I told my mom I was meditating.  I said, “I just sit still and concentrate on my breath.”  

She said, “Is that before or after you brush your teeth?”

Sebastian smells like rotten potatoes because of Earth’s Best soy formula.  Dairy formula and breast milk and he smells like yummy baby.  

I’m sorry Bash, I thought you were smelly because you’re a boy.  So sexist of me!

Last night I was reading with Tashi.  She picked The Gas We Pass:  The Story of Farts by Shinta Cho, which I think is one of her favorites.  I like it too, even though I have vowed to purge all fart stories from my personal repertoire.  Like no more talking about how when I was pregnant, I had to fart, a lot. It was true, but it’s not funny.
I read the title and then said, “Here are the rules:  no farting in bed.”  
As soon as I got the words out, Tashi let loose a huge one.”Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

We died laughing.  I cried. 

This morning I said, “Why’d you fart like that?” 

Tashi said, “I wanted to do something funny,”  and we laughed again.  
My child is a comic-genius for 4-year-olds.

I stopped in St. Louis after the MichFest.  Amy Waterman and her husband Brian–smart, lovely, wonderful people–picked me up from the airport.  Amy is a writing friend and also a psychologist, so she has sort of figured me out.  

Right away, Amy and Brian took me to an Indian restaurant on the 11th floor of a Best Western where only real Indians eat.  Great food.

 We chatted a little, but not long after we got the chicken masala, I told them about how I bombed at MichFest.  I retold my miserable performance.  How I told a few hundred women about my stinky ‘gina.  (See full text of my performance in yesterday’s blog.)


Amy said, “You can’t hit people with that level of intimacy so fast.”

My face got hot.  I was sure I was blushing because I had just hit her with that level of intimacy and her poor husband who I had only known for one dinner.  

She said, “It’s like this: you meet someone, you say, ‘hey, my name’s Andrea.  I have a daughter.’  Then you wait for a response.  If the person you’re talking to says her name and maybe something like I have a daughter too, then you can move to the next level of intimacy.  You can say, ‘I hated being pregnant.’  Then you wait for a response.  But you can’t say, ‘Hi I’m Andrea, I have a vaginal infection right off the bat.’”

Why hadn’t anyone told me this sooner???

 It makes so much sense.  And at MichFest I only had five minutes.  No time to get to know someone.  No time to build intimacy.

When I got off the stage, I knew something went wrong.  My very old friend, Jeanne, said, “Interesting, but I don’t think that was your funniest bit.”

I saw my friend Julie the next day. She told me she and her girlfriend went to sleep loving me more.  That was sweet, but it was a pity love. 

There’s Julie in the middle (below) pityloving me.     

She said, “We’ve all been there.”

I said, “Where?  In bed with a stinky vagina or bombing on stage?”  She hugged me for a good 30 seconds.  I needed it.

But it wasn’t until Amy laid it out for me that I got it. Don’t give too much too fast. 

Thank you Amy Waterman.  

I took the stage at the August Night Cafe.  I was 6th on the list, after five singer/songwriters–all talented women.  It was a very competitive open mic.  Hundreds of women wanted to perform, so there was a lottery and I made it.  

I’ve been telling stories for the last few months without reading.  I’ve also been reading my stories, but telling stories is a different kind of performance.  It requires a different energy and a different give and take with the audience.  It also gives me diarrhea all day.  But I like a challenge, so I decided to try it at MichFest.  

Here’s a picture of the August Night Cafe during the day.  
I’d been thinking about what I would say all day–a sure sign of disaster.  I know now that I’ll never again stand up in front of a few hundred people without having rehearsed first.

 I started off with a rehearsed bit, but after about 30 seconds, I took a huge detour to tell everyone about one of my most horrifying and embarrassing moments I’d had in my life.  And that moment happened just three days before.  

 I told this story because I needed support.  I needed to be understood, which is why I tell all the stories I tell.  I thought the women of MichFest would be there for me. 

My story went like this: Hi, I’m Andrea Askowitz.  I’m the author of My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy.  Yea, my pregnancy was bad.  But I’m a lot happier now.  No longer miserable.  No longer pregnant.  Still lesbian.  


I was 14 weeks pregnant and already everyone said, “You’re having a boy.”  By everyone I mean, the man behind me at the Mini-Mart, my grandmother, and my across the street neighbor.  When you’re pregnant in Los Angeles, where I was pregnant, everyone you meet is some kind of psychic or intuit or clairvoyant.  

Apparently, the same is true Miami, where my girlfriend, Victoria, is pregnant.

Yes, I’m a mom and now I’m going to be a dad too.  

I told my mom I’m going to be a daddy and she said, “Andrea, don’t say that.  Makes you sound so dykey.  Makes you sound like you have a mustache.”

(As soon as I said dykey and mustache to my MichFest crowd I started to worry.  For one thing, the lights were so bright, I couldn’t see anything, just flashes, like stars in my eyes.  I couldn’t tell if the women in front of me were dykey or mustachioed or naked or what.  But I should have known better because the women of MichFest come in all stripes and many, many of them, many more than I’ve ever seen in the general population have mustaches.  





I’m not saying anything against mustaches on a woman.  At first, like 13 years ago, when I first went to MichFest I was scared,  I’ll admit. I was like, “Motherfucker, is this going to happen to me?”  But in the last 13 years I’ve truly come to admire women who wear their hair on their faces proudly.  Fuck society, that’s what I say.  But that’s not what it sounded like I was saying with this homo-hair-phobic comment my mother said.  But that’s not where I went sour.) 

Are there any lesbian dads out there?  (I put my hand over my eyebrows to shield the lights, but I couldn’t see if anyone was raising her hand.)

Is there anyone out there who has ever been lovers with a pregnant woman?  I need help with something.  (I couldn’t see any hands and I didn’t hear anyone cheer or acknowledge me at all.)

Okay, I think you guys are being shy, but if there are any lesbian daddies out there or women who have had a pregnant lover, please see me after.

When I was pregnant, I had a bionic nose.  If I were pregnant right now, I could tell what deodorant you were wearing. Yea you, in the back row.  Secret, Lavender Fresh.  

A strong sense of smell is some kind of pregnancy survival instinct.  I think it was originally intended to keep pregnant women from eating poison, but in modern society, it’s just gross.  

When Victoria got pregnant I was afraid she would go to kiss me and my breath would be so stinky to her she’d never want to kiss me again and so I’ve been brushing my teeth four times a day.  So far, so good.

But a few nights ago, I was lying in bed reading, naked, waiting for Victoria.  She got into bed and right away started sniffing everything.  

“Something stinks,” she said.  She smelled my hair.  She smelled her hands.  She smelled the candles I had lit to set the mood.  And then she flipped around and sniffed me like a dog.  

She jumped up lithe for a pregnant woman and made it to the toilet on time.  I lay in bed listening, waiting for her to finish.  I didn’t know whether to hold her hair or leave.  I mean, leave forever.         

In the morning I felt a little itchy and the good news is that I went to the gyno and I have a bacterial infection.  

THANK GOD.   

So I guess the moral of this story is pregnant women should not eat rotten pussy. I’ll stop there.