I met up with my somewhat defunct church group last night. One of my friends who is my age is pregnant for the first time. She was all cute and naive, like most pregnant women when they want to talk to their friends about all things baby. Also, she has a super cute baby bump. Also? She is tall and skinny.


I remember being pregnant for the first time, and asking people things about baby birthing and raising, and expecting polite and gentle answers from these women sharing the bonds of motherhood with me.

And then sobbing, face down, into my three chins and heaving belly when they told me stories of unimaginable horror and grisliness until I wanted to reach down and cover my vaginal opening so that my poor innocent baby would not have a chance hear of the terrors about to befall us both.

That title is not a euphemism for sex with an old dude or anything. I did that today. Made a turtle cry.

I took the kids to our podunk zoo this morning, to give my husband some time off. We got to the zoo right when it opened. (Because my two year old wakes up at 6:15 in the morning every day and demands things. Like food and a diaper change. I have been trying to show her how to do these things for herself. So far, no dice.)

At the zoo, on a Sunday, in the first hour that they open the gates? Not too many people there. So me and my two lovely children kept bumping into the same little blue haired ladies who were taking a morning constitutional amongst the animals. It gets awkward, you know? Bumping into the same two people all over the zoo.

I realize it's not as awkward as back in college, when you discover the guy with whom you drunkenly played tonsil hockey at the Frat party Saturday night is also the T.A. for the Chemistry class you Tuesday afternoon or anything.

This week, I am a blistery, bruised, pruned-up nipple. From which everybody I know has come over, sucked out my vital nutrients, and gnawed my skin raw with their neediness and emotional upheaval.

Children? Needy. Husband? Needy. Mother? Needy. Checker at the grocery store? Needy. Panhandler? Would give me a quarter to listen to him bitch until the light turns green.


I would pay him a hundred to STFU and let me have a moment to think.

Hi. I’m getting a D+ in Anne 301 this quarter. Halp!

I thought I’d put you guys in the driver’s seat and see if you can do any better. Just what you were looking for on a Tuesday! Acing the How to Be a Better Anne Pop Quiz!

Pencils ready? Go:

Went to the beach yesterday.

Had the whole world briefly in my hand. It smelled of low tide.

I just got a glossy letter in the mail, attempting to squeeze money out of my tightly clenched fist, in the name of my high school alma mater. Which was a boarding school, in case you are new here. Or not so new. It may have actually been years now since I mentioned this. Or maybe it was last week. Life is fuzzy here on the internet.

Anyway. Glossy brochure!

Something about people mentioning Twitter makes me want to pull my stretch pants up under my boobs* and scream out the window, "Get your damn twittering off my lawn!" Then go hit the early bird special. Those crazy kids.

In other news, I got very lonely to talk to real live people. About anything not related to parenting. My lame dinner parties weren't giving me any satisfaction. Possibly because I kept slapping guests with my white leather glove and saying, "I demand satisfaction!"** What did happen was most people looked at me funny and left.


Except that girl who slapped me back and then got naked. Failure all around.

And damnit, the internet entertains me:

I wanna be a pop star! Video that makes Nickleback funny. Impossible you say?


So would I have thought, but it is actually true.

I am scared about having another baby. There is no good way to write this without being inconsiderate to people you love. Like babies. Or your friends that are trying to have babies. Or who can’t have babies. Or other moms. Or the person with whom you are going to make babies. Or your parents. Or the pope.

Sorry Pope.

My husband’s birthday is coming up. Being a terrible wife with minimal insight into my husband’s interests and enjoyments, I hardly ever know what to get him. Mostly I put off thinking about it and then panic at the last minute and get him a sexual favor.


It saves on wrapping time.