Yesterday, I ran into a woman in yoga class that I haven’t seen in over a year. We started chatting right away, about my work and her grandkids, but my pregnancy just didn’t come up in the natural course of conversation. We were both sitting on our mats — I was cross-legged and kind of slouched over — and she obviously didn’t notice.

Halfway through the class, the teacher gave me a special instruction about how to modify a pose so that I could still do it safely. The woman, realizing that I was pregnant, gasped audibly, and then reached over, squeezed my arm and gave me big smile, obviously to share her excitement.

But then, after class, she blurts out with this:

“I didn’t even notice you were pregnant! You don’t look pregnant at all; you just look like you’ve gained some weight! I mean, I thought your face looked so much fuller!”

I mean, obviously, she probably just felt bad that she hadn’t noticed — although, honestly, I didn’t bring it up, so there was no reason for her to feel bad — and she was trying to compensate. But I really, really could have done without that. I mean, just what every pregnant woman wants to hear: “You don’t look pregnant; you just look fat.”

What’s Ironic: This weekend, I bought a pair of GAP maternity jeans called “Long and Lean.” My entire life, I have been neither long nor lean, nor have I been able to fit my, uh, “athletic” frame into anything described as such. Apparently, though, now I am long and lean.

What’s Not F*cking Funny At All: These so-called “Long and Lean” jeans are two sizes up from my usual size. (What about that, exactly, signifies “long and lean”?) Oh, and I had to buy a new pair of maternity jeans because, just halfway through my pregnancy, I have already outgrown my first pair, in all relevant areas but the belly. My rear end is currently as rotund as my baby belly and is growing at the same alarming rate. I think this kid is growing spare parts in my ass.

Sorry about all the not-so-matronly swearing today. Cautionary whale’s prerogative.

Varsity Vocals applications were due today. I was out walking Molly around 9:30 am (she refuses to get out of bed before the crack of nine; it is her one redeeming quality), when I see what is obviously a college kid (I spotted his hooded sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves from halfway down the block) standing at my front door, trying to hand-deliver his group’s application.

I yell out to him and head over, thrilled that, for once, I am showered and dressed appropriately for one of these in-person deliveries. I even managed to remember to ditch the dog poop bag. Never mind that Molly is all over the place, and this kid was probably expecting an office building, and here I am, some crazy-seeming lady yelling “IS THAT FOR VARSITY VOCALS?!?!” from seven houses down.

I make my way over, say hello, and we get to chatting. I ask him what school he’s from, assuming maybe Loyola, or even DePaul. He responds:

University of Northern Texas.

That’s right. Apparently, his group realized the application deadline was today, and they really wanted to get their materials in on time. So, instead of contacting us to ask for a one-day extension and overnighting their materials, the group leader (who flies free because his mom works for American) hopped on a plane at 5:45 in the morning, flew to Chicago, and took the L and then a bus to hand me his group’s application.

The real kicker here is that the application form is online, and he didn’t have the entry fee together yet (had to get a check cut from the school blah blah blah). So this kid literally flew in from Texas to hand me a burned CD with MP3 versions of his group’s audition recordings. (Which, needless to say, he could have just emailed to me.)

It was one of the greatest — if not the dumbest — things that I have ever witnessed in my long history in a cappella. Such a sweet kid. And so very cool that he cares so much. It was a nice reminder to me that what we are doing with this silly-seeming small business really, really matters a lot, to a lot of people.

Beware, all ye souls who enter here!!!! … for a haunting and twisted Halloween tale awaits. (For those particularly faint of heart, it is advised that you skip directly to the photos at the end.)

November 1 is the deadline for college a cappella groups to apply to participate in several programs run by my small business, Varsity Vocals. And, because we are talking about college students here (and a cappella singers, no less!) this means that, every year, 98 percent of the hundreds of applications we receive are delivered to my door between October 30 and November 2.

Every year, without fail, some group from a nearby university procrastinates so long that they have to hand-deliver their application. (And, to be honest, it is always a group from Northwestern. As a rule, the more competitive the academic institution, the more ridiculous the antics of the a cappella groups. It is always the Ivy League students whose members (and, yes, members’ parents) try to engage me in the most asinine, illogical arguments about, for example, why their group should have won the entire tournament, instead of taking last place in the first round of competition. See here, here, here, and here.)

Anyway, every year, without fail, a Northwestern group shows up at my doorstep. They are always a bit startled to discover that Varsity Vocals Headquarters is, in fact, a residence, and there is no lobby with a doorman or secretary with whom they can leave their application materials. They have to actually ring the bell, and a person will answer.

