While I’m at work, the Redhead often attends to some simple, day to day errands. These are simple tasks that befit her abilities as a very pregnant woman. She’s also pretty easy on the eyes, if I say so myself.

Yesterday her journeys brought her to a couple of local businesses, the Drycleaner and the Cobbler. They both saw her belly, and they both had something to say. Despite their lack medical training, they seemed to know the score.

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Throughout our journeys during pregnancy, we have received all sorts of tidbits, advice and words of encouragement. Some of it has great value. Some of the rest, not so much.

For instance, a few people have recommended to us that we videotape the entire labor and delivery. This will not be happening. We will not bring in a cameraperson, nor will I spend the entire time with a Flip in my hand. After a rather short discussion, since we both arrived at the same conclusion quickly, we decided there will never, ever be a moment in the future where we’ll want to sit down and rewatch the sloppy, slippery birth (and afterbirth) of our child.

We don’t even want the mirror that’s offered. The Redhead has long stated that if possible, she would prefer to take a pill or be knocked out in some way, then gently woken up and handed a baby. I concur. It’s not that we don’t want to experience the miracle of birth, but once per kid is enough. We won’t watch it in HD surround sound with a bowl of popcorn. We’re also not interested in water births, Sade music or any other hippie crap. Sure, people have been giving birth in caves for thousands of years, but modern medicine is pretty advanced. We won’t deny it its ability to keep everybody alive.

And if the Redhead gets to take some drugs, I think I should be entitled to some, too.

With the plane about to take off and return my In-Laws from whence they came, the Redhead and I are now done with visitors and travels until baby time. That’s it, folks. No more road trips or outdoor adventures until our household numbers 3.

Sure, we’ll go to the store, or perhaps a park, but nobody will be coming here and nobody will be getting out. We’re soon to enter “The Vacuum,” that lock down state of existence where our world reflects around trying to sleep, trying to stay calm, and trying to wrap our brains around the changes due to arrive on Christmas Day (or thereabouts). The Redhead will soon be home from work, experiencing an even stricter form of sequestration than me. I at least will get to escape to a desk for 12 to 14 hours a day. (Lucky me!)

So goes the final trimester of procreation. We’ll welcome visitors in the new year after the guest of honor arrives. Until then, it’s me and her, and her.

Saddle up.

I love Coca-cola. I mean, I love it. Name the time and place, and I will beat you in a Pepsi Challenge. I can smell an open Coca-Cola from 20 paces away, and I’m all classic, baby. No Zero, no Diet, no Cherry: the red can ALL the way (okay, I’ll occasionally add a real lemon, but I will never reach for the lemon infused fake flavored ones).

(The Redhead pours me a glass of that delicious, delicious gut rot.)

But then, there’s Pepsi. I don’t particularly hate Pepsi, because that’s just stupid. I find it fascinating that at 2 different times in Pepsi’s history it has been run by a former Coke Exec out of spite and strictly for the purpose of destroying Coke. They failed.

Now a new chapter has been opened in the Cola Wars with Pepsi Throwback. Pepsi Throwback uses real sugar instead of corn syrup. It’s uuhh-MAZING. It reminds me of the Pepsi cans I would get at Aunt Betty’s* in my youth. Coca-cola does have a sugar based option, known as “Mexican Coke” or Mexi-Coke, but they are foolishly and stubbornly refusing to sell it in ‘Merica. They say that it infringes on the distribution rights of American bottlers, and while that is a very valid point, it totally blows. You can find it, but the locations are few and far between. The market is demanding the real thing! We want our real Coke! Sure, it may rot our teeth, but corn syrup is rotting our spirit.

Step it up, Coca-Cola. I will never wander far from you, but Pepsi just scored a major victory. Mexico would like to buy the world a Coke. Let them.

*Aunt Betty’s was a candy store across from my grammar school. She was not my real aunt. In fact, I’m not sure if there ever even was a “Betty.” It later became “My Grandpa’s Store,” which threw even more questions into the “Who is Betty?” investigation.

Someone, and I’m not naming any names (because I don’t actually know who did it), gave us something they thought was a gift. They probably thought that it would be the perfect little treat for a pregnant woman and her husband. Instead, they have cursed us with guilt, shame, and tummy aches. The 10 pound box of See’s Candies was a horrible, horrible present.

(Imagine this, but about 20 times bigger.)

I know what you’re thinking: that’s an awesome gift. Well, it isn’t. We’re not talking an extra large box of assorted treats. We’re talking a brown shipping box FULL of dark chocolate buttercreams, totaling approximately 750 pieces. This is not a snack, or a treat. This is a straight up challenge.

When you have such a massive amount, no dent you make feels overindulgent or even gluttonous. Eating them like popcorn seems to be what the large quantity suggests. Both the Redhead and I have been almost skipping meals, sitting with the box in between us, peeling the wrappers and dropping them at our feet like peanut shells. For her being pregnant, these are like crack. For me, they may be a temporary solution to my unplanned weight drop (I got a lot on my mind right now, Internet) but a bad way to make pants fit again. I’m sure my dentist would have a thing or two to say about it as well.

