If you read my last few posts (yeah it's been a while, but we changed over to a new blogging system so please excuse our absence) you might remember that I revealed I am happily sperminated.

Well, all is going nicely...

I'm in the second trimester which is known as the good period -after the nausea and before the freakish bloating- but that doesn't mean their aren't days that I don't feel like crap.

Pregnancy should be a license to pig out on ice cream and lay around all day, but it's not really. I'm still out and about (see this week's Nightranger in the paper for my latest adventures) and doing my thing for as long as I can.

As for the ol' eating for two theory, you actually only need 300 extra calories a day. Hell, that's a granola bar. Nearly every pregnancy book I've read stresses the importance of what I should be eating. If I down Doritos and sugary drinks, my kid is doing the same… and recent research suggests that babies actually develop a liking for certain foods based on what their mama eats while pregnant.

So I'm eating more fruits and veggies than ever, but other than my diet (and of course banishment of alcohol and an attempt to increase my sleep hours) I'm still the same person I've always been... just bigger. I think I might be the exception though. A friend I'll call Layla has like completely changed her way of life.

She went from wild rock chick to health-obsessed earth mother in just a couple of months. This gal is giving birth at home in her tub with a midwife (no drugs!) and now she only eats organic food, is gonna use cloth diapers and plans to breast feed til the kid goes to kindergarten!

It's admirable, really, but I just don't see myself doing the same. Taking some yoga classes and drinking regular soda instead of diet is as close to my inner hippie as I'm gonna get. Personally there is no way I would pop out my offspring anywhere but a hospital, just in case something goes wrong. As for the drugs, well what do you think I'm gonna do? No pain no gain does not apply here. I am no martyr, but more power to the women who are!

Still, I'm open to learning about things I can do differently. Things that might protect my baby and help the world that she's soon to be living in. A couple of weeks ago I attended an organic beauty spa day where press and celebs could sample organic products and services.

I got an all natural facial from a company called Zia Eco-Conscious Beauty (my skin glowed afterward), ate ultra-healthy grub including these dense yet-not-so-bad-tasting Think Green energy bars that contained "3000 mg of greens" (180 calories and like half a day's serving of fruits and vegatables!) and learned about alternative cleaning products for the home.

I plan to try out this company called Green Clean, which detoxes your home. I'm skeptical that they can really do the job as good as my cleaning lady's (probably lethal) bleach concoctions, but I'm willing to try it especially if it means not exposing my kid to all the stinky chemicals that make me sneeze when I'm near them. I will post the results in a future blog.

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How far I have come from the Van Nuys Motel 6. Almost right where I started, give or take a few blocks. Since then, a friend (ok, my ex-boyfriend) took my dog cross country. Stevie (my four legged dog child) has been to San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, and today swam (or tried to) in a river in Montana. I picture snap shots of her in all these places like the garden gnome in Amélie. My ex was taking his dog cross country to work on his photography book, when all else failed he offered to take Stevie too. Seeing as Stevie and Ray Ray (actually my first dog, I lost him in the divorce) got along like peas and carrots, it was an easy decision. I floated around crashing with various cat-loving friends. Stevie is traversing the country, while I traverse the 101. I stayed in Echo Park, Highland Park, Joshua Tree, and Hollywood. With my dog gone, I was left with only my Jeep. And the bastard fate couldn't let that go. One night in Hollywood near Franklin and Vermont some cretins slashed my Jeep window and rummaged through looking for god knows what. There wasn't anything to steal— a few pairs of shoes and dirty clothes, but the repair is gonna cost 400 clams. Things were beginning to seem like they couldn't get any worse as I drove down the highway with the ripped plastic of my passenger side window slapping hard in the wind. Until I get a call from the landlord of a house I had applied for on a beautiful walk street— she picked me. I could stay in Venice. I could keep my dog. And, if I walked her dog daily I could crash at her place (behind the main house) while she was gone til the main house was available in August. I've been there a few days, it's quiet and still and peaceful. Just a few blocks from my old house, but a world away. Finally feeling back up to speed, I went out to Epoxy Box (an art gallery on Abbot Kinney) this Saturday for their raffle benefit. It was for women only and you could do all sorts of healing activities for free —digeridoo therapy (where someone gets the circular breathing going and holds the instrument close to your body), get a massage or a facial, listen to music and indulge in the ultimate healing activity —drink free booze. They raffled off spinning classes, pilates sessions and pole dancing lessons. When the latter was announced, my friend and I crossed our fingers , "not us" we whispered, "not us." "Linda Immediato" came the booming voice. I had won. I had never won anything in my life. And what do I get? A free pole dancing lesson... Maybe bastard fate was trying to push me into another profession. I say to him, in the words of the immortal Nell Carter, "Gimme a break!"

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And you may find yourself in a Motel 6 in Van Nuys,
And you may find yourself eating a Tommy burger at 2 am
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a financed Jeep
And you may find yourself with all your belongings in a Venice alley

And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

How DID I get here? It's a long and boring story. But my lease was up at the end of June and my landlord wanted me out. O-U-T. At least that's what I interpreted the 3-day eviction notice to mean. I needed to find a new place, and despite a borrowed Westside Rentals password and constant Craigslisting, I found no place that would take me and my dog... at least none I could afford.

Most nights during the two weeks I curled up fetal on my bed, my dog on the floor looking up at me like a kid who hears the knocking of Child Protection Services. Yes, Stevie, I failed to take care of you. I'm 32. Imagine I DID have a child, a real one, not one who slept on the floor at the foot of my bed scratching and licking her privates. But a live human baby. Lina is having one. A beautiful baby GIRL. But me, I can't even keep a home for me and my domesticated pet, who requires only the occasional praise and a daily bowl of lamb and rice nuggets and water. I feel like a failure. Finally a few days before the reckoning, I start to pack after long work days. How did I accumulate so much shit? I kept old bills, receipts, and the business cards of people I don't remember meeting. I kept ill fitting clothes and furniture I barely used. The day before Armageddon I packed at a furious pace. I dragged the furniture into the alley. I dragged my old red bike, the new IKEA closets I built, and my cherished desk to their new fate, either a beggar's treasure or the garbage man's burden.

When all was said and done I had a storage unit in Culver City, a Jeep full of "going out" clothes, an air mattress, and a dog I couldn't house. I called my friend, a friend I thought we could stay with, but alas, a cat was involved, so the comfy garage I thought would be refuge was an illusion. I looked at Stevie and cried. "You can call the pound, they'll keep her and you'll have 5 days to get her," offered a friend. "that'll buy you 5 days." Stevie back at the pound I found her. I couldn't do it, Plus, 5 days wouldn't help. Friend after friend, offered to let ME stay with them, but Stevie could not come— cats, and more cats. So I drive. I drive— to where I'm not sure. All I had was a dog and a financed Jeep. I'm down one dog, and a beautiful house and now what? There's a Motel 6 in Van Nuys that allows dogs, there's a Tommy's around the corner, I can eat. I'm starving. That's as far as I got...

And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?