Who Knows

Tomorrow we visit Dr. Yamaguchi to check up on Krumholtz.  We'll also be asking her a barrage of questions such as:

• Are we 100% sure that's a baby?  Maybe it's just a burrito that's taking a while.
• Should I get a flu vaccine?
• Is a 1 in 400 chance of Downs something to worry about?  Should I get an amnio (which increases the risk of miscarriage)?
• Do we need to bank the cord blood?
• My agent wants new headshots (again).  Can I dye my hair?
• Will I stop breaking out like a 15-year-old boy at some point?
• Is the baby going to necessarily die if I deliver it at home?
• If so, do you know a doctor who will deliver it in a hospital for, like, $500?  Under the table.  (Not delivering the baby under the table, of course.  Unless that's how she does it or whatever)
• Does this pregnancy make me look fat?
• You say my likely date of conception is August 11th.  You also say I'm at 17 weeks and 4 days.  You also say my estimated due date is May 4th.  Can you explain the math to me one more time?

When I found out I was pregnant on October 9th, I was apparently at 10 and a half weeks.   Additionally, if you Google my due date, the wise people of the Internets will tell you that August 11th is the probable date of conception, as did the Doc.

Now, I'm no math whiz.  Anyone who has suffered through me trying to figure out a tip without a calculator will tell you I should stick to show business (It's a curse).  But walk with me for a minute.

10 and a half weeks prior to October 9th is, in fact the end of July...  Further, October 9th to the first week in May is 39 weeks, not 40.

This isn't the world's most important issue in the universe, I know.  Who cares, right?  As long as the baby is healthy and yadda yadda.  But, it's... annoying.  Math is math, right?  It's not a subjective science.  August 11th to October 9th, now matter which way you count it is 8 weeks and 3 days.  Is this, like, a thing they do for laughs?  "I know!  Let's totally tell her she's 2 weeks farther along than she is, that way when she goes into labor she totally isn't expecting it!  Ha ha ha."  Are they using the metric system?

Then again...

You and your honey go to Liza at the Hollywood Bowl on August 11th.  You have a bottle of wine and a bucket of expensive fried chicken.  You sit next to a gaggle of happy gays who share their perfectly chilled Chardonnay with you while you all wait for the sound system problem to get solved and giggle (a giggling gaggle, if you will) at Liza when she announces over the P.A. "I'm SHO shorry, you guyszh!  There's shomething wrong with the shound shyshtem!  I shwear!  They're trying to fixsh it!"  You do your best impression of Judy Garland at Boston Pops, "They said I was drunk!  But it was FOOD POISONING!" much to the delight of the boys all around.  After the concert, you drive up the 2 into the mountains to watch the Perseid meteor shower which is kind of a bust because there's nowhere to go anymore where the God damned lights of McDonalds and Walmart aren't bleeding into the sky and drowning out the stars.  The next morning you're really hungover and you just want to stay in bed, but you have tickets to see a matinee of your friend's show and it's your last opportunity to see it, so you drag yourself into the shower and get dressed, but halfway through your boyfriend walks in, finding you in a slip with a towel on your head and he gets overcome with manly hormones and decides he needs you right then.  Your head is pounding, but you consent.  You lie there, reading the spines of the books on the bookshelf by the bed, A Walk in the Woods, The Rum Diary, The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich, while he gets done what he needs to get done.  (Later you find out that afterward he thought, casually to himself, "I wonder if I got her pregnant."  Ha ha ha.  He's so funny.).

That night, you go back on your birth control pill after a 6 month hiatus, a week later than you were supposed to because you just forgot to start it last week... 

