truer words were never put to papyrus

"I can't even explain what it is like making love when you want to make a baby. That said, it's nothing like making love once you know that your child is inside your wife. You're making love, hoping you're not bashing his head in with your penis."

-- Tommy Lee in his memoir, Tommyland

she showed me a beach, gave me a peach and pulled out the suntan lotion

and so it has been nearly two weeks since i last posted. and yet no one noticed. mr nice guy feels like george bailey, except that if mr nice guy had never been born apparently no one would be adversely affected. indeed, mrs nice guy would be better off! she certainly wouldn't be preggo with some bulbous-headed legless squid, much less still vomiting daily.

mr nice guy took what is very likely going to be his LAST VACATION EVER last week. he went home to the city of angels, golden cali, or as it was originally known, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles (true fact). that's right -- ain't no holiday party like a west coast holiday party. especially when you can wear shorts in december. mrs nice guy went home to vermont and snow and ice. look, we live together. we see each other every freakin' day, so come winter holiday time, we usually go our separate ways to see our respective famblies. it has worked out nicely these past seven (!) years. next xmas, with a tiny little squidkid to contend with, that will surely be the end of that.

not that i'm complaining. i like my regression week and all, but i tend to do silly things like, oh, forget to sleep. i blame this on my debauched high school friends who routinely close down bars and then, since this is LA, either drive home sloshed or walk MILES back to their houses. mr nice guy has not been this tired in his bones for god knows how long. he's getting to old for this. good thing he's got a baby on the way so he can look forward to leisurely evenings at home and long nights filled with peaceful sleep.

ps: mrs nice guy, who i have never been happier to see, is getting BIG. mr nice guy is developing a belly fetish. is that weird?

pps: sweet! a cursory search through the internets reveal ample troves of pregg-o-porn. mr nice guy dearly hopes his IT dept is still on vacation.

mr nice guy gets real ... can you HANDLE THIS?

excuse mr nice guy while he gets real for a minute. pasted below you will see THE ACTUAL BABY as it is currently squirming inside mrs nice guy. all of the photos thus far posted have been done through creative google searches and copyright violations. but that stops here! THIS is the real deal. this is the actual baby. this is the thing that has ruined my wife's life for the past 4.3 months:


but how will it walk?!

totally inscrutable, right? i know! just like its grandfather! actually if you squint, you can just barely make it out: the bulbous head, freakishly resembling john merrick's, floats stage center. basically, it's sucking its thumb (or making an obscene gesture). seriously, that bent arm-like thing actually is an arm! and it goes into its mouth! and look! ribs! it has ribs! mmm, delicious ribs.

i know you didn't want to be the one to bring it up, so i will spare you. you're wondering: where the hell are its legs? i have no idea. i swear when we were at the OB's office, we counted two legs and two arms. so we were happy. but close scrutiny of this printout reveals a robust torso and ... NO LEGS. egads. i know it takes 10 months (pregnancy myth numero uno: it's nine months long. WRONG! do the math 40 weeks = 10 months from where i sit, dude) to slow-roast a whole baby. but i thought the baby was made as a homogeneous unit. i didn't know it starts with the head and works its way down. because, i mean, look, no legs! those must be next on the list of things to develop. or else, how will it stand on the subway as people deny it a seat? it won't!

actually, i kid. there are legs in there somewhere. clearly the wee one has taken on its father's prankish sense of humor. it dodged the camera just as the flash went off -- oldest trick in the book. it has also obviously inherited its father's looks. that's right: the next time you see a legless, bulbous-headed john merrick thumb-sucker oozing down the street, you've got yourself a rare mr nice guy sighting. just be sure to take note of how dashingly handsome, virile and suave that legless, bulbous-headed john merrick oozing thumb-sucker is. because god DAMN that ultrasound is a picture of one GORGEOUS legless, bulbous-headed john merrick oozing thumb-sucker baby.

it also is clearly a genius. seriously. do the math. just a casual eyeball of that picture suggests to mr nice guy that his baby's brain makes up, what?, 30 percent of said baby's body mass. that is one SMART MOTHERFUCKER. for that, i credit its mother.

subway etiquette 101

ok so i guess she's officially preggers. someone on the subway OFFERED HER SEAT TO MY WIFE today. (note: it wasn't a man who did this.)

i wasn't with mrs nice guy, so i have a few questions about this supposed event: firstly, what parallel universe new york are you living in, woman? do people actually do this? voluntarily relinquish their hard-earned subway seat? man! i see a pregnant lady get on the train, my eyes IMMEDIATELY dart down to the newspaper/ipod/hustler i am carrying and i feign some DEEP interest. ain't no lady with no baby getting my seat, dig?

