What to REALLY Expect When You’re Expecting

One of my beautiful friends is pregnant. I’m beyond happy for her, and for the world at large, because she has great genes that were meant to be passed on for generations. That said, I’m OHSOGLAD it’s her and not me because – I don’t care what you Earth-Mother bitches say – being pregnant (and giving birth) sucksssss!!

I was going to pick up a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting as a little ‘Happy Pregnancy!’ gift since the gift she’s really going to need (vodka) is out of the question, but I decided the best gift I can give her is honesty, so here goes….

What To Really Expect When You’re Expecting

First Trimester
Your hormones will be completely out of whack. You’ll burst into tears at Flo’s kindness whenever you see a Progressive Insurance commercial, then throw a fit of rage over her lipstick choice.

You’ll experience crippling nausea that will make you look back at the worst, most-violently vomitous hangover you ever had as ‘that one time I felt a little queasy’. If you’re lucky, it’ll end the minute you enter your second trimester. If you’ve cursed the pregnancy gods (as I obviously did), it won’t end until you birth the demon bundle of joy.

But I’m not bitter.

You’ll be forced to take pre-natal vitamins the size of your big toe. The good news is your nails will be strong and beautiful!

Your boobs will swell. Your boyfriend will think it’s cool. You’ll tell him (repeatedly) that they hurt and he’ll still want to manhandle them. Try not to use your new nails to scratch his eyes out when he does.

Second Trimester
Your belly will be just big enough to make your regular clothes impossibly uncomfortable, but not quite big enough to wear maternity clothes without looking like an idiot.

Your new body will make sleeping a challenge. Also? You’ll have to pee every 23 minutes.

The baby will start moving! At first it feels like a little flutter across your belly. It’s so exciting! Almost exciting enough to make you forget about how constipated you are.

You’ll be in bed no later than 7:30 every night.

Third Trimester (first month)
Your belly will be noticeably round. If you’re lucky, it’ll look like you’ve tucked half of a volleyball under your shirt. If you’re like me, it’ll look like you’ve decided to become a Sumo wrestler.

But I’m not bitter.

You will have gotten used to sleeping on your side and you will have figured out that the baby wakes up just as you start to fall asleep. Aww…so cute. Sometimes you can even fall asleep with her gently kicking you.

You will have to pee every 12 minutes, but you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, so IT’S OKAY!

Third Trimester (second month)
You will have to pee every six minutes because the baby has her damn foot on your bladder. Bitch.

You’ll be sick of being pregnant. You’ll have to go to your ‘happy place’ to keep from slapping the shit out of the next person who touches your stomach.

All you’ll want to do is sleep, but the baby will have taken up kickboxing classes that start the minute you go to bed and last throughout the night.

You’ll scoff at your makeup bag and feel like a medal ceremony should take place every time you brush your hair or take a shower (bonus points if you do both in the same day!).

You’ll start to stare at your boyfriend with contempt. Why the fuck is he so happy??

Third Trimester (third month)
You will be OVER IT. GET HER OUT. NOW.


It’s not funny anymore. You’ll be sick of being pregnant. You’ll be sick of people telling you you’re ‘cute’. ‘Cute’ is one step above ugly.


And that shit HURTS.

You’ll periodically check your groin because it’ll feel like her head is literally hanging out of you. You’ll feel like there’s no sense in even getting off the toilet because you’re just going to be back in three minutes.

Your tits will be sloppy big, your ass will be twice its usual size, you won’t even remember what it feels like to wear rings and you’ll actually start leaving the house in bedroom slippers because THAT’S THE ONLY THING YOU CAN GET AROUND YOUR HOOVES.

People will say ‘good morning!’ and you will spit at them.

Labor and Delivery
You’ll feel the first pang of a contraction and feel a mix of overwhelming relief and sheer terror because you’ve JUST REALIZED how small an opening the monster has to make her way through.

As the contractions progress – and get stronger and STRONGER and STRONGER – any dignity that remained after being poked, prodded and examined both vaginally and rectally (yyyep) throughout your pregnancy will immediately dissipate as you beg anyone and everyone to GET HER OUT!!! Any ‘breathing exercises’ you learned in birthing class will be erased from your memory, leaving you with no choice but to repeatedly scream the rudest, most obscene profanities you have ever uttered (at the top of your lungs). You’ll probably even make up a few new ones along the way. Your boyfriend will gently tell you to try to relax and maybe lower your voice a little and try not yell at the nurses so much. You’ll shoot actual lasers out of your eyes at him and tell him to shut the fuck up before you reach over and rip his throat out with your claw-like nails.

Finally, the baby will come. You’ll cry because it’s over. It’s finally over!

Foolish girl. It’s not over. That was the easy part.

But I’m not bitter.

Or…you might be one of those wicked animals who gains a total of 19lbs, skips though her pregnancy with a basketball belly and a goddamned smile on her face, feels a slight twang of pain, takes a few deep breaths, and pops out a beautiful baby with a perfectly round head who never once makes you pause and wonder how much easier (better?) your life would have been if you had just adopted a dog instead.

In which case, our friendship will be over.

No, seriously.


It takes me a minute to become cognizant of my surroundings when I wake up in the morning. I generally stumble down the stairs with one eye still glued shut and feel my way into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee (grumbling the whole way about the horrible injustice of not having been served said cup of coffee in bed). Once the Keurig has mercifully filled my mug, I wander into the family room, sit on the sofa, and start to slowly sip the magic elixir until the miracle of caffeine graces me and makes me whole. It usually takes about four sips before the fog starts to clear.