Also, for the first time in your life, you started tracking the first day of your period each month because back in April you ended up on the bathroom floor, barfing and screaming for 2 hours from cramps so bad you thought you were going to end up on an episode of "I Was Pregnant and Didn't Know It!" (And no, the irony is not lost on you...).  So, you just want to keep an eye on when you might expect to be in that kind of pain each month from now on/take handfuls of Vicodin leading up to the big day.  You don't bother to use this information to take extra precaution during fun, sexy times because, as has been established, you're not very bright.  So, you just HAPPEN to know your last period was at the end of July, making the weekend of August 11th prime baby-making time.  

And now I'm exhausted and I still want to know how they get 17 weeks when I get 15.

Maybe I'm having a super baby who just happens to be growing 2 weeks faster than normal.  Oh my God, what if I'm having one of those babies like Robin Williams in that movie where he becomes Robin Williams by 4th grade?  What if I'm having Benjamin Button????

I know what some of you are thinking:  I shouldn't say these things out loud.  It's bad luck.  But I'm not saying them, I'm writing them.  And don't worry, I'll be burning my computer just after I write this, so it's okay.  Also, I don't believe in luck.

When I have these thoughts I do my best to breathe and envision a healthy baby playing in a sandbox (is that still a thing?), clutching my fingers, throwing spaghetti all over the place, draining my bank account...

These are the things that go through a pregnant lady's head.  Or at least this pregnant lady's head.  And I know I can't be the only one.  We might as well come out and say it rather than tear our collective hairs out in private.  Right?  Right?!  RIGHT????!!!!!! (Someone hold me)

Incidentally, tomorrow will be our first opportunity to find out if Krumholtz has a penis or a vagina.  At first I was sure I didn't want to know.  As my father says, it's one of the last great mysteries in life, except, of course, that it really isn't anymore.  But I know what I think it is and I know what I kind of want it to be, and while I know I'll be thrilled with whatever it is regardless of it's genitalia, I'm worried that if it isn't what I think it is, I'll be disappointed or something.  Or just like, "Oh.... No, no!  That's great.  That's totally fine.  You know, whatever."  So, maybe I do want to know.

Everyone is telling me, "It's better to know so you can plan."  Plan what?  I'm not getting a bunch of pink clothes and ribbons and bows and shit.  What if it's a boy and everyone gets him stuff with baseballs and crap on it and later he grows up and resents us for trying to make him fit a gender stereotype?  I mean, he's going to resent us, anyway, but shouldn't we do what we can to minimize that?

In all honesty, I'm hoping Krumholtz is laying in a position in which his or her junk can't be seen quite yet so I have some more time to decide if I want to know.


Then again, given that we already know it's a super baby, maybe it'll be holding a sign that says, "Hey, assholes!  Joke's on you.  I'm a girl!  And I LOOOOOOOOVE ribbons and bows and shit."

Drop That Name

Choosing a name for your baby is an important decision. You want to pick something strong and beautiful. Something that will announce this person to the world with authority and grace. Something that says, "I am capable and smart and you want to spend time with me!" Pick the wrong name and your child will go through life with taunts like, "Lazy Daisy!", "Crazy Daisy!", or "Fucking Asshole!" ringing in her ears, tormenting her and preventing her from ever leading any kind of meaningful, worthwhile existence.

It's important to follow trends in baby names. That way the name that's really popular when your baby is born will hold weight when they're trying to be an adult. "Your NAME is Pilot????" Helps with the whole getting-a-job portion of the kid's life...

For now, we are calling the kid Krumholtz. It's what my parents called me when I was in the womb. But, clearly we will not be naming the kid Krumholtz Eagan Bloom. That would be akin to child abuse. "Banjo" is a much better choice, obviously.


