We are in a hotel lobby picking up some complimentary muffins and coffee. J is telling me about the conversations he’s had recently with a bunch of guys who are groomsmen with him in the wedding we’re attending this weekend. Conversations about styrofoam (because that’s what the coffee cups are made out of), and how it’s made out of petroleum and is really bad for the environment and probably really bad for our bodies, too. “You wanna know what I learned yesterday?” he asks me, and I assume he’s going to list more statistics about the pollutants we’re ingesting on a regular basis, but he picks up one of those small, individual plastic containers of creamer, rips a small hole in the bottom with his teeth, (instead of peeling back the lid, the normal way) and lets the cream flow into his cup, a serious look on his face, squeezing as he goes, which causes some of the liquid to splash onto the table, totally missing his coffee. “Sometimes this backfires,” he says, as more cream lands on the table. And then more. “I made a mess,” he says.

Me: Margharita

Vinnie: Marinara

Me: Carbonara

Vinnie: Mole Sauce. Mole Sauce McDonough.

I just realized I hadn’t written a blog post in a week and I decided this was no good. I used to run to this blog whenever I had anything interesting or witty (or, at least, I thought it was witty) to say and now it’s harder. I get home later, I get in bed earlier, I’m on the computer all day for work and it’s harder to turn it on again after work, or on the weekend, to write. So, because I am a decent person with standards, including standards concerning the state of this blog, I’ve decided I’ll try and do better.

And to appease you all for now, I thought I’d post a picture of myself taken last week after a Yankees game. People like to see pictures of women when they’re pregnant for some reason. I always thought I’d be the type never to post any anywhere public. Not that I’m ashamed, quite the opposite, I just thought I’d maintain my pre-pregnancy image online at least. But that’s ridiculous. Even now, so early in the morning, I’d kill someone for ice cream. This thing has obviously taken a strong hold of my life. Might as well rejoice in it online, as well as off.

It’s just too bad the word “Yankee” is displayed so prominently behind me. As though I were a fan. As though I could stand the team. As if. Go Red Sox! I admit, the game was fun. I’d never been to Yankee Stadium and it was truly a sight to behold. But as much as J tried, I’d never say it’s better than Fenway. Luckily, he’s got this picture of me to forever remind us that I was once there. And that I was happy.

I started thinking about how I was going to get “Us Weekly” before my train ride home yesterday at about 10 a.m. I’d had a bad morning (missing not one, but two trains after forgetting to take my laptop with me and therefore needing J to drive me back home and all the way back to the train station again) and I needed more sleep and I decided that “Us Weekly” (which I do not buy every week, just so you know, only when it’s really important) would be nice on the ride back. Really nice. I was looking forward to it all day.

So I got to Grand Central about 10 minutes before my train was scheduled to leave, and I ran into Hudson News and went to get the latest copy of “Us Weekly” and who is on the cover? Barack and Michelle Obama.

Listen. I love the Obamas. I’m not going to get into politics right now because that’s the one thing I seldom talk about on my blog, because it would take over and I’d never return to writing about things like, you know, my daily commute or whatever, important things, but suffice it to say I’m an Obama supporter. Absolutely. But I do not want Obama or any other political figure on the cover of “Us Weekly” because that precious space is best dedicated to Ashlee Simpson’s pregnancy and whatever ridiculous thing Heidi Montag did that week. Come on! I bought it anyway. I bought it anyway because I knew the important filler would still be there, but seriously, if the people at that magazine don’t get their priorities back on track, I don’t know, I’m going to have to start looking forward to getting “People” or something, and everybody knows “People” takes up too much space with features about “everyday heroes” - men and women just like you and me doing the extraordinary. Doesn’t anybody get what the public wants? I really hope so. I’m losing faith.

An email my brother forwarded me from my father (subject matter not worth explaining.)

From: Fred Rotondaro
Date: Fri, Jun 13, 2008
To: Vinnie Rotondaro

I don’t remember that, long time since I read him.
About to do another piece.
Why catholics should vote for O.