About three sips into this morning’s cup, I was treated to a commercial for AndroGel.

Have you seen it?? Oh. My. GOD!! I had to rewind it three times just to make sure I was actually awake and not having some kind of bizarre SNL-skit dream!

I’ve seen commercials for Viagra and Cialis over the years and gotten a little chuckle out of their subtle messaging about ‘taking control’ and ‘being ready when the timing is right’. I will admit to having giggled like a 12-year old boy at the list of side effects that includes ‘blurred vision’ and ‘having an erection that lasts more than four hours’. I’m not proud.

But this a whole new ball game. This is not your father’s Erectile Dysfunction ad, people!

It appears that the people at AndroGel (most assuredly men) have decided to take it to a completely different level and go with an approach that’s about as subtle as a brick to the head. Their website features images of an outdoorsy man crouching down and holding a big walking stick, and a man with a mustache staring off into space with his mouth hanging open in a way that immediately made me wonder where the hand that’s not pictured might be resting.

Their commercial opens with a man telling ‘the millions of men who have used AndroGel 1%’ that ‘there’s BIG news’. He’s standing next to a bottle of AndroGel Pump that’s about twice his size, with the word ‘pump’ featured right in the middle of the screen. He goes on to talk about the wonders of the product while the camera pans up the giant pump bottle and workers move oversized words back and forth on the screen.

The best part – and by ‘best’, I mean ‘most horrifying’ – is when the side effects guy lists the warnings…ahem:

‘Women and children should avoid contact with application sites.’

Wait…what?? Women and children can’t touch it, but men are supposed to slather it all over themselves??

‘Discontinue AndroGel and call your doctor if you see unexpected signs of puberty in a child or signs in a woman, which may include changes in body hair…’

Ummm….seriously??? Oh, hey! Your toddler’s voice is changing and your wife is growing a f*%king beard, but how’s your dick? Is it bigger? Did it work??

‘Serious side effects include increased risk of prostate cancer, lower sperm count, swelling of ankles, feet or body, enlarged or painful breasts, problems breathing during sleep, and blood clots in the legs.’

Because the aforementioned damage to your toddler and wife are more ‘inconvenient’ than ‘serious’.

The commercial ends with the guy saying, ‘What are you waiting for? This is BIG news!’ as he raises his arms up over his head to demonstrate how big ‘the news’ is.

You wish, buddy.

I’m disgusted. Maybe I’m just cranky. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m staring down the barrel at 50 and on the cusp of menopause, a condition that boasts a myriad of uncomfortable symptoms that pharmaceutical companies seem completely uninterested in tackling. Or maybe it’s because I can’t help but think about the millions of older women around the world who have spent a lifetime plucking, shaving, waxing, grooming, powdering, spraying, slicing, dicing, dancing, dressing up, dressing down, undressing, keeping their heels on, keeping their boots on, and contorting themselves as though they were auditioning for Cirque de Soleil in an effort to please their men. I mean, how PISSED must they have been when these products hit the market?? Here they were thinking they were finally going to get a well-deserved break; the dues they had paid over the years were going to pay off and they would be left in peace to read a book, sip a cup of tea, maybe watch a few Matlock reruns before bed. When, out of nowhere, these miracle pills are made available and their otherwise unindustrious husbands are now chasing them around the bedroom, wagging their new toy at them.


They’d probably wage jihad against the pharmaceutical companies…if they had the energy.

Dear Crabby

I just became aware of this (real!) Dear Abby letter:

Dear Abby:

I found out my husband has been corresponding with prostitutes he picked up when we went on vacation. He emailed them twice, but the second one hurt me the most. He sent her money. I confronted him and was ready to end the marriage, but we have a son. He denied having sexual contact with the women and said he was just flirting, so I forgave him. But I told him I won’t tolerate it a third time. He agreed to have marriage counseling and do his part to convince me he will change.

Is it worth it to try again for the sake of our son? I don’t trust him anymore, but I still love him.

— Ready To Let Go

Dear Ready:

When a man gives money to a hooker, it’s usually for a reason. The reason isn’t charity; it’s for services he wants rendered. (And they don’t take money in arrears.)

No one can decide for you whether to stay in the marriage, but before making any decisions, make it your first priority to contact your doctor and be checked for STDs. Who knows what your husband might have picked up while “flirting.” If you do decide to remain in the marriage, you’d be wise to schedule regular appointments for STD checkups. Your husband has shown himself to be not only a philanderer but also a liar.

Frankly, I think Abby was waaaaayyyyyy too gentle with this idiot. My response would most assuredly have started with “Are you fucking stupid?!?!”.

I mean, honestly? What’s wrong with these women who stay with their horrid husbands because they have kids?? Don’t they think of what they’re teaching their kids about marriage, relationships and commitment?

It’s official. I’m starting my own advice column. I’m not exceptionally smart, but I am remarkably wise. This may or may not be the result of making a number of really bad decisions along the way and actually learning from them. Being short of patience and utterly unable to sugarcoat, my responses will be more…ahem, direct…than traditional advice columns. In a sticky situation? Need straightforward advice on how to handle your kids/husband/neighbors/co-workers/boss? Email Dear Crabby at stunninglysuperficial@facebook.com. Spread the word.