A Pregnant Lady Walks Into a Party . . .

First, thank you *so* much for all of your lovely comments, emails, and Tweets! Even this cold-hearted Ice Queen has been thawed by your overwhelming outpouring of support. From the bottom of my - uh, womb? - thank you.

Second, in sympathy with the non-pregnant, non-kid singleton or married types reading the following story, this is much more about my being an ass than being pregnant. Sadly, I've found the latter does nothing to eradicate the former.

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Amongst my many pre-pregnancy jitters, I admit that one of my worries was, "What does a party look like for this shy type wino without the assistance of my kind friend, Cabernet*?" To my surprise and relief, navigating the social waters during these first few months of enforced sobriety has been much less miserable than I'd expected (dodging nosy questions about my sudden teetotaling notwithstanding).

*Baby names being what they are nowadays, I feel compelled to add that I'm speaking about Cabernet the wine varietal, not the inevitable exotic dancer of similar name. Oy.

So it was, all Smug Mothery, that I strolled into a large family birthday party last Saturday night, confident that this would be another festive evening full of my new favorite hobby, i.e. making fun of people getting sloshed. By "people" I should clarify that this particular fete of 60 included extended in-law family, Catholic clergy members, and my boss (who doubles as family friend).

As certified members of the Mommy Mafia can attest, the close friends or family members sworn to secrecy about early pregnancy news fall into two camps - (a) those who understand your desire to keep things quiet and comply easily and (b) those who literally seem to burst under the pressure of the secret, growing wild-eyed as they look for someone, anyone to drag the secret out of them. I'll let you surmise in which camp the Anonymous In-Laws, wonderful though they are, fell. Suffice it to say, by the day of this party, they were, uh, very excited to share the finally public news.

So as we sat down for dinner, I had an inkling that some sort of humiliating rousing toast to my fertility was coming, but me & Denial go back much farther than this baby business. Alas, not two minutes after the Anonymous Father-In-Law began his entertaining pre-dinner toast, the Anonymous Husband was suddenly called upon to "deliver the Good News"*.

*"Good News" is to pregnancy as "Big Day" is to weddings - totally overused and annoying. Let's agree to end it now. Thank you for your cooperation.

The AH, being a person of poise and great public speaking ability (*foreshadowing!*), stood and briefly told the room that we are expecting. The crowd politely applauded, the AH sat, and I breathed a sigh of relief, hopeful that we could now move on to the birthday guest of honor.

AND THEN - that's right, I'm going All Caps for a moment - the Anonymous Father-in-Law turned to me and inquired, "Mel, do you have anything to add?", as he grinned at the audience.

I, being a person neither of great poise nor public speaking ability, promptly turned to the crowd and proclaimed while nodding towards the AH:

"Uh, he did a great job!"

After a surprised pause, the room burst into laughter, and the AH beamed from ear to ear at me as if I'd offered him a gift-wrapped Megan F*ox for Christmas. I slowly slunk down into my chair as I turned to the AH, my face aflame as my words echoed through my head, and asked through gritted teeth,

"Did I just announce to the entire party that you did an impressive job of impregnating me?"

The unbridled & all too smug enthusiasm on his face confirmed my worst fears, which no amount of "mocktails" could assuage. As the shame of my Uptight White ancestors rung in my ears, horrified as they surely were at my having admitted to having s-e-x (as it was spelled out in my childhood home) (never mind that it was with my own personal husband), I tried to comfort myself with these thoughts - (a) surely I'll never be asked to give an impromptu speech at family events again? and (b) my "push present" had best be in the Hope Diamond category after this inadvertent AH ego boost.

And that, darlings, is how I accidentally informed a party full of approximately 10 nuns, one priest, my boss, my in-laws, and some 40-odd other people that my husband is a good lay. Merry Christmas!

Sitting in a Bar, a 10-Ish Year Retrospective*

(*10-ish years because I did not, of course, frequent bars 10 years ago when I was a mere 20 years old. Nope.)

Legallyblondemel Thought Process While Sitting in a Bar, Aged 21-Ish

"Ooh, look at that guy at the next table. Pretty shoulders. And I look OK in these jeans. AAACK, did I remember to put on deodorant? ((surreptitious sniff)) He looks like a Bret. Bret Jones. Hmmm, how does 'Mrs. Legallyblonde Jones' sound? Legallyblonde Jones, Legallyblonde Jones, la la la la wedding bells la la . . . oh, um, he left. Where's my jello shot?"

Legallyblondemel Thought Process While Sitting in a Bar This Weekend, Aged 30

"Ooh, look at that girl's shoes. Nordy's? I wonder if I can ask her. No, that would be too weird. She looks so cute and nice though & reminds me of friend X back home. Maybe I can send Anonymous Husband to ask her about the shoes. Oh, God, no - that really sends the wrong 'HBO Special' message. Geez, I'm the dumbest of the dumb. At least I look OK in these jeans. AH, where's the pinot?"

Conclusion

Swap out eyeballing potential husbands for potential friends, and not much has changed in 10-ish years. Except for the pinot, which is an excellent decision for many reasons (I'm looking at you, Rosarito Beach. And not through Corona-colored glasses this time). This whole making girlfriends after college & in a new town thing is a bit tricky. Raise your hand if you're with me!

How to Surprise and Embarrass Your Husband in Four Easy Steps

Step 1: Locate the family dog, preferably a foofy, male one. Add not just ONE pretty pastel tutu, but TWO pretty pastel tutus, to said dog.

Step 2: Take pictures of the bedecked family dog while giggling furiously in manner of six-year-old schoolgirl.

Step 3: Without prior explanation or notice, email pictures like this to your husband:

(actual credit: Flickr, and the superfabulous ladies who care for the Pretty Mascot - yes, HRH Pug has Staff - took these photos, not me. I do not - repeat - DO NOT - dress my dog in costume on a regular or even semi-regular basis. I swear. Well, there might be the one sweater, but the Anonymous Husband was involved in that purchase. No, really! Exclamation point!!!)

Step 4: Wait approximately 1 minute or less while husband comes to a full boil; pick up angry telephone/ open furious email; stir, then serve (while giggling furiously in manner of six- year-old schoolgirl). Voila!

PS - Just kidding, Anonymous Husband! Love you! Exclamation point!!!