Poop

A young woman, in the midst of a conversation about food with her friend, paused briefly, smiled mischievously, and said, “Actually…I’m not a chowder person,” as though admitting that she does not wear underwear, or that she made out with her sister’s boyfriend last night.

J, my darling husband, has been beyond supportive since I’ve been pregnant, even buying and reading a men’s guide to pregnancy to try and educate himself on everything I’ve been going through.

The problem, however, with pregnancy literature geared towards men, in my opinion, is that it addresses a lot of practical issues, like how much the baby is going to cost and leaves out what I think is most important, and that would be a section titled something like “What to do when she worries. A lot. And then five minutes later she is worried again about the same thing you guys just talked about. And it never ends.”

I’d like to stress what I’ve mentioned before - that I really like being pregnant. I feel happy and good about myself and remarkably healthy, better than I feel when I’m not pregnant, in fact. The emotional toll has been minor so far. There was that part in the beginning where I wanted to kill anyone who got in the way of my getting to bed by 8 p.m. And then there were those few weeks around the beginning of my second trimester where I cried a lot, but even then, I wasn’t sad, just weepy for no reason. Other than that, I’ve been a model of serenity, really.

Except for the worrying.

I hope J will agree that I haven’t been terrible, it’s just that when I do get stuck on something, I worry about it constantly until someone I’ve deemed reliable tells me not to or until something better (bigger) to worry about comes along. Luckily, J proves a very good reliable source in these instances, and he’s helped me realize I don’t need to get upset about really minor things. Or things I’ve made up in my head, which I tend to do.

The pregnancy-related things I’ve worried about have been legitimate issues, for the most part. I mean, I was extremely worried for a while that riding the Metro North train so often - because sometimes it gets very bumpy - would have a detrimental effect on the development of the baby. J told me I was being ridiculous but I figured he was no expert (no expert on imagined pregnancy issues) and I asked the doctor at one of my appointments. Once she told me not to worry, and I had to admit to myself that I’d concocted that particular concern out of thin air, I got over it.

But the thing is, there’s plenty to worry about in the pregnancy books, stuff you don’t even have to make up. There’s all the stuff you’re not supposed to eat, for instance, like deli meat and unpasteurized cheese, which can give you listeria and, you know, KILL THE BABY. The rules sound easy enough, but if you spend enough time thinking about them, they’re not. Like, how do I know that this cheese on the salad I just ordered is pasteurized cheese, even though it’s not one of the cheeses the book told me to avoid? Do I ask the waitress? Does that make me crazy? Or sensibly cautious? (The answer is crazy).

You’re not supposed to eat raw stuff either and I found myself the other day freaking out a little when I realized I’d eaten caviar that came on top of something I’d ordered, and that’s not sushi, exactly, but it’s certainly not cooked, and where do you draw the line? And how can you be good at pregnancy, but also enjoy life? And not live in a hole? Eating only saltines?

Luckily J sat me down and explained that not only are the bacterial infections that can affect pregnant women extremely rare and hard to contract, but also, more importantly, that I’m doing a good job.

Because that’s it, really. I just want to do a good job without losing my mind. Honestly, although it’s fun to play my concerns up for storytelling’s sake, but I have gotten a lot better about not worrying, and thanks to some friends who’ve been through the pregnancy thing before (thanks Becky and Emily!) I’ve gotten some really helpful advice when the books aren’t enough and a call to the doctor’s office seems ludicrous.

Still, there is a lack of control aspect that comes along with being pregnant, and it’s been hard for me to accept - that even though I may do everything exactly right, something could go wrong. So when I find myself asking those ridiculous questions (Why hasn’t the baby moved for the past hour? What if all my amniotic fluid leaks out? Does my belly look too big? Does it look too little? Is the shower water too hot for the baby? What if I hurt her?) I think what I’m really getting at is the overall worry that something bad might happen and it will be all my fault.

That’s when I’ve got to give in and accept that I can’t control everything. And most importantly, I have to remind myself that I’m having a really easy time of it. That I’m really lucky, and I should shut up and enjoy it.

So, I do. I really do. I’ve gotten better.

