What to Really Expect if You're Expecting to Expect

As of tomorrow, I am 37 weeks pregnant, so I feel sufficiently wise to lend words of wisdom and advice to others.

And, let me tell you, at about 34 weeks, pregnancy really begins to suck.

I'm exhausted. My back is killing me to the point that I can't walk. I get dizzy when standing, sleepy when sitting. I'm hungry. I'm huge. I'm emotional. There are weird stabbing pains happening everywhere. I need assistance lifting myself from a sitting position. I wake several times during the night to go to the bathroom, and my eyes seem to mysteriously pop open each morning at 4 so that I can obsess over nothing until my alarm goes off at 7.

All this in preparation for an arrival that will leave me spent, sleepless and, more than likely, depressed, for about three to six months. As excited as I am to meet the little guy (and get him out of there), I don't know whether to be impatient or apprehensive.

HG has taken to getting up early and driving me all the way to work. It's wonderful, although I feel quite guilty - about his missing sleep as well as our paying a daily $6 tunnel fee. But the steps leading in and out of the subway have become ruthless! Now I know how my out of shape mother feels when she visits the city (Mommy, never again will I chastise you for having to stop and catch your breath repeatedly during the trip from the subway to our place, as annoying as it can sometimes be.)

These symptoms may only apply to me. I haven't had nausea or stretch marks or hemorrhoids, or countless other horrifying ailments that pregnant women can be subjected to. So you may not have an apple-sized knot in your lower back that throbs when you are standing up, or hammy feet that would cause even Fred Flintstone to take offense. But I can guarantee this: You will be surprised by how infrequently people offer to give up their seat on the train to a woman who plainly looks as if she is smuggling a medicine ball. I do feel bad when people have to give their seat up, especially women who are being kind while the lazy men sitting next to them won't even make eye contact with me. I have rerouted my commute so that I can get on an empty train, even if I have to wait for a few to go by, so that I don't have to bear the guilt of making someone else stand for a stop or two. Because when the train is packed and no one offers a seat to me, I get a little nuts. Ok, I panic. My eyes start to tear up, my knees get weaker and my legs slacken, as if my body were forcing me to crumble at the very injustice. It's not just because it's rude and cruel to let a clearly disabled person bob back and forth as the train jerks around, bumping into other passengers and risking a probable fainting spell, it's that standing hurts more than walking when you are pregnant - it hurts more than anything you can imagine, resting all of your bulk on these poor little swollen feet. I vow to never again selfishly stay in my seat if I see anyone worse off than me who could use it.

(It should be noted that people on the NJ PATH trains are much more considerate than people on the NYC subway. I hardly ever get a seat offered to me on the subway, but on the PATH it's pretty much a given. Who said only the strong survive in NJ?)

While pregnant, you will also learn that people are rude. You have no idea how rude until you have carried a child in your belly. I am shocked at the number and variety of men who make comments to me on the street. "That's a big baby." "Any day now." Or, the ever popular, "Twins!" About seven different strange men have told me I'm having twins during the past four months or so. Are these the same types of men who cat-call women? Or some different breed of chubby chaser? Not that I think they are hitting on me (although I'm sure there are men out there who believe that telling a women she looks like she's having twins is an appealing conversation starter), but what are they doing? Is it some form of Tourette Syndrome?

Also, you know when someone on the street bumps into you really hard because they can't bother to shift their body a mere two inches to the side to avoid it, and then they just casually keep walking? This happens even when you are pregnant. To New Yorkers, you will be just another fat lady in the way.

Worse are the people you know. For example, a friend's mother-in-law will not let me forget how huge I look. I would say she makes an average of eight comments on the size of my baby or belly each time I see her, give or take a few made exclusively to my husband. My friend carried differently than I am, didn't gain much, and had a 9 pound baby. So, by comparison, mother-in-law actually predicted my baby is going to be 24 pounds (though, to be fair, the next day she amended it to 16 pounds). Herr Guitar is astonished by this woman's behavior, because unlike her, he knows that a woman's size, shape and weight are sensitive subjects not to be cackled about in such a cavalier way. Sure, if something slipped out once, I could handle it. I can even handle the constant barrage, because there is little I can do about it and my only concern right now is having a healthy baby. In a few months, I may be fat and miserable and cursing the world. Right now I can only do what feels right. (Not that a 40E bra size feels right, but you get my point.)

On the positive side, a Starbucks worker gave me my venti iced decaf no-water americano for free last week. And one of those weird bicycle cab guys offered me a free ride. I took the drink, but not the ride - god forbid he has a coronary or something trying to peddle me a couple of blocks to the nearest subway stop. But it's nice to know you can sometimes rely on the kindness of strangers.

