I'm FINE.

I could win a Pulitzer this week and all anyone would say to me is "how are you feeling?" I didn't win a Pulitzer.

I guess that's what you say to pregnant women. Pregnancy is really boring. People constantly ask you how you are feeling - like 13-300 times a day, and how much plastic crap you're going to buy for something smaller than your purse and whether or not you know if it has Down Syndrome because you are old. With each repetitive question I feel my independent personhood slowly leaking away. So far, the only truly interesting and important search I've undertaken is for daycare. WHERE CAN I BRING THIS THING EVERY DAY BECAUSE MY HUSBAND CAN'T TAKE IT TO WORK?

The choices seem to be chain store centers with corporate-like goals, or "home" daycare centers in someone's house. They both sound shitty, but much like selection of a national leader, I just keep asking myself, which is the least shitty?

I loathe the idea of traipsing through a giant warehouse-style store and selecting piles and piles of junk that is destined to collect puke and dust in a corner. What if your baby likes to be vibrated to sleep? What if your baby likes to swing? Don't you want a clean air pod that will gently surround your baby with waves of nurturing classical music and healthy ions? Well, then again, some babies sleep in a drawer and play in the dirt according to my friend Donna. Can't I just hold my baby in the backseat of the car like the Amish do? Can I get a religious permit for that? Tax exempt status?

I also have a confession to make. I test-drove 5 different SUVs with the intention of trading in my '99 Toyota with the broken passenger side window that doesn't always start right away, but has lots of trunk space, for one of those things even though they are terrible for the environment and as tasteless as selfie sticks. I sat down with two separate salesmen and got to the final stages before deciding I needed to sleep on it. In the final pitch, my husband patted the hood of the silver monolith - it was silver, ugh, what a stereotype - and said to me "look, I think this is the best deal you're going to get for one of these mom mobiles." Aww hell naw. Before you know it, I'm wearing yoga pants every day, buying processed chicken nuggets in bulk and sporting cheap corporate-engineered bracelet charms that say things like "I love you to the moon and back." NOOOOOOOO!!!

At work, whenever I try to get a paycheck out of my boss (I work for a small business that is too small for direct deposit), he says things to be funny like "you don't need the money, it's not my fault your husband gives you such a small allowance." And while I haven't gotten myself fired yet in a fit of rage, it again reminds me that I'm being steamrolled into a role I don't want. If I die and my obituary starts with "Beloved wife of. . ." I swear I will haunt the fuck out of all of you and not the good haunting like Caspar, but the shitty haunting like Amityville.