl on the couch and do nothing. A sedentary activity like reading was tolerable, but sometimes I would fall asleep while reading. This was the time I really needed a nap, after slogging through the work day, but does it really make sense to take a nap at 6:00 p.m., wake up at 7:00 p.m., then go to bed two hours later? Because that’s about how late I was able to stay up regardless of how much sleep I was getting, so why waste one more hour of the day being unconscious?

Overall, I really felt like I needed 10 hours of sleep a night to sort of feel normal the next day, get through work, and not need to go to bed at 8:00 p.m. Even when I did get enough sleep though, I lacked energy overall and could not do the things I wanted to do, or enjoy things I normally enjoy. Everything seemed like a monumental task, even activities I usually like. Fatigue cast a bland, dull pall over the luster of life. Everything was tiring, boring, or too much. I ended up watching a lot of telly, and then hating myself for it, because I hate telly and felt like a waste of life. Good times. The good news: This was only really bad for like 2-3 weeks and in this time, I tore through My Man Jeeves; Right Ho, Jeeves; Rebecca; and Expecting Better (a highly recommended read for preggos).


Within 3 weeks of finding out I was pregnant, I felt like I aged 10 years. Hills I previously sprinted with regularity had me huffing and puffing. I could not even finish running up one particularly steep hill I used to jog frequently with no problem (had been doing it for 3+ years). The boring, 20-minute jog we usually do became too much, and I had to stop and walk in the middle. This was very frustrating, as it felt like I was working out 3-4 times a week only to increasingly grow out of shape.

Getting Fat

This needs no explanation. You can’t control it. You’re supposed to gain weight, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. I crave foods I don’t normally crave, and am open to ingesting all kinds of desserts I never touched before. I rarely used to buy ice cream. If I did, it would be a small container once, at most twice a year, and it was exclusively Haagen Dazs’s rum raisin. But when I was about 10 weeks pregnant, we were at CVS with a friend picking up pain medications after his vasectomy (isn’t the juxtaposition beautiful?), and I suddenly wanted cookies and cream ice cream. Really weird. I thought my weight gain would be slower, having cut out approximately 1,000 calories in beer a week, but I was sorely mistaken. There were weekends where I probably ingested more calories in sugar and desserts than any thing else. A new and unwelcome phenomenon.


This does not seem to be a common complaint, as far as I can tell, and maybe it was exacerbated with the dry winter weather, but I itch all over.  I have read it is caused by stretching skin, but I find myself frequently scratching my belly and boobs like a monkey. Super attractive and fun.


I have not felt this angsty since  I was 19. I cannot pinpoint it as anything other than a generalized feeling without a specific rational basis. I feel the need to write and vent a lot, as evidenced by my frequent, rambling, posts beginning March 17.


I’ve been quite honest with people who ask me about my thoughts, and have offered that I feel fearful. I’ve been reassured that I will make a “great” parent. While I’m not sure about “great” (though I’ll surely try), I do figure I am reasonably competent and responsible enough to you know, not totally ruin or kill a human being. That’s not really what I’m worried about.

I’ve never been anyone but me, and never lived a life for anyone but chiefly myself; quite frankly, I’ve been quite content this way, and now it all feels like it is coming to an end in some ways. My freedom will be significantly diminished, friendships and relationships are prone to change, and priorities will undoubtedly shift. Although I’m getting used to the idea, in the first month, I felt very much like I’d leaped off of a cliff without looking below.

My mother was a published author before I was born. Fuck. Is there some – or a lot of shit I gotta get done in the next 5 months? Goddamn.