ok, all joking aside? what the fuck is wrong with people? the rules are simple: if you see a pregnant lady on the train, people, give up your goddamn seat. honestly. just by STANDING while you and your vuitton knockoff snuggle on a seat, these preggos are expending as much energy as if they were running a marathon and climbing kilimanjaro and surfing laird hamilton-sized waves all at once. (fuck, sounds like more fun than riding the mta, if you ask me, but apparently it's pretty punishing.) anyway, give it up. that oh-i-didn't-see-you-i-was-really-engrossed-in-this-article-on-tax-policy routine ain't working.

but i digress. do you realize what this means? mrs nice guy has for the first time been officially recognized as a pregnant person by a stranger! yay! good for her. her little belly is bulging. this was, of course, a highly risky move by the benevolent stranger. mr nice guy can easily imagine his own dashing bit of chivalry blowing right up in his ugly face.

mr nice guy: oh, you shouldn't be afraid to ask for a seat!
pregnant lady: uh. thanks for the seat, but i wasn't about to ask.
mr nice guy: tut, tut! i won't hear of a lady in the family way standing while a virile young buck such as myself has parked his posterior on prime subway property!
pregnant lady: um. i'm not pregnant, asshead. go fuck yourself. and give me that seat.

that's basically how it would go. so to play it safe i just always stand. even if every seat on the fucking train is free, i would rather avoid the trauma.

but mrs nice guy thanks you kind stranger! you have reaffirmed our faith in the subterranean commuting community of the greater new york area! and i guess this means not only is she really pregnant, but increasingly people can actually tell. and the excellent thing about being visibly pregnant is that the WHOLE WORLD knows you've done the nasty. aww yeah.

also, an etiquette side note: if someone has gray hair--or, for that matter, no legs--and they're standing on the subway, GIVE UP YOUR SEAT fuckface. it's really not that hard, for chrissakes. and it spreads a little happykarma. (and hell, if they have no legs and they're standing, you should give them some money too, cause i would pay to see that shit.)

there are only so many ways to say vomit

mr nice guy just read somwhere that a key to writing a good blog is to post as often as you eat. dude, who has that kind of time? mr nice guy is terrible at keeping up with the updates, i know this. but ... no one out there seems to notice or care. there's only so many things that can be said about projectile vomition and rioting hormones anyway.

that said, mrs nice guy actually made it out of the house for social occasions on TWO consecutive days this weekend. dinner. brunch. an afternoon movie. my goodness, mr nice guy barely remembered how nice it is to be married to a human.

incoming!

From: nice guy, mrs
To: nice guy, mr
Sent: 12/13/2004 9:42 AM
Subject:

Ugh, had to take a zofran this morning since I rather explosively ralphed up my raisin bran the moment I got to work. Ugh. When will this end?

how easily we get accustomed to puking

so what the fuck? now that mrs nice guy is a full four months pregnant she actually has, uh, morning sickness. most normal women are done barfing by this stage. but not mrs nice guy. she spends the first three months puking every 8 minutes. now--NOW--she decides to try doing it the way everyone else does. she gets up, she barfs, she goes about her day. one puke in the morning and then everything is right as rain. who is mr nice guy to argue?

i have to say, never have i been more impressed with the human body. truly we are a malleable, resilient creature. we adapt. we get up in the morning, we barf, we go to work. "why yes, i would love an english muffin. oops. hang on. [BLLEEUEUUUUGHGHGHEARRRRGH.] unsalted butter please." it's amazing what one can acclimate one's self too. puking at sunrise? perfectly normal, what what! another crumpet please, i'm feeling outlandishly nauseated, but one must go on, what!

the mind reels.

it's gotten to the point where i just stay in bed as the sounds come crashing in from the antechamber: HACK HACK BLEOOOOOOOOOOOORUSH! BKUGHK! oof. mm. grGRWNAEFDSHHHHHH. uuuuuuuuuuuugh. and i sleep. a mere month ago, i would have sprung, like the fleet footed messenger mercury, the winged-ankled one, to her side, held back her hair and told her encouraging lies: "it's all over now. you did good. i didn't see what just happened. you are never going to vomit again. i won't write about this in my blog."

well that was then! now i just roll over and shout from the bed: "ARE YOU OK? yeah? really? SO COULD YOU KEEP IT DOWN?" because, you see, i am a bad person. and she will be fine. really. just five more minutes, that's all i need.