Just in time, too, because it’s almost time to start worrying about actually giving birth. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to dedicate all my energy to thinking about that.

Here is a story about eating bugs.

I know I haven’t been writing about my pregnancy all that much. I never wanted to go overboard or anything but I figured since I mostly write about my personal life on this blog, I’d end up writing about being pregnant a lot because, you know, I’m pregnant. But honestly, since I first wrote about being pregnant, I’ve been feeling really great physically, and I have no problem writing about good things, but, honestly, the baby stuff has been pretty uneventful. Which is great, of course, but not prompting me to write all that much about it.

When I really could have written you a book about pregnancy was in the beginning, when I didn’t feel so hot, and it was all new, and we were living in J’s old childhood bedroom and life was generally more hilarious. But you’re not supposed to tell anyone in the beginning, so that’s that.

I’m sure this will change in coming weeks as I get bigger and getting comfortable in bed becomes more of a challenge and I need to tell you guys about that constantly. Something to look forward to.

But in the meantime, I realized I’m not really writing enough about one of my dogs, Mina. I’d probably be getting like a trillion more visitors to my blog every day if I stepped it up and wrote more regularly about Mina and all the amazing things she does. I know everyone thinks their dog does amazing things and is really cute, and I don’t feel bad saying this - because it’s true - but, your dog has got nothing on mine.

Before you get angry at me for saying your dog isn’t as cool as Mina or whatever you think I’m saying, please keep in mind that I’m not only talking about good stuff, so calm down. She’s not always doing good stuff.

She is rarely doing good stuff.

Here she is moments after pinning this poor dog up against a wall, and moments before trying to do it again.

Sometimes I’m not doing good stuff to her. But she usually deserves it.

The point is, she does a lot of really, really funny things, and I think I might try and make a point of amping up her online presence. She should get an agent. Such is her star quality. Seriously.

The other night we left the dogs to roam the house when we went out, instead of closing them in the upstairs bedroom, like we usually do. The scene in here has been pretty chaotic since we moved, and we wanted to make sure we’d gotten all hazards out of the way before letting them free. Everything seemed fine.

But, of course, it wasn’t. When we got back the dogs had found and ripped open a trash bag. This was, no doubt, instigated by Mina, who borders on psychopath when it comes to her pursuit of food. One time while two of my friends were watching her, she’d scaled a kitchen counter and proceeded to eat something like 12 chocolate cupcakes with the wrappers still on. And she weighs roughly 10 pounds. It’s hard to explain if you haven’t seen her in action, but the way she eats goes beyond pleasure and ventures into sinister territories.

Anyway, that night Mina was acting a little weird. Stretched on her side with her stomach all bloated, making little grunting noises and we figured she’d eaten this half bag of almonds I had accidentally left out. We worried that almonds aren’t good for dogs and looked up some information online, but didn’t find anything alarming and figured she’d be fine in the morning, which she was, after lying like that, unmoving, for about 12 hours straight.

We didn’t give it that much more thought until J was at home the next day and found the plastic packaging of a pork loin on the floor. He emailed this information to me and I suddenly realized that, oh my God, I had thrown out half of a raw pork loin like five days before. And she obviously ate it and that is disgusting.

I got a little more worried than I’d been when I thought she’d eaten a ton of almonds, even though I know dogs can stomach a lot more than humans can, but J wrote me later to say that he’d checked on her twice and that she was fine. That she was snuggled under the comforter in our bedroom where “it’s like 120 degrees.”

This is only one example - eating half a raw pork loin - of what she’s capable of, and while I know every other dog on the planet is capable of such thing, it’s the way she does it, her style, that clinches her title as Most Amazing Dog on the Planet. More to come.

I rode on the elevator with two people - a man and a woman - who were both shorter than me.

I saw a little white dog wearing tiny black rainboots.

Countless commuters on the morning train smiled at me, as if I were a saint or something (people, it seems love pregnant women).

I saw a guy in his mid 40s dancing a little while listening to his iPod, wearing his slightly rumpled work clothes, waiting for his ride home at Union Station in New Haven.

We got more “Northern Exposure” episodes in the mail from Netflix.