It is with these factors in mind that I present to you the names we are currently considering for the turnip inside me:

Umbrella Eagan Bloom

Porcelain Eagan Bloom

Oregon Eagan Bloom

Frangellica Eagan Bloom

Astra Zeneca Eagan Bloom

Cyclone Eagan Bloom

Zeus Eagan Bloom

Aleutian Island Eagan Bloom

Twinkie Eagan Bloom

Park Slope Eagan Bloom

Captain Awesome Pants and the Might Three Eagan Bloom

There are also some important people in our lives we are considering honoring by passing on their names to our little poop factory to be:

Ms. Buterman Eagan Bloom

That Cat I Had When I Was a Kid That Ran Away and Probably Died in a Neighbor's Backyard Eagan Bloom

Fox Mulder Eagan Bloom

Lillian Gish Eagan Bloom

Negra Consuela Lopez Eagan Bloom

Tatum O'Neal Circa Paper Moon Eagan Bloom

Grandpa Eagan Bloom


TO BE CONTINUED (Eagan Bloom).....

I Will

This is me making the announcement at my show on November 12th and just barely getting through the song. Enjoy!

Video by Jane Marino
Brandon James Gwinn on piano
Ian Hunt on drums
Ben Thomas on bass
Daniel Goldstein on uke

Broadway Baby

I was sitting in the waiting room at the gynecologist’s office annoyed at the other two women there who had brought along their (male) partners.  Just because they happened to get themselves knocked up, I thought, doesn’t mean I have to be subjected to a random dude while I wait to get my vagina inspected by a complete stranger.  You never see women waiting in the prostate doctor’s waiting room, do you? No doubt those dudes were sitting there imagining me getting my vagina probed.  If not by themselves, by some hot doctor who takes her glasses off and lets her hair down in slow motion before we have hot lesbian porno sex. . .  I mean, sure, the dude’s wife or girlfriend or whatever is carrying a human life, but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about my vagina.

It was October and technically I was 2 months over due for my yearly exam.

Like any proper date, Dr. Yamaguchi got to know me a little before asking me to strip from the waste down.

“Do you use birth control?” She asked.

“I just went back on The Pill in August,” I said.

“Why did you go off it?”

“I was on it for 14 years.  I thought I might want to give my uterus a breather.”

“Do you always use a back up?”

“Well… not always,” I admitted.  “But the thing is, Doc, have you ever watched the original Star Trek series?”

“Um, yes?” She looked up from the clipboard.

“You know when they beam down to an alien planet?  I’m pretty sure my womb is like one of those sets.  Dusty and barren.  With poorly painted backdrops and rocks made of Styrofoam.  Minus that last part.” 

“So, you’ve never been pregnant.  To your knowledge.”

“Or to anyone else’s.”

I have been having sex for 17 years with very few dry spells.  I don’t say this to toot my own horn.  It’s not like I’m some incredible catch.  Mostly it’s just that historically my self-esteem has been so incredibly low that I’ve had a tendency to sleep with a guy if he looked in my general direction.  (“Look, mama!  I’m pretty!”)   It wasn’t until my late twenties that I finally realized a man will fuck pretty much anything given the opportunity.  My glowing personality and sharp wit had very little to do with the multitude of notches on my bedpost. 

Not only have I had a lot of sex, but I’ve had a lot of stupid sex.  I had sex with a complete stranger in an alley in France when I was 17, without a condom.  I was roofied once when I was 19 and woke up in the morning with a man I had never seen before humping away at me like he’d bought me dinner or something.   But more of this anon (I know, you can’t wait.)

The point is I have done some monumentally dangerous things in my sex life.  I’m not proud.  All of this is to say I had become convinced that I was incapable of getting pregnant.  I was absolutely sure the theme from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly played constantly in my empty womb.  I was on The Pill to treat my debilitating monthly cramps that made me want to die every 28 days.  (I’m fairly sure I’ve already lost my entire male audience at this point.  Let’s get naked, ladies!) 

Dr. Yamaguchi continued,

“Have you experienced any recent weight gain or loss?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I went on this kick ass diet in April, I can give you the deets, if you’re interested.  Not that you need it.  Your body is slammin'.  I lost 20 pounds.  What?!  I know.  Badass.  Then, uh, I gained back five in the last month or so.  I’ve been tucking in pretty hard to the pasta and wine lately.  But, don’t worry, I’m back on the diet!”