four months in

so here we are, nearly halfway there. good lord. four months. went to the doc today and you know what? THERE IS A SQUIRMY FISHPERSON INSIDE MY WIFE. we got the little ultrasound deal (apparently it's called "sonogram" now) and we could SEE it. so weird. it has bones. it has two arms and at least five fingers (it was either waving to us or flipping the bird, depending on your vantage point ... and your half-full/half-empty orientation). and you know what else? the kid has some serious MOVES. mr nice guy would not kid you about this: the little whippersnoodle definitely takes after its old man in the dance department. the technician lubed up mrs nice guy's belly and stuck the little doppler device on and, lo!, l'enfant terrible squirmed and wormed and jigged and jagged, grooved and moved, shaked and shimmied, got up and got down. the thing wouldn't sit still. awesome.

technician: i am trying to measure it but it WON'T FUCKING SIT STILL.
nice guys: does it have down's?
technician: i can't even tell if it has a head

or something to that effect. actually -- it has a head (at least it did this morning), it has arms and legs. but i wonder, should we be worried? it seems to always revert to the fetal position. was it something we did? are we putting undue pressure on it to develop normally? why the fetal position, bucko? what the hell did we do wrong?


apparently bad habits start early

also. what's with the goddamn squirming? the OB (ok. i have this recurring freudian slip where when i mean to type "OB" but i unwittingly type "vet," before shamefacedly erasing it and typing "OB" back in its place before anyone sees) says the movement is normal. and i must admit, i am impressed by its fancy grooves. not too impressed, mind you, the father shall always remain the superior dancer. you got that? ALWAYS. but i do wonder. why is it moving so much? what's with the ADD? i also wonder: is it too early for ritalin?

also, in the little snapshot we got to take home, it's sucking its thumb. how cute. sucking its wee thumb alread-- wait a minute! FUCK! it's not even born and it won't sit still, it sucks its thumb and it's goes fetal all the time. christ! we're obviously failures as parents. that was fast. i blame its mother.

it's what's for dinner

the nice guys are unabashed foodies. love the food. love the cooking of the food as much as the eating of the food. mr nice guy will admit, with all the requisite humility, that he is the GREATEST CHEF EVER. if you don't want to grant him that, fine, he will accept the mantle of GREATEST FOLLOWER OF RECIPES EVER. whatever. to make a long lede short ... i can whup up a good meal. try me.

so, i did my work shift at the food co-op this morning (at SIX this morning, the morning of my day off) (more on the co-op when i muster the strength -- the co-op is, in itself, worthy of its own entire blog (mrs nice guy just shouted from the couch "don't do that!")). i came home at 8:30, mrs nice guy was just getting out of the shower--having already barfed, broken the fast and gagged again for the morning--and she said "you didn't shop for food? you only did your shift?? i'm huuungry." so. clearly, mr nice guy had to go back and buy food. (mr nice guy, it should be here noted, was at a business conference over the weekend, logging an average of 4.5 hours of sleep per night. mmm, hotel porn.)

so before returning to the co-op to do the marketing, he made sure to create a menu for the week. and oh, did he ever create a menu: italian delicacies, squash casseroles, crisp salads, apple-and-cranberry cobblers. mrs nice guy, when she got home was going to be wowed. clearly.

...

or not. when the missus called to say she was on her way home, mr nice guy flew into a tizzy of chopping, dicing, measuring, boiling, salting, sauteing, etc. the timing was perfect: when mrs nice guy walked in the door at 8:10 pm, there was a heaping bowl of whole wheat penne with sausage, leeks and fontina (and a side of sweet-vinegar cucumber salad) awaiting her attention. she sat at the table, adjusted her chair and dug in to the scrumptious pile of heartiness before her. as suddenly she slowed down--her gaze drifting from the deliciousness on the table, her attention sadly beginning to shift again to her work--i said to her, ever so lovingly, "is everything ok? does your tummy hurt?"

she replied, with an enviable succinctness, "this tastes like fart."

and so now mr nice guy is a man left alone with leftovers--a gigantic bowl of fart, a towering 10 lbs of fart--to finish BY HIMSELF at lunch over the course of this week.

mr nice guy gets lactose intolerant

this is too sweet not to share with you this very second ... and yet it is something that i have not had nearly enough time to fully get my tiny brain around. so bear with me a little.

our erstwhile landlady just gave us a book titled (i kid you not) The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding ... brought to you (seriously) by the good people at La Leche League International. you get that? THE INTERNATIONAL MILK LEAGUE!

