the pieces of my life

And for once, I’m not talking about me! I still have a terrible cold but figured I really needed to make the effort to go to lunch with Adam’s family. After all, it is mother’s day (and I got a lovely mother-to-be present from Adam and Brown Brown. It was quite wonderful). We were meeting them at a restaurant, only Adam couldn’t remember how to get to this restaurant, and his father conveniently turned his cell phone off. We’re driving around and around and around. We called information, but they couldn’t find what we were looking for: an Italian restaurant with the name Jiavelli or Giavelli or something like that in Chelsea. We’re driving and driving. Adam stops in a Dunkin Donuts to ask them (and get me a glazed donut, because by now I’m starving), but they’ve never heard of it. Finally, I end up calling my father in Miami Beach and have him get on the Web and find the place. He’s looking up all the “G” and “J” places in Chelsea. No luck. Adam’s certain it’s in Chelsea, but we have Peter check Revere. Nope. Everett? Not there. We are now 40 minutes late to a lunch that we had actually requested be held earlier (so Adam could study for this week’s finals and because I had dinner plans that were on the earlyish side), and we’re driving and driving and driving and Adam is getting crankier and crankier. I’ve had my sugar fix and I’m on Sudafed (one of the few pregnancy-approved drugs), so I’m actually in a fine mood. After about fifteen minutes, Peter hits on it: Jevalli’s in East Boston. By the time we show up, Adam’s fuming that his family didn’t call to check on us so we could get directions. Apparently, his father doesn’t have his cell phone number plugged into his phone. Adam stewed all through lunch, which is always comedy with his eighty-plus-year-old grandmother and his around-ninety-year-old uncle. Any little comment is sure to strike disbelief and much conversation. For instance, when discussing whether or not to take leftovers home (neither Adam nor I are fans of the food there), I said, “No point in us taking it home. Adam doesn’t eat leftovers.” His grandmother exclaims, “What?” so his father shouts to her, “Adam doesn’t eat leftovers!” “What? Did you say Adam doesn’t eat leftovers!” she says loudly in horror, and his father responds, “Yes, Adam doesn’t eat leftovers.” “Why doesn’t Adam eat leftovers?” she asks. The still-cranky Adam just shrugs and says, “I just don’t,” and his mother adds, “Adam’s never liked leftovers.” So his grandmother turns to the cousins at the other end of the table and says, “Adam doesn’t eat leftovers!” Of course, making conversation, they say, “He doesn’t?” and his grandmother replies, “No! He says he doesn’t like them! Adam just doesn’t eat leftovers!” What makes this even more amusing for me, is that we had almost the exact same conversation at Passover and at a party his parents’ held last summer. When I mention it at the next lunch, I’m guessing I’m in for a repeat. I find it all hilarious, and have problems keeping from giggling, but it just annoys Adam. Which only ensures that the next time we’re all together I’ll be sure to mention it.

Another entry that my parents probably shouldn’t read: The deed has been done. My first big sacrifice for the baby, and the first thing I have to lord over him when I want to pull the guilt out. The belly ring is out. (My, how things have changed since my parents had me. All my mother could use for guilt was the delay in her career. Nothing as good as “I gave up my beautiful belly ring for you!”). Tonight I met a group of friends in Harvard Square for dinner at Cambridge 1 and dessert at Finale’s (where dessert was twice as much as dinner and well worth it! Mmm, molten chocolate cake!). Before going, Adam and I evaluated the belly ring situation and decided, as my belly button is starting to become shallow and skin becoming more taut, it was time for the ring to come out. I had a whole belly ring removal ceremony planned (which involved a teddy bear to put the belly ring into to save for when Brown Brown is sixteen, so he can pierce his belly button with his mom’s belly ring. Oh, no “aws,” please. I know it’s a sweet and tender sentiment, but I’m not good with that gooey stuff), but as I was looking at the ring, I realized I hadn’t a clue as to how to remove it. I understand in theory, but when I tugged at it, it only pulled, and I didn’t want an ugly mess on my hands. A quick Web search by Adam showed that there was a body piercing place in Harvard Square, and as I rarely get to Harvard Square but would be headed there for dinner (it’s great place to hang out, but a bitch to park at), I decided to make a pit stop there on the way to meet my friends. The event was fairly anticlimactic. I walked in and a young guy in his early twenties, all in black and heavily pierced was there. I said to him, “When I was 25, I got a belly ring and I love it. But now I’m 35 and I’m pregnant and it needs to come out, but I haven’t any idea how to get it out.” He brought me right in. I told him I was pretty bummed it was coming out, half hoping he’d say, “Oh, you really don’t need to. Loads of women keep them in,” but he was instead quite validating and said very nicely, “Oh no, you have to take it out. The immune system is busy with the baby and doesn’t want to bother with this ring.” But he assured me that there’s a good chance that the pierce will remain open as I’ve had it for so long and if it doesn’t, it’s a simple matter to repierce. The piercing took a while and involved a lot of hand squeezing with a friend and tons of instructions. This took about three seconds. But he was extremely professional and he didn’t charge me for it, so I’d like for everyone in the Boston area who is planning on getting a pierce to please go to Chameleon. Adam asked me if it made me feel old, like a trying-to-be-trendy mom, but actually, it was kind of cool, like here I am embarking on a new part of my life. It made me feel hip in a different kind of way. Anyway, now I’m torn between saving the belly ring for Brown Brown and just putting it back in come the end of September (I know Adam prefers the latter. For one, he likes the belly ring on me, and for two, he’s not so crazy about the idea of our son getting pierced, but we’ll deal with that in sixteen years and four months). But we’ll always have the tattoo. We didn’t have it. We lost it until I took out the belly ring. We got it back tonight. (That’s verbatim from the movie, isn’t it?)