Maternity clothes: expectation

Maternity clothes: Expectation

Step 1: Avoid buying maternity clothes for as long as possible. Shift to wearing your “fat pants,” jersey skirts, dresses with empire waists, and any blouses that will still button over your suddenly gigantic boobs. (Beware of unexpected cleavage in shirts that were once work-appropriate.)

Step 2: When Step 1 no longer does the trick, buy a few items in a size larger than you usually wear. Feel smug for not investing too much money in maternity clothes.

Step 3: Discover that larger sizes no longer solve your problem–your belly cannot be contained. Order lots of maternity clothes with the intention of returning most of them.* Surely something will look cute!

Step 4: Try on maternity clothes. Discover that nothing fits because maternity size charts are bullshit.** Return everything except for two blouses and an unflattering pair of casual shorts that you have to keep yanking up over your hips, because you’re going hiking this weekend and you’re desperate.

Step 5: See an unflattering photo of yourself in said shorts and a pre-maternity t-shirt. Realize your “baby bump” is in fact a two-tier lump of belly flab; Google this phenomenon and learn that it’s called a “B belly” and is “common in obese women.” Also, realize your boobs look like udders. Shove t-shirt into bottom of laundry basket, then cry. A lot.

Step 6: Halfheartedly place a few more orders for maternity clothes in different sizes. Then google “cow costume” because obviously you are now a cow and might as well dress like one.

Maternity clothes: Reality

Maternity clothes: Reality

See, this is what happens when people who are bad at shopping are allowed to become pregnant. Memo to self: next time just go right for the muumuu.


* Most maternity lines seem to be online-only affairs, presumably because pregnant women should be kept from human eyes and do not belong in shopping malls with normal people.

** OK, I do have one real tip. Most maternity clothes tell you to just order your pre-pregnancy size — e.g., “4 Maternity” if you used to wear a 4. HOWEVER, this advice doesn’t take much account of different body types. If, like me, you carry most of your weight in your hips and thighs and usually buy the “curvy” fit pants, size up when you buy maternity pants or shorts.

Any other real tips to pass on?

So I haven’t updated this blog in quite a long time. To be honest I felt like I ran out of things to write about — and there were also things afoot (pun intended) that took me out of the alcohol-blogging game for a while.


Yep, I’m 19 weeks pregnant!

The ultrasound tech told us it’s a little boy and even printed out snapshots of his, uh, boy parts, helpfully labeled “BOY.” I am not posting those because a) even with the label those pictures look like a bunch of blur to me, and b) I feel that it really should be Baby’s choice whether pictures of his boy parts appear on the internet, a choice that he will ideally make after the age of NEVER.

So that’s what’s going on with me! I have to admit I’ve had an easy pregnancy so far — very little morning sickness, no weird cravings or wild emotional swings, just a propensity for napping. But no matter the symptoms pregnancy is an odd time. This is our first kid and we’re staring down the barrel of a massive life change, one that I don’t think you can ever be quite prepared for no matter how much you try to prepare. It’s also a bit lonely to do this so far from family or a real network of friends — I realized this week that it’s unlikely I’ll get to have a baby shower, for instance, which made me kind of sad. Finally, I’m planning to use my maternity leave as a chance to re-evaluate my career path (that longed-for tenure track job, alas, never materialized, and is unlikely to do so given the age of my PhD), which comes with its own raft of anxiety and uncertainty and sheer blind terror.

But: tiny little baby feet! A first grandchild for my parents to cuddle, the first great-grandson on my mom’s side, a little cousin for my nephew to play with,* and a whole new little person to bring into our home! And life changes are scary but staying in one place because of fear is no way to live, or at least that’s what the inspirational poster I saw on Pinterest told me.

Now, can someone please tell me how to pick a name? Or what stroller I should buy? Or how many dinosaur onesies is too many? (Kidding about that last one, obviously there is no way to have too many dinosaur onesies.)

A must-have for a December baby.


* Or, more likely, “regard with bemused boredom until he becomes old enough to boss around.”

Scene: A tired woman – me – has just finished showing her soon-to-be-former landlord around an empty and freshly cleaned apartment. The inspection has lasted a solid half hour but miraculously, he has found nothing wrong. The end is in sight.

I hand him the keys.

Him: “Can you please remind me which key is which?”
Me: “Of course!”
(My brain: please oh please give me back my security deposit and let me go home soon)
Him: “What is this key?”
Me: “That is the key to the storage unit.”
Him: “The key to the storage unit?”
Me: “Yep, to the storage unit.”
Him: “Did I give you this key?”
Me: “Yes, you did.”
Him (slightly accusingly): “You made a copy!”
Me (confused): “No, no copies, that is the original.”
Him: “Then which is the copy?”
Me: “There are no copies, Landlord. There is only the original key you gave us.”
Him: “Ah, I see. And this is the storage unit key I gave you?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “This key?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “And you did not make a copy? This is the key I gave you?”
Me (trying to conceal my impatience): “Yes.”
Him: “Ah, OK. And what does this next key do?”

