So I told myself I was going to start writing fewer, but more thought-out blog posts per week.  You know, instead of just vomiting whatever comes up with my morning coffee, I’d come up with a concise subject, write a draft, take and edit some relevant photos, edit the draft, and post a nicely polished final product.

What ended up happening is the idea of putting thought into my blog posts absolutely paralyzed me with fear and I ended up writing nothing.  Nothing at all.

What is wrong with me?

Speaking of all that is not right with my head, I realize my life is entering a fairly big transition stage.  See, it seems like a huge part of life in my 20’s has been about weddings — planning bridal showers and bachelorettes, buying dresses I’ll only wear once, clapping as Justin does the worm on the ballroom floor while all of the middle-aged women stand in line to dance with him, toasting good friends and laughing at the fact that we’ve grown up so much since college and then stopping, awestruck, when we realize that all of this is really happening.

Me in my wedding dress circa 2006.

Justin doing the worm at my best friend’s wedding.

But now?

Now the wedding invitations are slimming out and new announcements are coming.

Announcements with big, round bellies and feathery storks and registries that force me to go to uncomfortable places like Toys R Us and Gymboree instead of fun places like Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Instead of conjuring thoughts of delectably intricate fondant-covered cakes and sparkling glasses of champagne, they conjure images of enduring blindfolded baby food tastings and stimulating conversations about nipple shields.  (Unless, of course, the invitation is for a baby hot tub party.  Unfortunately, this evolution might be a slow process.)

And I always thought that these things were okay, I guess, as long as they were happening to other people.

What I didn’t know is that they’d start happening to all other people.

First, my cousin brought a gorgeous little daughter Emma into the world.  Then my sister-in-law countered with my so-adorable-it-hurts-a-little pudgesicle of a nephew, Jack.  Then one of Justin’s cousins had one.  Then my friend Alaina.  And now one of Justin’s other cousins is about to pop.  And my next door neighbor is starting to show.  And other friends are getting or thinking about getting knocked up left and right.

It’s starting to seem like everywhere I turn, women are gulping down this Kool-aid like it’s their job, and it’s making the walls feel all foreboding like they’re closing in around me and there’s all this pressure of people saying, When’s it going to be your turn?  Or, Don’t worry — you’re next!

Except really, there’s not any pressure at all.

And I think there must be something wrong in my head, because at almost-29-years-old, shouldn’t I be feeling pressure?

When I look at this picture I took yesterday of my husband holding my friend’s new baby, shouldn’t my ovaries start tapping impatiently on my uterine wall, asking “knock, knock, is this apartment still vacant?”

But they don’t.

It’s like my ovaries packed up and vacated the premises years ago, thinking there’s no point in doing all this yearning work if I don’t even care.

The thing is, I like babies.

But I mostly like holding them for a bit, smelling them a little, carrying them around like overstuffed baby burritos and dressing them in silly hats, and then I like giving them back to their parents.

So I can go get a real burrito.

I like looking at them through a lens and watching them change and documenting facial expressions and using these images to find ways to make their parents happy.

To help them capture the gamut.

Peaceful baby.

Cooing baby.

Umm… NOT peaceful baby.

And it’s at about this time when I think, man it would be nice to be sipping from a glass of beer or wine while reading a book at a cafe in Malaga right now.

With olives.  Lots of olives.

Don’t judge me.  It’s how I feel.

And that, I’m pretty sure, is the surefire sign that sometime in the wee hours of a restless night, the elves (I told you about those here and here) put me together all discombobulated-like and forgot to reattach a screw that was supposed to stimulate the part of me that would take one look at those last 2 photos and choose, without a second’s doubt or hesitation, the baby over the beer.

I mean, look at her.

I know that I love that baby.  I love that she’s now a part of our group, and I can honestly say that given the choice, I wouldn’t go back to the time B.B.  Before Baby.

I love her for what she means to my friends.  I love her for the way her tiny fingers clench around my pointer when I hold her.  I love her for the things I might get to teach her and the things she’s most definitely going to teach me.  I love that I am going to get to spoil the ever-loving crap out of her.