“When was your last period?” 

I thought for a few moments.

“Well, technically it was in July…  But I had, like, PMS and cramps and stuff in August and September, I just didn’t technically get my period.  As in, my Aunt Flow never actually made an appearance.  But, you know, I had just gone back on The Pill in August, so I’m pretty sure my body was just readjusting.”

Dr. Yamaguchi blinked at me a few times.

 “Any chance you’re pregnant?”

“Any chance Kim Kardashian will win the Nobel Peace Prize?  I’m telling you, Doc, my womb is not a friendly place.”

After the exam I was sitting on the floor tying my shoes (because apparently I can’t sit in a chair to tie my shoes like a grown-up…) when there was a soft knock at the door.  Dr. Yamaguchi came in, closing the door behind her.

“So,” she said.  “You’re pregnant.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re pregnant.”

“That’s impossible,” I explained.  “I don’t like children.”

“Be that as it may, you’re pregnant.”

The next 20 minutes were the funnest of my life.  I had to wait in the exam room for another exam room to open up so I could have an ultrasound so we could DETERMINE HOW FAR ALONG I WAS. I opened the door and found a nurse.

“May I have a glass of water?  There’s a strong possibility I might have a panic attack,” I informed her.

“Sure,” she said calmly.  She’d seen a lot worse.

I called the baby’s father.   

We had broken up two months earlier.   

Circumstances had us still living together.  I had been traveling so much I hadn’t yet had time to move.  I was planning on moving after I got back from my next trip to New York.

“Breathe,” he said.  “Okay, well, don’t hyperventilate.”

I texted my sister.  The week before I texted her asking how often she casually contemplated suicide.  She was getting used to me dropping bombshells via text.  She called me back.

“Do NOT tweet about this!”

“I’m not stupid,” I snapped back.  “Never mind.  Scratch that.”

“Are you thinking prenatal vitamins or a trip to Planned Parenthood?” she asked.

My mother had had an illegal abortion when she was a teenager and raised my sister and me to be ardent pro-choicers.  This just happened to be a choice I had never thought I’d have to make.

But the only thing I was thinking at this point was that I hoped the test had been wrong.  I don’t believe in “The Secret”, but you can bet your ass I was “Secret”ing that shit as hard as I could.

The ultrasound room opened up.  I undressed from the waist down again.  And out came the TRANSVAGINAL ULTRASOUND WAND.  I’m a size queen.  I was not impressed.

“Got anything girthier?”  I asked.

And then there it was on the screen.  A kidney bean with a heartbeat.  I was pregnant.

10 and a half weeks pregnant.  I survived almost my entire first trimester without any clue that I was pregnant.  Which means I had been drinking.  Not like a lush, but, like I said, mommy likes her red wine…  I flashed back to the answers I had given Dr. Yamaguchi in our pre-exam interview.  Any idiot with half a brain would have taken a pregnancy test two months ago.  But I’m not just any idiot.

I felt nothing.  I looked at the kidney bean and had no reaction to it.  I walked out of the office and passed the wall of baby pictures; The Codys, Tanners, Blakes and Haydens and felt nothing except the usual contempt for dumbass baby names.  I called my therapist.  I felt nothing.

Then I drove passed the Social Security office with the line out the door and around the corner and I felt something: Abject Terror.

Was I going to be standing in that line alone but for a screaming child at my aching teat?

I had decided back when I was married (I’m not even getting into that…) that I didn’t want kids.  For the past ten years I told anyone who would listen that I didn’t want kids; that if I got pregnant I would have an abortion.  Easy peasy.  Thank the good voters of California that I live in a state which affords me that choice (as of this writing, anyway). 

But here’s the thing, speaking in hypotheticals is way easier than acting on realities. 