And that’s where it gets really scary.

Inevitably, these poor, procrastinating souls are completely spooked when The Head Of The Company and A Cappella Queen Of The World, Madame Yours Truly, answers the door herself, wearing head-to-toe spandex yoga clothes or equivalent, without makeup, completely sweaty and disheveled, dog barking and lunging maniacally.

Today, I answered the door braless, in mismatched pajamas, puffy-eyed, unshowered and Medusa-haired, and once again completely physically and mentally unprepared to interact with any human soul but perhaps for the UPS delivery guy (who I always think is the only person who could possibly be ringing my doorbell, and who always sees me at my worst anyway).

This year, to make matters additionally hair-raisingly, spine-chillingly scary, I am visibly pregnant. Those poor students took one look at me, blanched visibly, dropped their application packet and turned and ran.

Next year, I can’t imagine things will look better, considering I will have a 7-month old in tow. Spooky, scary.

In other horrifying Halloween news, I chose today to go shopping for new undergarments (having come to the startling conclusion that my usual bras have slowly and inexplicably started to shrink). I was measured by a perky twentysomething sales girl who couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds (that bitch) and who brightly announced that my bra size now officially has the word “double” in it.

I let out a blood-curdling scream in my head and then wept openly in the dressing room. With all due respect to the lovely large-chested women in my life, of whom I have always been quite jealous, it was unnerving for the typically flat-chested girl in me to learn that there is, in fact, absolutely nothing that feels sexy about trying on a thick-strapped, grandma’s girdle-looking support brassiere with cups big enough to cover your head.

Fortunately, there is always comic relief, even on the spookiest of days:

(If you must ask, I didn’t wear a costume to the Halloween party I attended this year, although I did roll up my jeans to reveal my black- and orange-striped knee socks. Several guys asked me what I was supposed to be, and I answered, “A crabby pregnant lady.” They seemed scared.)

Edited to add: In defense of my lingerie department outburst, and upon subsequent personal reflection and Internet searching, I realize now that the twitty little salesgirl had only brought me the most heinous, supportive garments she could find. I think a second shopping trip is in order.

Turns out, Wyoming does agree with me. It was the best trip of our life. Better, even, than our honeymoon, we decided.

That may have had at least something to do with the fact that we know with certainty that our days of relaxing vacations and time for just the two of us are numbered. In fact, our days number 172 as of the time of this posting.

Now incubating Human Newman, expected March 21, 2011.

It was very difficult to blog over the summer, having found out on July 12 that I am pregnant but not being able to say anything about it until, oh, just recently.

I have a lot of stories built up. A LOT. Mostly centering on the absurd things Rob has been saying in anticipation of this baby, and mostly when we are in bed and I am about to fall asleep. Consequently, I’ve forgotten a lot of it, although some statements have been just too hilarious to forget. Lucky for you, I’ve started keeping a notebook by the side of my bed. Next to the Saltines and a copy of What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

A quick sampling, just to get us warmed up:

Amanda (poking still barely visible baby belly): “Look at my belly! I think its growing.”
Rob: “I know! You are a big fat whale!”
Amanda: “No. You aren’t supposed to say that.”
Rob (completely innocent): “Oh. I’m not?”

Rob: “How soon can babies walk? Two months?”
Amanda: “No, like a YEAR.”
Rob: “A year? No way. Our baby is going to have to learn how to walk before that. Get it together!”
Amanda: “Good luck with that.”
Rob: “How long before he can play touch football?”
Amanda: “Like, at least seven years, Rob.”
Rob: “I don’t know about this baby thing.”

Amanda: “Oooh, do I get a pushing present?”
Rob: “I guess so! What do you want? A purse? Something with diamonds? An iTunes gift card? A new car?”
Amanda: “What? How are those things remotely in the same category?”
Rob: “Oooh, I know what you need. A bayonet.”
Amanda (pauses): ” …. A bayonet?”
Rob (longer pause): ” … Wait. What’s a bassinet?”
Amanda: “Something you stick on the end of your rifle so you can skewer your baby.”
Rob: “I think what the baby really needs is a subwoofer in the living room.”

Rob: “I was picturing our baby today, and I accidentally pictured him as something that could fly.”

Coming soon: Lots more where that came from. Also, my thoughts on pregnancy, how we got into this mess in the first place, the end of life as we know it, and some absolutely classic reactions from family and friends.

