Ah, the Lengths I'll Go to For a Blog Post

Mea Culpa: I read Us Weekly and People Magazine religiously occasionally at the check-out stand at Albertsons. And, while pouring over every single salacious detail of celebrity life while browsing the headlines, I've discovered that both Kourtney Kardashian and Gisele Bundchen are knocked-up and both due in mid-December, just like ME! Since Cedars Sinai is smack-dab in the middle of Beverly Hills, and caters to the LA Glitterati, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that there is a pretty good chance that Kourtney, Gisele and I might get to know each other really well. Naturally, B is ecstatic. ("Do you think Kim will be there?")

So, not to be outdone by these two gorgeous preggos (who probably shun Chocolate Haagen Dasz and have no itchy welts on their belly) I planned on making sure that when I waddle glide into Cedars Sinai to give birth that I look good. I'm talking full wax-job - both legs and lady parts. A little Bare Minerals makeup to hide the sleepless nights from beneath my eyes. A squirt of hair mouse. A dab of lip-gloss, perchance. Some scented shimmery body lotion. Hey, it's LA, and you never know when the Paparazzi is going to be lurking just outside your birthing suite. (Oh please let them think that I'm a celebrity, too!)

But, sometimes, things don't always go as planned.

For the past few nights, I've had excruciating pain in my right leg. While I'm no stranger to leg-cramps and sciatica, this pain is different. For one thing, it only flares up when I'm lying down. And for another, it is not alleviated by changing position. For those of you who have not graduated from Google Medical School, pregnancy increases your risk of Deep Vein Thrombosis, or blood clots, which can have a similar presentation to what I've been experiencing. So, I called my doctor, and after hearing my symptoms, he thought I better get my ass over to Cedars Sinai to be evaluated.

My dad and his wife drove me across town to Cedars while B and his mom stayed home with M. There was no time to put on makeup, let alone book an appointment with Olga, my waxer. And, folks, it's been a while since I saw her last. I mean, we're talking months.

I managed to slip into a hospital gown and get under a sheet without my caterpillar legs attracting any attention from the Labor and Delivery nurse who was taking down my information. So far, so good. But then, after hooking me up to a fetal monitor, she wanted to actually see the leg that hurt. So, blushing deeply, I averted my gaze, muttered an excuse about not being able to bend down to shave in a few months, and (Cue Horror Music!) raised the sheet. G'd bless her, she did not recoil in disgust. She poked and prodded my leg, and said that she doubted it was something serious, but that a technician from radiology would be up to look at the veins and arteries of my leg with an ultrasound. No problemo. I figured that since I had overcome the horrendous humiliation-hurdle of this strange woman seeing my hairy leg, that I was over the worst of it. Besides, for some reason, I assumed that the ultrasound technician would be another woman.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

You see, the nurse did not tell me that the ultrasound technician was a guy. A young guy. A young, hot guy. A young, hot guy with strong features, chiseled arms, and bronzed skin. As soon as he walked in the room, my heartbeat quickened, and over on the fetal monitor, the baby's heartbeat accelerated, too. To his credit, the guy was professional. He made small-talk while pushing the ultrasound wand into my leg, and I stammered monosyllabic responses while stared down at my hands. It's kind of hard to flirt when you're 36 weeks pregnant.

Oh, and did I mention that I wasn't wearing any underwear?

After what seemed like an eternity beneath the ultrasound probe, the hot technician gave me a clean bill of health. No clots in my leg. Just knots in my leg-hair. So, the nurses at Cedars sent me on my merry way with a list of instructions about how to monitor fetal movements, warning signs for preterm labor, and, most importantly, fodder for my new blog post.