Tag Archives: justin bieber

Who says cankles aren’t sexy?

Here’s a fun trivia game. Wanna guess how many times I’ve gotten up to pee while typing this sentence?


OK, OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a little. But only a little. Luckily I’m a pretty fast typist or it could have been true. Seriously, as if my constant snarting wasn’t bad enough, I now have to worry about wetting myself any time I do something more taxing than breathing (and sometimes even then it’s touch and go for a bit).


Yes, this week I officially crossed into “Nothing About You Is Sexy Anymore” territory. Also known as…(cue dramatic music)…The Third Trimester. And that’s not me being self-deprecating. That’s just being honest. I imagine from an evolutionary standpoint, the grossness of pregnant women at this stage is to keep potential predators away since said woman wouldn’t have been able to waddle up a tree to safety very quickly.


For example, my formerly cute little basketball belly is now an unwieldy giant sphere-like object that is constantly covered in food or dust or whatever else I happened to unknowingly rub it up against (stunned strangers in restaurants included). I now breathe like an old man who has smoked three packs a day for 67 years just from the effort of getting up off the couch (old man grunt included). As the temperatures get colder with each passing day, I get hotter, making for a nice permanent state of being in which I am always covered in sweat (Whoa! Calm down, fellas. I’m already taken).

And, of course, there is the drooling, the cankles, the giant Hobbit feet, the sausage fingers, the snoring and the eating like a linebacker. Lucky guy, that husband of mine.

Lucky, lucky guy.

(My boobs, however, still look phenomenal, in case you were wondering. They’re just…just still so awesome, you guys. Like those big water balloons I used to fill with pudding and stuff in my bra when I was a kid, only REAL).

All these changes got me to thinking though. Perhaps all of the above is why I have yet to experience one of the most common annoyances of pregnancy. As embarrassed as I am to admit it this late in the game, I have to confess that I have yet to have a random person come up and touch my pregnant belly.

No big deal, right? Except I kind of feel like it is. Because from the second I peed on that stick, all any woman wanted to talk about was how infuriating it was when people came up to touch their belly. I mean, these ladies made it sound like their swollen stomach was the Justin Bieber of baby bumps, with giant crowds of people swarming around her, unable to resist touching that sacred bubble of baby (and pent up farts). So naturally, as soon as I started showing, I envisioned this every time I walked out the door:


Only no one has touched it yet. On the subway, they’ll offer me their seat, but keep their hands politely to themselves. In crowded stores, they’ll say “no problem” when I apologize for bumping into them with my bump, but then throw their hands up to let me pass unmolested. While walking down the street, they’ll treat me just like everyone else walking the street.

So, I’m starting to take it personal.

I mean, what? My belly isn’t good enough for you to touch? My baby isn’t cute enough in utero to warrant even a few seconds of unsolicited awkward touching? Is it because I’m so sweaty? Because let me tell you, A LOT of pregnant women are sweaty. And they still get accosted on the street.


Come on, people. I’m a humorist. I make my living by finding humor in the small things of life and writing about them. So if you don’ t touch my belly inappropriately, I have nothing to write about.

And me and my baby will starve.

So be a buddy, huh? Rub my belly without asking and while preferably saying something creepy, like “he’s got such a strong life force!”

I promise I probably won’t even punch you (unless I thought it would make for a funnier post).

My (Broken) Hip Neighborhood

I’m not quite sure when it happened. Whether it snuck up on me all of a sudden or gradually yet systematically took me down, I couldn’t tell you. Were there signs and I just didn’t notice them? No bloody idea. All I know is that there is no going back now.

Because somehow when I wasn’t looking, I crossed the threshold from being young and (arguably) hip to being that 30-something lady who refers to every male singer under the age of 20 as Justin Bieber.

And it’s only getting worse. I only recognized about half the people featured at the VMA’s this year. Eating dinner any time after 8 p.m. is now simply out of the question. I don’t know if his name is Tatum Channing or Channing Tatum and about half the time it doesn’t matter because I mistakenly refer to him as John Cena anyway. You can’t convince me that Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato aren’t the same person. My interest in the weather has piqued to all-time high. And I was firmly on the side of Hannah’s parents when they financially cut her off in Season One of “Girls.”

But nowhere is this transition to the “out of touch” crowd more evident than in my reaction to the fact that my neighborhood is in danger of becoming hip. See, right now, no one in Greater Boston knows where I live. I know this for a fact because I have had the same conversation with every single cabbie for the past two and a half years:

Cabbie: “Where to?”

Aprill: “Ten Hills.”

Cabbie: “Where?”

Aprill: “Ten Hills. In Somerville.”

Cabbie: “OK…say it again?”

Aprill: “Ten. Hills.”

Cabbie: “I don’t know where this is.”

Aprill: “…(gives general directions)…”

Cabbie: “Huh. I’ve been driving cabs in this city for 45 years and I’ve never heard of this place. What’s it called again?”

Aprill: “…(bangs head repeatedly on window)…”

And yet, despite this regular hassle, I love my lame, tucked away, little neighborhood that is filled with retirees, nerdy grad students and that guy down the street with all the outdoor cats.


I love that it’s eerily quiet at 9 p.m. and the loudest noises we have to put up with are dogs barking and that one car alarm that goes off if someone on the block sneezes. And most importantly, I love that I can afford the rent and can afford the few non-cool restaurants nearby.

So how surprised was I to find out that Somerville as a whole is becoming too hip for its own good. And judging by the massive amount of construction work happening across the highway, soon even my lame neighborhood will be adjacent to a bunch of shops, bars, restaurants and apartments. Possibly even a tapas place or two. TAPAS! The ultimate sign that gentrification is looming (seriously, a tapas place once opened in Brooklyn and look what happened).

I don’t want to live in the next Williamsburg. I’m old now. I don’t want all my neighbors to be young, thin hipsters. I’m currently a waddling preggo in stretchy pants. And in the ultimate sign of, if not my actual age of 32, than at least my current mental age of around 68 or so, I don’t want change.

And with that last statement, I think my transformation is now complete.

Now get off my lawn, you damn kids, before I call the cops.