So thank you, mystery person, for smuggling a case of giveways from a promotional event into our hands, but also curse you for smuggling a case of giveways from a promotional event into our hands. Next time, try to get us a case of apples.

The Redhead and I spent a lovely Sunday yesterday in the midst of babyness. Kids were everywhere at the IHOP, ranging in size from small and little to small and fat. There are some fat kids out there.

As per usual, I’d like to point out at this time that any promises or plans we make regarding parenting will probably be thrown out the window as soon as the kid actually arrives. That being said, we ain’t raising a fatty. When a child at IHOP has free reign to grab any of the 4 table syrups and just go to town on a waffle, a parent should step in. This one kid should have had a bowl rather than a plate to hold his syrup and waffle soup. I tried to give him a sour expression to express my dismay at the display. I figured any older person (e.g. adult) should be able to hold even a small shred of authority, especially when the kid knows he’s doing something he shouldn’t.

We’re gonna stay away from sugars. Healthy cereals will be par for the course. If the kid begs and pleads enough, maybe she can graduate to Honey Nut Cheerios when she’s 15. Superman ate Cheerios and he turned out pretty well, though a little condescending sometimes. I guess that comes with the territory when you can simply reverse the rotation of the Earth and fix any problems that got away from you.

Anyway, no sugars, no fatties.

Today I found out. Today I know. Today marks the beginning of my hair’s descent into Steve Martin white. Come Christmas, our expected due date, the Redhead and I will welcome another redhead into the house: my daughter.

It’s a girl! Lord almighty, it’s a girl. I have never felt more frightened and excited at the same time. While a boy may have been slightly easier in my opinion, since I could just make him mow the lawn and stuff, a girl is a totally different thing. Now I have to buy a gun to show any boy who dares come within 50 feet of her. Now I have to pay for a (another) wedding. Now I have to begin working on the bell tower she’ll be locked in until she’s 25.

She’s already won me over. I’m powerless. I’m a dead man.

Nothing in this world compares to my vicious streak of independence and rebellion. If I’m against something, or uninterested in doing it, no force on this planet can sway me from that viewpoint. All of that changed when I got married.

I don’t blame anyone. The change came from within me and wasn’t forced by anyone else. Like I said, I alone decide what I do. I “opened up the books,” as they say in mob movies and gave power to my wife. I have never regretted it, until today.

The Redhead has informed me that she has signed me up for manual labor this afternoon. She promised a friend who’s MOVING that I would help them MOVE. That’s… that’s a big promise, especially without first securing the approval of the workforce. She told me this morning. The promise was made days ago. I’m locked in.

I’d like to say that this is something I would fight, but with a kid on the way I fear that my rebellion will fall. Survival is sometimes more important than freedom. Sheer existence alone under oppression is still existence, no? Braveheart might disagree, but he died at the end. I plan to live. Oh the joy I feel, looking forward to arranged play dates and bullshit with other little league dads just because we share the common ground of procreation. Goody goody gumdrops, say I, because sometimes war is too costly to justify.

No, a wise general chooses his battles. If the “friend” who’s MOVING hadn’t promised cold beer, the rebellion may have raged on, but at what cost? I will live to die another day.

Yesterday was the anniversary of my birth, which I spent trying to kill myself. It wasn’t the original plan, but as often is the case, adjustments were made on the fly to accommodate new desires. The best part is that I may have succeeded.

It’s been said that alcohol is the only intoxicant in the world where people have to tell you that you’re intoxicated. All others, be they pills, plants, or powders, cause the user to almost immediately exclaim, “Hot damn! I am WASTED!” With booze, nobody ever believes it. They assure you they are totally fine, and that very little of their abilities have been impaired. They say this while they’re laying on the floor.

I ended my birthday last night laying on the floor. A cake on the table, gifts from the Redhead next to it, and the Redhead looking on as I listened to Cracker and bemoaned my “carsickness.”

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Tonight we’ll see the bright lights and brighter dreams of a genuine Hollywood Movie Premiere. While it’s not our first, it’s the first to feature one of us. Yes, the Redhead starred in a Cowboy movie, and tonight I get to see her on the big screen, shooting people.

We’re gonna walk the red carpet and party into the night on a rooftop, standard trappings for a Premiere. Tonight I play the role of supportive mate, stepping to the side when the Paparazzi interview her and spreading rumors of Oscar buzz in the men’s room. This is very important to me, because if her career takes off, I won’t have to go work at a Stuckey’s to support our kid. 

I could be the next Rita Wilson!

The word is out. The wife and I decided there was too much happiness here for just the two of us, so we figured the next logical step was to have us a critter.

(“We’re set to pop here, honey.”)

What I didn’t count on was the endless, endless supply of advice and parenting instructions we would be given. Some of it’s good, some of it’s ridiculous, and the only thing that can be depended on is that it will never, ever end.

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Okay, I can’t hold it in any longer. Here it is, THE BIG ANNOUNCEMENT I’ve been hinting at for a while.

Ready? Here we go…

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