And the fet(us) goes on...

So I'm getting into the home stretch here of my gestational period, and I figured you might be interested in what's going on!

I'll be 31 weeks on Monday, and I'm feeling pretty great. I've had an incredible amount of energy lately, my eating habits are surprisingly under control, and I'm getting surreal twinges of superexcitement at the thought of our little one's arrival. It seems like I've been pregnant forever, and it's hard to even imagine him actually being here, outside of me. I've had a couple disturbing dreams about him being born with acne and this really gross yarny-wire-curl across his forehead, oh and in one I gave birth to puppies, but other than that fear doesn't ever really pop up. I'm delightfully present.

As far as food goes, I have yet to have any "weird" cravings you always hear about. Maybe that comes later? Whatever I must have in any given moment is either fruit or vegetable: I've been purchasing cantaloupes for the last couple weeks--I never bought cantaloupe in my life! I never even liked it much! I've been blessed to have picked flawlessly ripe ones at the store though. Yay. If you're wondering how to pick a ripe cantaloupe (cuz I didn't), feel ones that are slightly soft and have a bit of a melon smell. It doesn't matter that the rind is still green, apparently. I made the wonderful decision to get hummus the other day too, which I've been practically drinking the last two days. I'd been wanting a pita roll with hummus and kalamata olives (à la Angeli's in New Orleans), but since I didn't want to buy pita and olives, I went with just the hummus. Joseph's Red Pepper hummus. Party size. Holla. Last night I threw down five huge romaine lettuce leaves, ripped into small pieces, and rolled em up with the hummus, a slice of celery, and sometimes a square of Monterey Jack cheese. OMG worthy. I'd finished off the last few bites of a slice of some crazy flavor cheesecake Allison had brought home for me the other night, but I was feeling kinda icky after it, and the fresh veggie snack alleviated the quease of the sugar and dairy immediately.

I have pretty much the same breakfast every morning (or afternoon): scrambled eggs w/ black pepper and Cajun seasoning on whole grain toast, spread with a layer of peanut butter, sour cream, salsa, and then topped with the eggs. Sometimes a leaf of lettuce. Mike thinks the peanut butter with all that is disgusting, but it's fucking delicious, and I get extra protein and omega-3s (my peanut butter has flaxseeds in it). I might eat a snack a couple hours later, but sometimes I have no appetite again until dinner. When that happens I tend to overdo it at dinner, and I easily get too full which has more severe consequences in pregnancy than it does normally. Now that my uterus is so far up in my belly, if my stomach expands too much it all squeezes together and presses on my lungs and my ribs, which is quite uncomfortable. It's difficult to sit down unless my back is totally straight because there's just no room for everything! And my breathing becomes impaired for an hour or so, which sucks. Overeating is more than just gas and underwear cutting off your circulation when you're pregnant!

But on another note, there's been absolutely no swelling, and really no apparent weight gain in any other part of my body but my belly! To me it's kind of weird looking, like I'm actually holding a basketball under my shirt. But for that I am thankful it will probably be rather easy to get the baby weight off when the time comes. Buuut, I do have two months left to go, and it's around this time that I should be gaining something like a pound a week. Fun.

And then there's the skin and hair. I slather myself with coconut oil every day after my shower, and it's effectively kept my skin from ripping (much). I have a couple unfortunate pink spots, but I am certain those showed up when I ran out of coconut oil for a week and had to use cocoa butter. They say cocoa butter is the anti-stretch mark savior, but I think it just totally screwed me. My hair feels great though! They say prenatal vitamins make your hair and nails really nice, but I wasn't noticing a damn difference until I started doing coconut oil treatments every other day. I comb a big dollop of coco oil into my hair and leave it in for an hour or so. Then I shampoo it out, no conditioner, and voilà, beautiful shiny hair. I've been doing it for about three weeks, and I'm noticing a vast improvement in the quality and texture. My hair was so damaged from way too much Hawaiian sun and generally not caring about it because I thought it was a lost cause. But I have a renewed sense of hope that I can not only have softer hair than ever before, but I can grow more of it too.

I've been keeping up with my exercises a few times a week. I sit typing over the computer all day with my writing, and it fucking kills my back. I desperately need a good professional massage, but until I can afford that, I just stretch it out. I still do Pilates leg exercises and a bit of gentle yoga to get things moving, not to mention all the neverending housework! Other than that I'm not hitting the gym or even powerwalking, but what I do feels good enough. No need to overdo it.