There were six keys on that key ring, FYI. But the story has a happy ending: we got our security deposit back and we’re in our new apartment!

I am flying home this week to see my family in Colorado. I wish I could view this as a delightful break from Boston apartment-hunting, but in reality, going home has become so anxiety-inducing that my stomach curled into a stress ball the second I bought the tickets.

Visiting home is just so INTENSE. My parents want me to do things for them, and with them, and are inevitably hurt if I say no or ask to do something different. The quiet alone time that I need to recharge is often interpreted as a rejection, and this has been a tough semester — I’m feeling pretty damned depleted already. Also, my brother is so volatile that spending time with him feels like navigating a minefield while juggling chainsaws.

But what’s really got me nervous is my dad and my stepmom. See, I made a critical mistake with this year’s Christmas gift.

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Apartment hunting

After some disappointing news about a job I really wanted but didn’t get, I thought it might cheer me up to do something I’ve been dreaming about for years: find a new apartment.

Apparently I am too stupid to remember how much “fun” (read: not fun) apartment hunting is.

Here’s our situation. Our current apartment is relatively cheap, in a good location, and has some really nice amenities (1 covered parking spot, air conditioning, in-unit laundry, a huge master bedroom). The problem is the decor hasn’t been updated since the Reagan administration – and no, I’m probably not exaggerating.

The beige carpet, aka the bane of my existence, is ancient and grimy and only marginally improves with professional cleaning. The walls are also beige and the lease says no painting. The doorknobs are brass and the cabinets are Euro-style. It’s lacking in closet space and gets little light. I know there are worse apartments out there, but there are some days when I look around me and want to cry about the blandness, darkness, and overall tiredness of the space. I’ve tried sprucing it up with new curtains and light fixtures and colorful pillows but it just feels like putting lipstick on a pig. Also, we would really love more space for guests and/or our own elliptical machine.

I’ve been itching to move for a couple of years, but we haven’t pulled the trigger (see: good location, relatively cheap rent, plus my husband is totally content here). This year I decided to dip my toes into the water and see what was out there.

So far? In the past week, we’ve seen four apartments — not a huge number, I know, but enough to get a sense of what the market looks like. And so far the market looks … not promising. My escape from Planet Beige is feeling increasingly unlikely. Send help. And maybe also pies.

Imagine this color on your floors, walls, ceilings, cabinets, and appliances. Then add brass finishings. That’s our place.

Imagine this color on your floors, walls, ceilings, cabinets, and appliances. Then add brass finishings. That’s our place.

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A quick but delicious cocktail entry this week, folks. A couple of weeks ago I made a gigantic batch of rosemary-infused simple syrup to make Ophelias for a dinner party. The next night S and I enjoyed another round of Ophelias, but then I began wondering what else I could do with rosemary syrup. I decided to keep it simple and try a vodka martini version of the Ophelia.

You guys know where I stand on the vodka-vs-gin debate (hint: it’s with gin) but this is pretty damn yummy. Also, it’s easy. Delicious lazy-person recipes like this are why I don’t make my own bitters, people.

You can tell we just had a dinner party because our tablecloth came out of storage.

You can tell we just had a dinner party because our tablecloth came out of storage.

Rosemary-Lemon Martini (Makes 2)

3 oz vodka
1.5 oz rosemary syrup (recipe here)
1.5 oz lemon juice

Combine all ingredients in an ice-filled cocktail shaker. Shake until cold and strain into martini glasses.

Emboldened by my success with the Pina Colada, I decided to try my hand at a strawberry daiquiri — inspired, in no small part, by the unbelievably gorgeous strawberries beckoning me from the farmer’s market. But after some unsuccessful tries I had to admit that maybe the strawberry daiquiri just wasn’t my thing. Rum and strawberries isn’t a combination that has enough wow factor to get me excited about making one.

A strawberry margarita, on the other hand? That’s a winner on a hot summer day. Strawberries and tequila, as it turns out, are a match made in a very boozy heaven.


Strawberry Margarita
6 oz. strawberries, pureed in a blender (about 3/4 cup pureed strawberries)
10 T. white tequila
4 T. lime juice
3 T. Cointreau
2T. simple syrup

Get out your blender. Blend your strawberries first–try to get them pretty well pureed. Then add the tequila, lime juice, Cointreau, and simple syrup to the blender.  Blend some more.  Serve in an ice-filled glass with a salted rim (not shown here, but definitely recommended). Garnish with a small strawberry if desired.

Alternate serving suggestion: if you like frozen margaritas, add around 1 cup of ice to the blender, and skip the ice in the glasses.


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