Alison Rosen

Yes.

Okay, so we need to explain this, which is that I am writing a fake memoir of my pregnancy, and I'm not actually pregnant.

It's called What I'd Expect If I Were Expecting, and the way this came about was Adam and I were talking about memoirs, and Adam pointed out that the...

appropriate time to write a memoir is before you experience the thing that you're writing about because that's when you really have the time.

Because once you go to rehab, you don't have time to write about it.

Yeah, what I'd expect.

Yeah, it's, yeah, what I'd expect if I were expecting.

Now that I'm super pregnant, grocery shopping is a whole new world.

Whereas before I'd just roll into the market at all hours, picking up shellfish, alcohol, sweet acidophilus milk, unpasteurized cheese, dark chocolate, condoms and tampons, and occasionally being that annoying drunk person making out with her date in the express lane, now I must take special care to read each and every label and warning sticker.

Twice.

Also, whereas before I'd blow past the diaper aisle, now I spend a lot of time among the huggies and pampers just hanging out and making eye contact with the other moms.

Why is that fat chick winking at me, some of them are probably wondering.

I get it, though.

They are underslept and frazzled and have chapped nipples from breastfeeding.

Also, I've begun making my own chutney, even though I don't live in Vermont.

I plan to sell it under the name Baby's First Chutney, but that's because I'm an entrepreneur trapped in the body of a swollen, irritable woman, just like Oprah.

I do.

Upcoming chapters include clean-up on aisle mine, my water broke and or I just sneezed and pissed myself.

The peach mango monologues from prenatal chutney to postpartum depression.

And help, it's 3 a.m.