So I guess that's it for now. I'll give you more juicy details as things get more juicy. Love.

WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA STEAL DIS PHRASE?

It's been the most glorious week for New Orleans fans everywhere. Even Mike, who's trapped in the frigid-don't-know-nuttin-bout-no-spice-north, can't stop watching videos of secondlines on Bourbon St. and wishing he were back in his hometown to celebrate this inaugural moment in history: the Saints are headed to the Superbowl. Of course everyone knows that by now, but no one knows it better than New Orleanians. Since 1967 Saints fans have loved and honored their football team--for rich or for richer, through injuries and in health, through wins and through losses (many, many losses), as long as they all shall live. But this year the Saints and their fans are joyously experiencing something they've never experienced before: a seemingly divine and unstoppable success.

And the mantric chant that has accompanied both that success and preceding failures has been preciously linked to the New Orleans Saints and their fans since...forever, it seems: "WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS? WHO DAT? WHO DAT?!" Though history may have some absolute reality on when the phrase originated and when the Saints took it on, it is now inextricably integrated into New Orleans culture. But in the last few days the corporate cyborg that is the NFL has had something to say about that, resulting in a tense custody battle.

The NFL recently claims to have "patented" the rights to 'Who Dat' and have subsequently countered local New Orleans novelty shops for selling clothing and other merchandise which displays the legendary phrase or even the iconic fleur-de-lys symbol. They've begun issuing cease and desist orders to small business owners all over the city. However, the acquisition of these rights have not really gone through yet, especially since the Saints do already own two fleur-de-lys design registrations, and it's not just the NFL that's trying to claim rights to the phrase. Indeed there already is a WhoDat?, Inc., founded by Sal and Steve Monistere, who recorded the famous chant in 1983 and have been marketing it, quietly, ever since. Personally, I do not believe the fleur-de-lys itself can be bought by anyone, since it has ancient origins and is utilized all over the world.

What pisses me off, and obviously New Orleanians as well, is that this has been theirs for so long. The Saints have been theirs, even when they were the 'Aints' for so long. And now that the team is a renowned success, everybody wants a part of them. Everyone wants to jump on the Superbowl bandwagon and make a quick buck (like commercial whore Peyton Manning who does Oreo ads--you are so going down next weekend!). But New Orleans does not care about that. The city just vibrates an enormous sense of pride, no matter what happens. Saints fans don't run for the hills because of a terrible season, they run back faster the next year! They don't go to sleep during a game and "find out the score in the morning" (ahem, *cough* Patriots fans)! Local shops have always sold Who Dat merchandise because Saints fans buy them, wear them proudly, and deserve them. And for a city that's just getting back on its feet, the economic advantages of producing and buying locally are obvious. I like to think that even if the Saints weren't associated with the NFL, whatever hinky backyard football team out there with New Orleans jerseys would be embraced and passionately supported by the city. But the big truck/Bud beer/badass military-sponsored NFL has not hesitated in trying to exploit New Orleans for all it's worth. For a corporation whose annual profits exceed $300 billion, that's just plain shitty to try to take something so precious from a city that's already lost so much. But let's be reminded it is a corporation, not a person. Despite what the Supreme Court just ruled, corporations are not people and do not serve humane interests.

I say, for now, that New Orleans shop owners do not legally need to adhere to the corporate bullying that has already begun. There has been an impressive uproar in the Who Dat Nation in opposition to this ludicrous development, and Sal and Steve Monistere have been speaking up for their trademark as well. New Orleans does not keep quiet and does not bow down to Expensive Suits just because they come in with their White-Man-Conquering-You-Now attitude. The simple truth is that 'Who Dat' is not the NFL's to authorize one way or another, and if the city of New Orleans has anything to say about it, which it does, it never, EVER will be.