the mind positively reels, on every level. look, mr nice guy is a sensitive 90s man -- he's had long hair, he's not afraid to dance, he cries all the damn time, he writes poetry -- but come on ladies, do we really need a 450-page treatise on the art, womanly though it certainly is, of breastfeeding? i mean, don't you just hook the little hooverbaby up to your chest, like you would a pop the gas nozzle into your car's tank, and let 'er rip? the tiny troglodyte should know exactly what to do: it's hardwired. moms, there's very little art involved on your part: lay off the booze and pills for another few hours or however long you plan on breastfeeding (actually, pass them here. i'll hold them for you. inside me, where it's warm) and the kid will do the rest. right?

mrs nice guy informs me that two of her colleagues were discussing the best breast feeding coaches for their respective wives (i assume it was for their wives, anyway, this is new york though ... so ... you know, maybe they want breastfeeding coaches for their teenagers, hoping that a little eccentric extracurricular activity will look good on their college applications). do you follow me? these guys were talking about BREASTFEEDING COACHES. i am in the wrong line of work, clearly, because i suddenly feel as though i might have missed my calling. i too must train the ladies of new york how to breastfeed! how does one get this job? any tips? i mean, i'd make a very dedicated hands-on coach.

seriously, what is mr nice guy missing here? are new mothers so overwhelmed that they go hooking their newborns up to their noses? do they attach the little ones to their matronly elbows? where's the confusion? all i know is that neither i nor my dear mater nice guy ever went to any seminars and we both seemed to know what to do. i mean, i breastfed for 17 years and i turned out just fine. i suppose i could open this book and investigate a little more, but i have much more important things to do.

for example, it is much more important that i figure out what the hell the international milk league is all about. i picture something like the superfriends, only instead of the hall of justice the international milk brigade (i know it's "league," but i like brigade better so they just changed their name) meets on a dairy farm in wayne, wisconsin. wait, no! their name is actually french (o, la vache!) so they must convene in some rustic little village in provence. or canada. whatever. i am losing my train of thought.

a quick glance at their web site shows they offer conferences and workshops -- i went to a CPR workshop once and pretended to be an unconscious woman named annie as other people in my group pounded on my chest, breaking several of my ribs, trying to resuscitate me as they shouted into my face, at ear-crunching volumes, "annie, annie are you ok?". so if my new career as breastfeeding coach fails, i will go to international milk brigade workshops and volunteer as a cranky baby in need of some sweet, sweet boobs mother's nectar. much more agreeable than getting my ribs broken.

UPDATE: look, i know that "leche" is spanish for milk, not french (the french for milk being, of course, jus de boubie). i don't know what happened there. some brainfart. mr nice guy apologizes. he's very tired.

true fact!

mr nice guy has a little obsession with the anagrams these days. he believes they hold the power to reveal the true nature of a person, as conveyed through ... scrambling their name. for example?

adolf hitler --> hell, a dr of it. or: dafter ill ho. or: lo, dear filth. or: fad hero, tilt. or: ill daft hero.

sigmund freud --> dried fun mugs. or: grim fun, dudes. or: dude, firm guns! or: snug fur did me. or: fun dime drugs. or, my fave: fused rim dung.

ah, anagram, mirror of one's true soul. makes perfect sense!

so. without further adieu, want to know what the anagrams for baby nice guy are? no? let me be the first to tell you:

I = NYC guy + babe
Ye baying cub
Cagey bun by I
Ein gay cubby

And what, you are no doubt asking, is the anagram for mr nice guy?

I'm urgency
Run, gym, ice
Mincer guy
I'm NYC urge
Grey cumin

and the best one? ..................


dry those eyes ... if i start a band it'll be named after you


CRYING EMU!!!!

oh, i so totally do want to see

From: mrs nice guy
Sent: Thursday, December 02, 2004 5:27 PM
To: mr nice guy
Subject:

A guy here at work has a sister who's due about a week or two earlier than I am. She's a doctor and she got a 3D ultrasound done yesterday. Dunno if you've seen those, but they're basically like photographs -- much sharper than a traditional ultrasound. Anyhow, he showed me the pictures of hers. I HAVE E.T. INSIDE ME. I didn't say as much to him, but it was a horrifying, barely humanoid figure. I swear to god, it looked exactly like E.T. Fucking creepy.

From: mr nice guy
Sent: Thursday, December 02, 2004 5:28 PM
To: mrs nice guy
Subject: RE:

is that what we're getting on tues?

From: mrs nice guy
Sent: Thursday, December 02, 2004 5:29 PM
To: mr nice guy
Subject: RE:

no. we're getting the regular kind - and trust me, you should be glad.

From: mrs nice guy
Sent: Thursday, December 02, 2004 5:30 PM
To: mr nice guy
Subject: RE:

you don't want to see what i saw.