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.

It’s a GIRL!

The ultrasound technician froze the screen, put up an arrow pointing to what looked like a lot of nothing, and (sure enough!) typed out: G-I-R-L.

We were both totally flabbergasted for, like, two minutes. But before they had even wiped the ultrasound jelly off my (now decidedly bulbous) belly, we were both just beaming, and I already couldn’t possibly picture us with anything else. How on earth had we ever thought it might be a boy?

I am already in love with the word “daughter.”

In other exciting news, the fact that this baby is a girl definitely means I’m clairvoyant.

Like everyone else, I often have dreams about things I’ve never encountered. I remember the dreams, but I never think much of them. However, there have been many, many times in my life when I’ll be somewhere I’ve never been, or meeting a new person, or having a particular conversation, and it will all be exactly as it was in a dream I had, usually several weeks before.

Anyway, I have only had two dreams about this baby, but both were very vivid, and in both, the baby was a girl. I could see her face in perfect detail, and she had a name and everything. I kind of dismissed the dreams, because I always assumed we would have a boy first … but obviously, I shouldn’t have. I fully expect that, when I meet my daughter, she will look (and the situation will feel) exactly as it did in my dream.

Rob, of course, insists that my dreams are just that uncanny feeling of déjà vu, but I think this baby gender news clinches what I have always known to be true:

I have special powers.

After the ultrasound, Rob commented on how neat it was when the lady typed out the word “girl” for us. ”Wasn’t that crazy? G-R-I-L-E  …” he started, and then, looking confused and shaking his head, continued: ” … wait. Le grill? What the hell is that?!”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Other choice comments include the following:

Rob: “At least she didn’t type out ‘monster.’ If I was the vet tech, I would totally type out ‘monster’ every time.”

Rob: “I can’t believe its a girl!”
Amanda: “I know! What should we name her?”
Rob: “Well … I like the name Amanda.”
Amanda: “Yeah, but you don’t really name a girl after yourself.”
Rob: “We could be trendsetters! Amanda Junior. We’ll call her AJ.”
Amanda: “I don’t know.”
Rob: “How about Rhinocerous?”

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.

Rob continues to say the most delightful (and absurd) things in anticipation of our baby’s arrival.

Rob: “So, after you have the baby, you’ll be, like, a cow, for awhile.”
Me: “Uhhhm. You mean fat?”
Rob: “No, like udders.”

Rob: “I wonder if my baby will be able to make lemonade.”
Me: “What?!?”
Rob: “I don’t know. It’s refreshing.”

Rob: “I’ve got a business idea: headphones that you put right on the woman’s belly, so the baby has the best possible listening experience.”
Amanda: “Um, OK.”
Rob: “Like a Walkman for your stomach. The Stalkman.”
Amanda: “How about Fetus Phones?”
Rob: “How about The Womba?”

Rob: “Is Yoda an acceptable name for humans these days?”

Rob: “Does the baby need a passport?”
Amanda: “Yes.”
Rob: “OK, but we are going to have to get one at the hospital. In case we have to flee.”

Rob: “What’s the baby’s address?”
Amanda: “Well, it would be here.”
Rob (stating, not asking, as if he has already answered his own question): “So, you wouldn’t have to specify ‘womb.’”

Rob: “Would you be surprised if the baby was born and I wasn’t the father?”
Me: “Yes, particularly because I didn’t have sex with anyone else.”
Rob: “What if you had God’s baby? Would you be surprised then?”
Amanda: “Yes. We had sex when I was ovulating.”
Rob: “OK. But if it comes out black, I’m going to assume it was God.”

Rob, in a rare moment of tenderness, while gently patting my belly and talking to the baby: “Hi baby. What are you doing in there? Are you sleeping? Everything is going to be okay. I love you baby. It’s going to be a wonderful world for you to live in.” Rob pauses, and just about as I am about to start crying, he adds: “You will never have to wait for the iPhone to come out.”

I am beyond excited for next Tuesday. Not only is it Election Day and the day Starbucks starts giving out their red cups of cheer (I know this for a fact; Rob asked his barista), but it is also the day we have our “big ultrasound” and can find out if Human Newman is a boy or a girl!

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.

Remember February? Yuck.