I promise.

We are off for a five-day trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to ring in my 30th birthday.

Here’s the five day forecast:
Unseasonably cold and rainy, highs in the mid-50s, lows in the upper 20s. Colder up in the Grand Tetons and in Yellowstone (where we will be spending all our time). Thunderstorms likely every day.

Here’s the forecast for the five days immediately following our departure:
Normal weather patterns resume. Bright, clear, abundant sunshine, highs near 75 degrees.

What is it the kids are saying these days? Oh yes: FML.

My only saving grace — after a frantic last-minute dig in the back of the closet through the box of winter clothes, in desperate search of the hats and gloves and zip-in fleece lining for our jackets, all of which we will inevitably need to wear on my August birthday — is this: the hotel we are staying at serves fireside s’mores.

Apart from that, though? Simply proof, once again, that red states just do not agree with me.

Once you become the owner of a small business that operates nationwide, the days of simple tax returns are over. Lookee what arrived in the mail for me today:

My tax return is HUGE. Unfortunately, my tax refund is not. Apparently the quantity of pages in your tax return paperwork is in no way correlated to the quantity of bills in your tax return refund.

In fact, this year, it looks like it’ll be Christmas at the IRS in at least a dozen states, courtesy of yours truly. And you didn’t know how they were going to fund the health care bill!

Fortunately, Zappos delivered a little bit of happiness today, too. Ah, much better.

As I was tidying up the other day, I was horrified to discover that the cello Rob rented me for Christmas has actually, literally been collecting dust.

I learned to play the cello as a kid. Not Suzuki or anything serious — just orchestra class in school, and a few private lessons as I got older. I was something like fourth or fifth chair in the high school orchestra. Out of eight. I wanted to be better, of course, but it was never my top priority. I had a lot of other things going on.

I just liked playing the cello. I liked the deep, mellow tone. I liked putting rosin on my bow. I liked being part of an orchestra, playing beautiful, classical, important-seeming pieces I had never heard before.

Since I met Rob, I have spoken with great fondness about the cello, which I haven’t been able to play since high school, since I never actually owned an instrument. So, finally (and undoubtedly with designs on adding a little rock cello to the band), he rented one for me for Christmas.

It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever gotten. And now, one of the most guilt-inducing.

I’ve had a whole arsenal of excuses: It’s my busy season for work. It’s too loud to play in the house without disrupting the entire building. I don’t have rosin. I need music. I need lessons.

The real problem: I tried playing it. And. I. Suck.

Sure, some of it came flying back to me. I was pleasantly surprised at my muscle memory, how easy it was to finger the right notes with my left hand. But something about the bowing is just horrendous. The sqwuaking! The moaning! It sounds like an elderly cow trying to pass a kidney stone right here in my living room.

Molly DOES NOT LIKE IT.

I don’t remember it ever sounding this bad. I don’t remember it ever being this hard.

So, most days, the cello just stares at me, reminding me that, like so many things in my life, I am willing to try for about fifteen minutes, and when I discover that I’m not the best at it, I flat out give up. Then, I plummet into an existential crisis about how horrible I am at everything. And then, even worse, once I have given up and sent the cello back, I sit around marveling that I ever gave it up in the first place, and wishing that I had tried harder  to be better or at least to have enjoyed it while I still had the opportunity.

This could literally be the great metaphor of my life. It occurs to me just how absurd that is. If I only had a month to live, would I spend it trying to re-learn the cello? And if I did, would I be so mad at myself for not being very good?

Before I cut off monthly rental payments, this cello deserves another chance. I deserve another chance. I am going to try again to play the cello, if for nothing more than the adventure of working on something that does not come very easily to me, and for the opportunity to try to laugh at how horrible I am at it.

And then, I’m going to assess whether or not trying to play the cello really brings me happiness, or if it’s just something I’m doing because I feel like I should be doing it, and, worse, if doing it not very well is just making me feel bad about myself.

And if, in the end, I give it up, I’m not going to be mad at myself for that, either. I’m going to be proud of myself for recognizing that there are many adventures in life, but you can’t have them all at once. And how lucky am I to be able to choose more than one? Or choose at all?

Or something like that. There’s a fine line between being a quitter and being good to yourself.

In the meantime, the least I can do is take some photos of the damn thing for posterity. Photography is another one of those hobbies of mine that I don’t put enough effort into, for fear of failure and for the sheer disappointment of not being good at it right off the bat.

