Maybe It's Not Even Funny Anymore

So our show was on Saturday night and it went very well. Probably there will be some horrifying video out, but I won't post it here (or even look at it) because in my head and my bathroom mirrors I swear am an adorable-looking pregnant woman, but then photos and -- really? has it come to this? -- videos seem to miss the glowy-pregnant nuances of me, and instead portray me as a pasty, doughy, sort-of-red-haired-with-sort-of-dark-blond-roots, double-chinned round person, who might be pregnant or who might just be full of doughnuts. (Although Ha ha! Joke's on them! I'm BOTH!)

The point is, I'm actually really very smart. (I know, you're like, "Huh? How is THAT the point? What has that got to do with doughnuts?" but I'm all, "See? I know what you're thinking." That's how smart I am.)

Once, not long ago, I used to manage all this data in my head. I could think of more than one thing at a time, and remember pretty much everything I was supposed to remember. I could do things like think, "Hey, I should blog about that," and then the next time I sat down at the computer? I would, actually, blog about that.

True story: I never use bookmarks because I can always remember what page I've ended on.

So please, allow me this. Allow me to momentarily reminisce about mental aptitude.

When I was in grade school, I was a good student. I was in those gifted classes and advanced groups and even asked to skip a grade. (I didn't, though; my parents ultimately left the decision up to my 11-year-old self, and I turned down the opportunity because I didn't want that kind of interruption in my "social life." And that right there should tell you everything you'd ever want to know about how I was raised and how I've always prioritized my life.)

(Also, it should be noted that any advantage I'd had in middle school I completely ignored by high school. Sure, if we adjusted grades to account for amount of time studying/paying attention in class, I would have been Valedictorian. Unfortunately, high school is not graded on an effort-to-output ratio, and so I was a solid B student.)

I regained some energy and motivation and got my shit together by my second year of non-Ivy, non-private college, though. And did lots of things and took hard classes and honors-y things and interned and did I ever tell you I was Phi Beta Kappa? Well, I was. And in all honesty, I find this fact less impressive than that time I drew images of the giant hole I got in the butt of my pantyhose at a conference. Because the former is fancy and all, but the latter required a creativity (and an embracing of breezy elegance) that I really had to work hard to tap into.

So, right. I have always tripped and spilled and yes, been a constant mess of breezy elegance, but at least I had some control of my mental faculties.

But now that I'm older and pregnant -- and, by the way? NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT DRUNK -- I don't know what has happened. The light switched off. I've been hit by a Stupid Dart.

I wrote about "pregnancy brain" and I guess it could be that I'm just particularly susceptible, but this is ridiculous. I feel like I have butter pecan ice cream for brains (mmm, ice cream!), and that at any moment I will just become a slobbering, drooling mass.

Which brings me back to the concert.

My a cappella group had a concert last Saturday night. This meant I had to remember a lot of things at once, and never -- never, in my many years of performing -- has it been so taxing. I've never had to work SO HARD to remember my parts and how to conduct and how to, you know, count and how to SMILE and STAND and NOT FALL OVER in my life.

The good news is that I didn't fall apart. I did most of the things I set out to do. For instance, only once or twice did I just NOT SING because I forgot that I was supposed to.

(Note: that's always an alarming feeling. Looking across the stage at the other person on your part, and watching her sing, and thinking, "Oh, that's so great that she's singing that part right when she's supposed to!" and smiling because everyone sounds so good, and then having your brain catch up with itself and realize, "HEY, DOOFUS. ISN'T THAT YOUR PART? AREN'T YOU ALSO SUPPOSED TO BE SINGING?")

The whole thing was just so overwhelming.

Right before the first set, I went to the bathroom to pee (because these days I am doing that more than I ever thought possible) and to catch my breath. I wanted desperately to wade through my ice-cream-for-brains to ensure I'd remembered everything. Is the stage set? Are we on time? Is everyone here? Do I know where my water is? Did I remember to change my shoes?

Except those weren't really the thoughts I was thinking. Ice-cream brains makes me think more mushily, like, "Is the stage -- hey, the cold air in this bathroom feels really nice. I like the weather in San Francisco a lot. I always did. I feel kind of...thirsty. Do I know where my water--oh! Water! I should wash my hands extra long because of the Swine Flu! Is there a soap dispenser? How old IS this bathroom, anyway? It's kind of a historic building, isn't it? Wait, how long have I been in here?"

And then, when I made it back to the group and we were about to head on stage, I discovered (because it was pointed out to me) that I had a HUGE splotch of water on the front of my shirt. Obviously this happened when I was in the bathroom leaning over the sink thinking about Swine Flu and historic soap dispensers while having no idea how much larger my belly is now than usual. Because usually (see: Coaster post, below) stuff collects and gets on my boobs, not my belly.

My belly has NEVER been bigger than my chest, so stuff -- food, crumbs, water, wine, coasters -- never reaches it. I can't possibly be expected to stop things from getting in my cleavage AND on my stomach, can I? No. No, I can't. ISN'T PREGNANCY GLORIOUS?

Anyway. What can you do about a water splotch on your shirt 3 seconds before you're supposed to go on stage? Nothing.

And whatever. The splotch dried and the group was great and the first set went great and I didn't even fall off the stage even though I came close at least three times.

But you know what? Guess.

No really. Guess.

Look at that! You're right! I DID go to the bathroom to pee during our quick intermission, and I DID do the same thing AGAIN.

Of course my head was even more fuzzy and buzzy and mushy half-way through the show, and thus, when I came out of the bathroom to head into our second set, the NEW splotch was TWICE the size of the one I had to go on stage the first time.

And now that I've told you all of this, I have zero idea what the real post was supposed to be. I'm looking at the title and trying to remember. Ummm....I did think of a very funny, quick story over the weekend that was similar to the coaster-boob post, and was very excited to write about it today. But I didn't write it down and have no idea what I was thinking of.

OH! Baby names!! THAT'S where this post started. "It's not funny anymore" was about how we still do not have any baby names selected and our list isn't getting shorter. Hmm. How did that turn into my writing about school and water splotches? Fascinating.

Oh, well. Pretend that this paragraph is where I wittily tie everything together and it makes sense. Butter pecan!