Friday, March 20, 2015

Hurry

Your dog is sick.

I have spent the last several weeks coaxing him to eat. He's always been weird about food. I've never met another dog who could probably pass the marshmallow test, if it were sufficiently explained to him. I also believe that he speaks English, which means it *could* be explained to him. He's a smart dog. But he's almost eleven, as I am almost thirty-eight. We're not what we once were.

This week was spent in a blur of vet appointments, blood tests, x-rays, and worry. The good news is, we've ruled out anything serious. It's quite possible, imaginary baby, that your dog merely is suffering from acid reflux. We are giving him Pepcid, and it may be my imagination, but it seems to me his appetite is coming back a little.

Last night he begged for pizza crust. I gave it to him, because I am weak.

But before we knew that it was probably not serious I indulged in some seriously catastrophic thinking. I was at the hair dresser, getting shampooed, when I realized that if your dog were seriously sick, then he might die before you get here. I discovered that I had built an elaborate fantasy life about the blossoming relationship between you and your dog. He's always been very serious about babies, and takes great responsibility on himself. In my mind's eye, I have seen him guarding you carefully while you slept. Him getting agitated while you cried. Him not letting me or your would-be father get too near you. You being taught, first things first, to be gentle to your dog. I was prepared to have to explain to you that all dogs get old some day. I imagined you inconsolable, and barely comprehending, a four year old abandoned to grief over the loss of your dog.

Tears started dribbling into my ears as I slowly realized that no, I might have to bear the loss of your dog myself, without you. If I'm not putting up a front for you, then what will save me from my miserable sadness when we finally lose your dog?

You have work to do, imaginary baby. He's getting better this time, but he's eleven.

You have to hurry. Come exist in time to meet your dog.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Seriously?

Seriously, imaginary baby? You mean to tell me that Sarah Jessica Parker is 37 in this season of Sex and the City? The short one, where they shoot around her being pregnant?

Well that's just great. Just fucking terrific.

For one thing, I have no idea if I look as old as she does in this season. Not that she looks bad. I mean. Does she? She looks like she's had some lip work. At least.

One thing you should know about us, imaginary baby, is that we are not a plastic surgery family. Whatever nose you draw is the nose you draw, and you just have to grow some character to go with it, okay?

Also, I should mention that I, at this very moment, am 37. Oh yes. For another three weeks I am. Threeeeeee whole weeks. And then I get a whole fistful of 38, right in the face.

At least in this episode Carrie has a giant hormone zit as a plot point. Speaking as someone with at least three on her very own face right this moment. To tell you the truth, I still feel kind of duped that there was never a window of lifetime of perfect skin. The pimples aren't as bad as when I was a teenager, but they do bubble up now and again, like middle aged lava. And I'm starting to see the faint hints of where the WASP mouth-pursing lines are going to etch.

Sarah Jessica Parker has three kids, I just learned from the internet. The one she had at 37 - which will soon be younger than me, as you've probably gathered - and then twins that she had via surrogate at 44.

Yeah.

Your would-be father and I were talking about surrogacy last night, because one of the many things that has stopped me in this long, winding slog towards considering you is - now, this is going to sound really selfish - I have always hated the idea of being pregnant. I mean, sure, Sarah Jessica Parker looks cute in those pictures on the internet. Cindy Crawford. Natalie Portman. You can get your body back, I guess. If you're rich and have a trainer. And it's not like my body is so marvelous I can bear to sully it. It's just.... I like it okay. That's it. And the idea of having a live animal growing inside me grosses me out.

No offense.

But surrogacy when you don't have a medical reason seems so... it just seems kind of.... wrong.

Exploitative and wrong.

I'm due one week from today. And this is your last shot while I'm still 37. So you'd better get your act together if you want to slip in under the wire.