Are other people that much more patient with new or difficult things than I am? Or do they just not have to work as hard to get great results? That is not meant as a rhetorical question. Sincerely, dear universe, I ask of you: Am I trying too hard, or not hard enough?

There’s something about this beautiful weather that makes you feel like eating healthy. And there’s something about food on a stick that just tastes better.

Inevitably, there were going to be kebabs.

After a few failed attempts last summer, I am proud to say this year’s grilling debut was a huge, if surprising, success. (More photos here.)

Remind me again why I endure Chicago winters? I swear, I’d be the healthiest, happiest person if the weather was beautiful all the time.

Unless it got too hot. In which case, I’d be eating ice cream four times a day and sitting in front of the air conditioner griping about how the humidity makes my hair all frizzy and my thighs rub together. It’s always something with me, isn’t it?

When I woke up this morning, something in me had changed. After struggling through more than a few weeks of internal darkness, suddenly, in the smallest of ways, everything was just a little bit warmer. Lighter. Sunnier.

Of course, today was one of the first mornings of spring that it was actually warm, light, and sunny out. I’m sure that had something to do with it, even if I hadn’t opened the curtains yet.

Certainly, this delightful awakening was also made possible in part by the hour or so I spent at Rob’s parents’ house last night, wherein we met to discuss the impending purchase of our apartment (more on that later).

I’m not just sucking up to the in-laws, here. I really mean it: those people make me feel good about myself. I could show up filthy, drunk, swearing and twenty pounds heavier, and it wouldn’t be ten minutes before they would be all, ”Well don’t you look pretty!” and, “Wow, you are looking so skinny these days!” and, “Remember when you did that one thing that you can’t even remember doing and it was the most brilliant thing we had ever heard?” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera ad nauseam, except it doesn’t make me nauseated BECAUSE I LOVE IT.

Everyone in this life needs a fabulous friend and a family-in-law like mine. I am convinced that the wasteland of my typical psycho-emotional condition is entirely attributable to a deficiency of having these people in my physical presence on a daily basis.

Imagine what my ego could be! Every morning would be like this wonderful morning.

There is also tiny part of me that really believes, but is still reluctant to admit, that my newfound, in-fact-quite-bearable lightness of being may well be the product of a religious experience.

Bear with me, now. If you woke up to the dog retching, retching, retching and then puking all over the place, dragged yourself out of bed and cleaned it up, got back into bed and managed to fall asleep for five blissful minutes before waking up to feel the best you’ve felt in months, well, you would think you had found God, too.

Last night I had the good fortune of being invited to a Passover seder in the home of a family friend. Although I have the unfortunate condition of being a decided atheist, I very much enjoy being included in and learning about other people’s religious celebrations. Especially when these events take place in a happy, positive environment, such as, say, over dinner. (Feed them and they will come; the Jews know how to do this right. It bears consideration here that perhaps I may not have lapsed in my Catholicism had, say, some of the sacraments been conducted while I was being fed.)

During the seder, the Jewish people outline a litany of wonderful things God has done for them, culminating in their salvation. Although of course they are grateful for the whole shebang, they make special mention of each individual element along the way. After naming each item, they say in Hebrew, “Dayenu,” which (loosely) means (something like), “It would have been enough.”

It would have been enough.

What a concept. To be able to see the big picture, and even hope for it, but to be fully content and grateful for what you do have, right there in front of you.

We have all heard this before, of course. But something about dayenu stuck with me, and I woke up today thinking about what my life would feel like if I accepted and appreciated that this is all there ever would be.

I always say I realize that I have a great life — better than I could have imagined, asked for, or planned. But the overachiever in me is constantly pushing for more, telling me that it’s not enough to be doing the best I can if there’s still more out there to accomplish.

This, of course, is important. We have to try in life. But some of us push too hard, too often, and lose sight of the big picture, which is actually the small picture — the short-sighted vision of what is right there in front of us. Which is the thing that actually exists, as opposed to the thing that we are trying to bring into existence. It is the only real thing.

So, for today at least, I am trying to reconcile my drive to do more, be more, and want more from this life with a real and heartfelt appreciation for what I do have right this very minute, despite all the hassles and headaches and missing pieces and glaring errors that point in no uncertain terms to my own personal shortcomings.

I am trying to learn how to care about getting things done, and getting them done well, while also being content with things as they are right now, and equally happy if nothing works out the way I want it to.

What is right in front of me is all there really ever will be.

And that is enough. Dayenu.