Pathetic, At Best

We already know the things we cannot trust in life: politicians, the news, reality TV, Radiohead to play a public concert in the US anytime soon...but now our employers? As I sit contemplating whether or not it is at all sophisticated to smear the good name of a renowned local entrepreneur, I am immediately inspired by MSNBC's Keith Olbermann's recent attacks on Massachusetts Senator-Elect Scott Brown, which describe him as a "homophobic, racist, reactionary...supporter of violence against women..." you know the rest. And that was merely on speculation! Well, I've decided, yes, it is a good idea to publicly broadcast my perspective on this man, who has personally and professionally wronged me, and who may potentially screw someone else over. Terrence Sanders, editor of a local New Orleans publication, ArtVoices magazine, has proven to me over the last five months that he does not know the meaning of respect for or communication with his employees. I can only imagine how often this happens to freelancers, and I'd like to shed some light on my experience, which I hope will prompt freelancers everywhere to secure their professional approach.

This all started last June, way back in 2009, when I went to an art opening in a gallery-laden district of downtown New Orleans. It was a small gathering with some very interesting work and copious amounts of free vodka. It was there that I met Terrence Sanders, a sort of "big cheese" in the New Orleans art world as the editor of the successful and respected ArtVoices magazine. After a few drinks I was feeling pretty confident and quite aware of my empty wallet, so I approached him about a writing job. I told him I could write about anything; though confident in my writing skills I was honestly a bit apprehensive about the technical aspects of the fashion and art world! After some chit-chat he got my phone number and said he would call me. When our conversation ended I left him alone so as to not annoy him, though I hung around so he would at least remember who I was after waking up with a vodka hangover. Later on in the evening as he chatted up my friend Colleen in a side room, who was also there in hopes of acquiring some sort of work (or just working it, I'm not sure), I sat down on the bright white couch and joined the two of them, followed by my boyfriend, Mike. We were all a bit tipsy and Terrence was standing over the three of us, a looming figure in whom I saw the potential to get my foot in the door. A thrill at the time! I don't remember much of what undoubted bullshit was said, but I do remember this from Terrence's mouth: "I didn't go to college...I had to build what I wanted from scratch...the two main keys to success are do good work and don't fuck anybody over!" Those ironic words would reverberate in my head with sardonic laughter in the ensuing months.

Imagine my delight when just a week later he texted me with an assignment for his new magazine, Turnstile. A pre-assignment, I suppose it was: "What is Fashion?" I sort of scoffed, but once I got to writing it flowed quite naturally, and I reevaluated my confidence. I could do this. I could write about fashion, even though I had long since stopped caring about much of the superficiality of it. I would write for an established magazine. After I sent the short paragraph he requested, he emailed another assignment: an open editorial. Again, once I finished this assignment, he didn't mention it again and didn't say what he would do with it. But finally, he assigned an actual job: an interview with a local photographer. Yes! I'd never done an interview before, not since some Student Council thing in middle school, but I immediately got to work on formulating questions. I was dead set on doing an impressive job. It finally occurred to me to inquire about payment, as Terrence had not said anything, but this was a real assignment now to be published, so I'd better find out, right? After an awkward delay, Terrence got back to me that I would be paid $100.

When I met the photographer, Mark, for our interview at an uptown coffeeshop, it all went wonderfully. I tried not to let off that this was my first professional job, though that fact simmered beneath the surface. I brought my video camera for accuracy, and we got to talking comfortably. He was a very nice guy, and I really wanted to bring to light the literal darkness in his photography. I didn't know how many times he'd been interviewed, if at all, but I had a strong desire to showcase who he was as an artist. I understood that that was my responsibility as the writer, not to just ask questions and document the answers. Later on at home I edited the interview down from 6000 to 1000 words. It was painstaking, but I was extremely satisfied at the end. I sent it to Terrence cheerily and did not even receive word that he'd received the file until I asked him for confirmation.

A few weeks later, at the end of August, I participated in a fashion show for a local designer, which was amazing. I caught up with Mark outside who immediately commended me for my work, which had been sent to him for accuracy. He said I actually "got him." That was an incredible reward. Using only 1/6 of what he'd said, I could have made him sound like a real boner. I was elated that he appreciated my portrayal of him, which I assumed to be quite rare in the media.

After a bit more time I was wondering about the payment, so I contacted Terrence. He wrote back that he does not pay his employees until the week of publication, and that would not be until the second or third week of September. I was broke and sort of upset that he had not mentioned this stipulation at the beginning, but what could I do? I put it out of my mind until September.

