Free Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut by Jill Kargman

because it was my hard times with you that got me to where I needed to be. It was in the four walls of your living room that I pep-talked myself back from the Debbie Downer days. It was in your bedroom that I chatted with my best friends. Sure, I was lonely, but that time alone helped solidify not only what I wanted but also who I really was. In the end, the fairy-tale ending was not because of Harry; he didn’t save me—you did. You helped me get independent; you returned me to my old self and delivered me to Harry when I was ready. And that is why, despite my nightmare neighbors and cheesy pheasant hallway wallpaper and mice, I am so happy we met. I don’t miss you, but I will always love you.

11
     

     
    I t was almost as if the moment I peed on the stick I got fat. Like literally as the plus sign appeared, my ass hit the plus-sized rack. I started to sense the telltale symptoms (tingling boobies, bitchiness) and went to Zitomer’s to buy the test. Holy fucking shit. I had to spread ’em and give birth. It was nine months away, but still . How to tell Harry? I was going to wrap the little urine-y wand in a box with tissue paper and tell my husband that way, but then it occurred to me that maybe it was too gross to hand him my waste products. We have this thing where we never ever have taken a dump with the door open. If someone starts to drop trou and hit the pot, one of us will yell “ Romance! ” (as in, let’s at least try to keep the romance alive) as a signal for the other to please shut the door. I remember that Sex and the City episode where Miranda’s one-night stand takes a fierce dookie, sending her cat sprinting out of the bathroom, Usain Bolt–style, with a tortured “RRRRREAR!” no doubt from the brown cloud he was just enveloped in.

     
    So ixnay on the eestickpay. Instead, I walked next door to Zitomer’s (cue finger quotes) “Department Store,” i.e., glorified pharmacy. The same place I’d just bought the preggo test, incidentally. In their “department” for kids they had some little socks with lions on them, which were perfect since I call my husband LC, short for Lion Cub, because he in fact resembles a lion with his mane o’ locks. Don’t worry, he’s not, like, in Metallica; he just has a full head of curly brown hair.
    I called his cell to see when he’d come out of the train so I could run and meet him on the street—I couldn’t even wait the extra few minutes for him to get home. He unwrapped the teeny socks and his jaw dropped. We hugged and promptly celebrated by hitting an Italian restaurant, where I might as well have duct-taped the plate of gnocchi to my thighs. No matter; I was knocked up!
    Almost as quickly as my thigh girth increased, invisible antennae grew out of my scalp and I started to notice every single preggers woman on the street. It seemed like the whole world was in bloom! Suddenly, strollers of every style and color were ubiquitous, tempting me in a buffet of varieties. Little onesies cooed from their store window perches, shrunken Tretorns were purchased for the tadpole within, and every child’s name called out by mothers on the street hung in my brain for consideration like the crisp clash of cymbals; I like Ike! Cute as a little boy, hot as a guy, and cute as an old man again!
    This would be fun, this mom thing, yay!
    And then . . .
    I ran into Patient Zero. No, not the Canadian flight attendant who porked his way into posterity. Her. The woman who would win the gold medal were name-dropping an Olympic sport, who answers, unprompted, “ Valentino! ” if you say you like her jacket, who weaves her colleges and clubs into every convo. It was like the Tourette’s syndrome of the insecure. “Yeah, in New Haven, you know, at Yale, and then in grad school in Boston, well, outside Boston, in Cambridge at Harvard, ” etc. etc. So there I was, bump in blossom, when she spied me.
    “What are you having? When are you due? You know my son got a ten on