And, I especially love that when that crap does come out of her, I’m not the one who has to clean it up.

Does that make me weird?

Probably.  Or maybe it’s just a sign that I’m not intended to procreate.  That maybe it’s a good thing there’s only one of me.  Besides, I can’t mess up what I don’t even have, right?

Right.

I can’t say I will feel like this forever.

Maybe there will be a day when I’ll be holding Myra and I won’t want to give her back.  Not ever.

If that happens, I might have to quit the blog because it would be kind of hard to keep this up while on the run for baby-napping.

But we’ll worry about that when and if the time comes, yes?

Here’s my dilemma.

Alpha and the Underdog are currently sucking the very lifeforce out of me.  At least, that’s how it seems.

Which is why I haven’t really been writing in this blog.  I feel as though I don’t have much to write about, unless it’s to bitch about work.  It’s not that I’m not doing anything else — it’s just that work, especially if it’s a poor working environment, tends to get the best of me when things aren’t running smoothly.

And things are not running smoothly.

Believe it or not, it’s the Underdog who’s been getting on my nerves lately, even more than our bipolar Alpha.  Apparently the Underdog has forgotten that she had a hand in hiring a perfectly capable, competent person to do her marketing.

Through recent collaboration with the Underdog, I’ve learned that one of the worst feelings ever is that nausea that swells up from your stomach and into your throat when a “superior” speaks to you as though you’re a 2-year-old who just attempted to eat your own toes just because you stepped in a puddle of melted chocolate, and you can’t say anything in an attempt to prove otherwise — that you’re actually very knowledgeable about these things she’s trying to show you and in fact might know more about it than she does, because then she becomes indignant that a mere hourly employee dares to think she might know more about a piece of computer software than a licensed  professional.

I mean, jeez.  It’s not like her license is in Professional Flyer Creation.  It’s Real Estate.

Give me a break.

I will feel awful if Alpha and the Underdog ever discover this blog, probably because I’d no longer have a job, but seriously.

Also, there’s this whole eviction thing.

I know that people cannot expect to live in someone else’s home for free.

I know this.

But I honestly don’t think there will ever be a part of me that finds joy in eviction.

Alpha has tried to teach it to me — this glee she experiences when she gets to kick someone out of a property — but it’s just not in me.  That is the type of mentality that fits someone who used to throw rocks at homeless people in high school.

Not me.

I’m sure there is a certain shell one would have to build in order to do property management long-term.  It’s not for the weak of heart.  And some people will say anything to live somewhere for free.  So, for the sake of a homeowner who needs rent to pay his or her mortgage, I can stay tough.  I can evict.

But I’m never — ever — going to like it.

The thing is, there are aspects about this job I could really learn to love.  But, I need a role model I can respect and who respects me in return.

Is that too much to ask?

Apparently.

Fortunately, the real boss should be back soon, and I’m thinking things will be more pleasant after that.

Aside from all of that, the news is good.  The office is progressing, albeit slowly.  Also, I’m an aunt.

Well, not a real aunt, but a kind-of-sort-of pseudo aunt because my best friend in the world, the one who let her friends throw her a baby hot tub party, finally had her baby.

In a bed, not a hot tub.

Sorry for the blurry face — I was excited and apparently unable to operate my camera.

And, her husband already knows how to swaddle her because of the relay race, I’m pretty sure.

How to swaddle a fake baby.

How to swaddle a real baby.  Like a baby burrito.

Except you should never eat a real baby.

No matter how much you might want to.

So, how are all of you?  I’ll admit I felt a little rejected when almost no one responded to my chick flick post from the weekend.  But then I realized with all the chick flick talk and the baby talk, you might feel like I’m going all soft on you and am going to start giving tutorials on how to hug babies and why it’s okay to wear footsie PJ’s while watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek, and I just want to assure you that’s not the case.

And if it is, you have my permission to feel very, very sorry for me.