By the end of the third week of September, I had not only received no word from Terrence but had recently discovered I was pregnant, and my boyfriend and I had decided to move out of Louisiana and up north to reconnect with my friends. I was sick with fetus, sick of the heat, and sick of being broke! I inquired to Terrence about my check and informed him that I was moving out of state and would like to receive payment before that happens so as to make it less sticky for everyone. He updated me that publication had been pushed back until the first week of October, and he does not make exceptions. I started to see the interesting loophole he'd created for himself. Well, we already had our plane tickets, and I was melting, so we took a leap of faith and left.

This went on for three more months. Every month I would have to email him, wondering why the deadline had passed and I had not received my check or any notification, and he would push back the issue release another month. But eventually he knew he couldn't stave me off much longer and began promising me that he was sending it: "You'll have your check by next week," "I'm sending it out this week," "you'll have it by the end of the month." By the time December rolled around and I was still empty-handed, I started to get cranky. Despite my growing frustration I did not want that to come off in our correspondence. I scrutinized my word choices meticulously, careful not to appear angry, crazy, or just plain rude, but I held true to the main points to be addressed: Why did he promise to send the checks when he knew he did not intend to? Why doesn't he just send the check so I will get off his back? A hundred dollars is a delightful trip to the grocery store for a pregnant woman--I want my money! Why won't he communicate with me clearly and tell me what's really going on? However professionally I worded my emails, however, he shot back that I should be ashamed of myself for disrespecting him, such an important man, and for having the "audacity" to come to him with my "problems." My problem was his behavior, so yes, I most certainly came to him with that complaint. His true colors were shining through, loud and clear.

I finally contacted Mark about the magazine, if he knew anything about the publication, since I could never find any information about Turnstile online. I had no evidence of its existence at all. He responded that he had seen the layout, but indeed the launch of the magazine had been pushed back to January. I thanked him for the confirmation, but then it dawned on me that this was the launch of Turnstile--no wonder I could never find anything about it! I wrote to Terrence and asked him why he had never just explicitly told me that this was the first issue. I even conceded and admitted humbly that I understood how the launch of a new magazine could get pushed back. Why hadn't he told me? But now there was no reason to delay, the issue was coming out, and I would definitely get paid.

He responded, by now late in December, that he claimed to have sent me the check two weeks earlier. Confused and once again suspicious, I reported that I'd never received it, so we agreed it must have been "lost in the mail." I had no reason to believe him, but I implored him to cancel the check and send me another. After a couple weeks of going back and forth about who's going to pay the $30 cancellation fee, I conceded and said I would pay for it if he sent me the receipt for the canceled check, along with the issue of the magazine. The least he could do is send me the work I did in exchange for all this crap! He surprisingly responded that he would pay the fee and I would have my check by the end of the week of January 18, if only this would end. I received no word that he had sent the check, and of course no check by Friday, so I sent another inquiring email. He did not respond. Downright angry, I emailed him again, this time threatening to expose his distasteful business practices if he did not actually send the check this time. This is honestly the first time I have threatened him with public disclosure, and apparently he did not appreciate it. He wrote me back quickly--allow me to quote him accurately: "I don't know why I even entertain you but your threats are pathetic to even think anyone cares what you have to say anyway is evn more pathetic. Who are you and what have you done to even compare yourself to me. As I said before your checks in the mail and get a life. I'm not sending you your pathetic $100 because you're threatening me I'm sending it to get your negative energy off of me. I will register your address with SPAM so there will be no further correspondence. I can't believe I even hired you after you begged me to write an article which is mediocre at best. Good luck with all your future endeavors you're going to need it. Best Regards"

No, I am not pathetic. And the work I did for him was superb. What's pathetic is not paying a pregnant woman a measly $100 that she earned, simply because she asks questions. I will not just roll over as he tries to screw me. Eww. The important thing is that he is the employer, a dastardly one at that, and for me to have to badger him for even a response or some notice on the status of due compensation is unacceptable. Furthermore, for him to insult me for pursuing my rights in the matter is completely repugnant and unethical.

Perhaps no one does care what I say, but there's nothing more pleasing to me in this moment than making some attempt to let others know what really goes on behind some pseudo-philanthropic doors. All freelancers must be very clear in their expectations of payment and treatment by their employers. This editor's disrespect is unwarranted, his arrogance unparalleled. What have I done to "compare myself to him?" Dear God, I hope nothing comes close!