I Googled “Single Motherhood” and got completely overwhelmed.  I Googled “Surrogate Pregnancy” and found out I wasn’t a candidate.  Apparently people who want a surrogate are, like, super picky.  A friend suggested adoption.  But I knew I wouldn’t be able to live knowing my kid was out there somewhere being raised by strangers.  I lost a beloved stuffed animal when I was 17 and I still haven’t gotten over it.  Besides, what if they were homophobes?  Or Mormons?  I went to my local library branch and asked the kindly librarian to help me find books on single mothering.  The selection was paltry to be generous.  She handed me a book called, How to Raise an Emotionally Healthy Child.

“I need something more along the lines of, ‘How to find cheap day care’,” I said.

“Oh, we don’t have anything like that.  We can order something from the main branch.  It’ll get here in about two weeks,” she said cheerfully.

“I don’t have that much time.”

“Are you writing a paper?”

I looked down at my baggy jeans and Adidas.  I wasn’t wearing any makeup.  I probably looked about 16.

“No.  I’m…not writing a paper.”

She handed me Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  I didn’t much feel like explaining that I wasn’t worried about how to raise a kid to get straight As and play the cello like Yoyo Ma by the time it’s 4.  I walked away with a few completely useless books and a sense of growing panic.  I bought a couple books on single motherhood that came highly recommended through Amazon.  But these turned out to be books about very successful women who “just haven’t had any luck in love” and have decided to “take matters into their own hands!” and have a kid on their own.  These were women with large incomes who purposefully went out and got knocked up.  It was much harder to find books about women who were unemployed and just broken up with their partners and unexpectedly 10 and half weeks pregnant.  I guess most people who have had to go on public assistance don’t much feel like writing books about it.

The next week was the hardest of my life (and I have watched my mother die, gone through a divorce and spent 10 days in a mental hospital).  The kidney bean’s dad, having also not wanted kids, reacted poorly.  Correction, the kidney bean’s dad reacted pretty typically for a dude who wasn’t expecting a child.  Discussions were had.  Fights were fought.  Shoes were thrown.  Insults were thrown.  Families were called.  Hotel rooms were stayed at.  Scenarios were considered.  Planned Parenthood was called.

My parents, in an effort to help asked if I had considered what having a baby would do to my career.  As if that wasn’t one of the first three things that had run through my panic-stricken mind.  Of course I had considered it.  I had just lost nearly 20 pounds so I wouldn’t be “TV chubby”.  I was considering growing my hair back out so I wouldn’t be “TV lesbian”.  I had just booked my first TV gig since I’d gotten back into acting.  Things were starting to roll.  If I had this baby my last trimester was going to coincide perfectly with pilot season (That’s in the winter/spring, for my readers who don’t live, breathe and eat TV industry facts.  And bless you for that.).  All momentum would be lost.  I’d be starting back next episodic season (fall) pretty much exactly where I was this year.  Except I’d have a 4 month old…

“We think we liked her for the part, but we couldn’t be sure because her baby screamed through the audition.”

Then I started thinking about baby shoes and baby giggles.  I pictured a baby grasping onto my fingers and testing out its legs on my lap.  I pictured the first day of Kindergarten.  I imagined teaching my daughter to add, “And I’m smart!” whenever people told her how pretty she was.  I pictured sticky fingers and wet diapers and sleepless nights and immense love and gratitude.

The more I thought about it, somehow missing another pilot season didn’t really seem like much of a loss considering the reason.  Besides, if Tina Fey and Amy Poehler could do it… Of course Tina Fey and Amy Poehler were both married and financially secure when they had their kids.  So, scratch that.  If Bristol Palin can have a kid…

And so, it was decided.

A week and a half later, I sat in the waiting room at the OB/GYN’s office with the kidney bean’s father securely at my side.  A young woman glanced over at him with a look of contempt.  But it’s okay, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t imagining her having lesbian porno sex with the doctor.  Then again, I didn’t think to ask.