Speaking as an Unbiased Journalist, I Hate Judith Miller!

Dear Career Gods: Please, please, please give me the opportunity to unnecessarily martyr myself in the name of a free press just as my developing reputation as a Bush administration hack and Chalabi mouthpiece threatens to ruin my career (though, since I'm a financial writer, I'd more likely be a hack for, say, GE or a mouthpiece for hedge fund manager, Eddie Lampert... but whatever. No one will ever know because a "Real Journalist"[TM] never reveals her sources). Grant me the opportunity to spend two to three summer months in jail, where, although things are bleak, I can comfort myself with the pity and admiration of peers and underlings alike. Give me the strength to eventually decide to reveal my already widely suspected source (because a "Real Journalist"[TM] never says never), who was technically already revealed months ago by another journalist (some non-martyr whose name no one remembers). And if you could throw in a seven-figure book deal? I promise to demure that I did it all "for the people" when real journalists such as Lou Dobbs embarrass themselves by fawning over me. And no one will ever question my legitimacy again. Amen.

The Traditional Gift for a First Anniversary? Cat Gut and Burgers, But Classy-Like

October 2, 2005 marked my first full year as Mrs. Herr Guitar (or Ms. Juste Milieu-Guitar). To celebrate a year that was full of strum, strum, strum but lacking in strum und drang (with only a couple minor exceptions), we paid homage to the guitar gods by going to see Les Paul play at the Iridium Jazz Club. He and his trio play two shows there every Monday night, and it's the kind of "New York thing" that you always think about doing and never get around to. Since Les Paul (who, for people who don't know or haven't the inclination to care about such things, is known as the father of the electric guitar, reverb and multi-track recording) is going on 91 years old, time may be running out.

I have to admit, seeing Les Paul was lower on my "New York thing" list than it was ono HG's, but I'm glad he wanted to do it because the show is great. The old guy still really knows how to play a guitar, and the backing trio is also excellent. His stand-up bass player is a really hot young blonde chick who sings and partakes in the requisite but uncomfortable sexual banter with him, his rhythm guitarist is an unassuming, old-school New York guitar-playing mobster type with a beautiful singing voice, and the pianist is very... I don't know... piano-y? Paul had this cool way of tuning while he played, making it sound beautiful. At one point he had to switch to another guitar and had trouble tuning it, and he joked he "should've bought a Fender." (Again, for those of you who are disinterested or not married to my husband, the Gibson Les Paul guitar is one of the most famous and popular around. According to HG, the two he played that night are his famous originals.) They played a version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," a song I'm generally not crazy about, that brought tears to my eyes.

You buy tickets for the music, and can either have dinner or drinks while you watch (I think there's a minimum). And although the club is on 51st and Broadway and just screams tourist food, the dinner was really delicious and reasonably priced. I had what is unquestionably the best burger in New York.

Anyway, if you are a guitar fan, are looking for a jazzy night out, or have parents or grandparents in town and want to show them a good time, I highly recommend the show.

And if you are a fan of sweet, brilliant, talented, loving husbands, I highly recommend a year of marriage to my guitar god. Unfortunately for you, I'm not sharing.

Doing Feminism Justice!

Oh Harriet Miers, you are my new favorite female trailblazer! Finally, a working woman I can relate to. With your top-notch writing skills and sharp intellect, who could not have guessed you'd be destined for the highest court in the land as soon as you began your stint as the go-to source for dishing daily pop-aganda as Dear Ms. Ask the White House. (I had no idea that Barney the White House dog liked to push horseshoes around with his nose. Can't you just picture how adorable that must be?).

So what if the rumor mill says you can't delegate or make a decision. I can relate. Like so many of us gals, you are a people pleaser, an approval junkie. And hey, you never forget a birthday. Isn't that what really counts?

Besides, the Supreme Court is about judgment, and no one can fault yours. Case in point: David Frum confesses that you are so in awe of George W., you once admitted to him that the Prez was the most brilliant man you had ever met. That is a keen observation, lady. But tell us truthfully, isn't some small part of you keeping your sexy sexagenarian self single in hopes that the Commander in Chief will someday swoon similarly in your direction? He certainly does his fair share of flirting: Granted, he has referred to you as a "pit bull in size 6 shoes," but at least he's paying attention to your dainty feet (BTW, I'll trade you my humongous 8 1/2s, any day!). And how about that time you two were together on 9/11 and he said you had "Good hustle." That compliment's way hotter than, say, "You're doing a heck of a job, Brownie."

Oh come on, don't be coy - everyone knows you can't wait for W. to bench you! You know what they say, to get a sense of a woman's true inner thoughts, judge not by her eyes but by her eye makeup.