But since I don't work in advertising or have a penis, nobody has to worry. In case you were in the first place.

I have now given some thought to how to best display four fingernails and a thumbnail-worth of nail polish.

Gripping a nail polish bottle, as Jenn suggested yesterday, is a less clenchy-looking way. And, I believe, how they do it in the magazine ads. But it's still very staged and weird.

So I picked up a cup. My hands aren't big enough to reach all the way around. You couldn't see the nails. Nick's hands are, but giant manhands are an unlikely choice. Granted, I have short fingers. This might work with longer fingers. And maybe a thin glass.

Then I thought, what about hand weights? Some of them are probably the right size. Although how often are you standing around gripping a hand weight? The ad would have to be set in a gym. And then would you be advertising how strong the polish is? Not as fun.

Maybe a large carrot. Or zucchini. But then again, you'd have to be holding them very artificially. Like, you're poised to make victory salad! With your new manicure!

No. With a new manicure, in my fantasy ad world, I'd want to be taken out to dinner. Not make my own salad.

And then it occurred to me!

The average penis is probably the perfect prop for showing off a handful of painted nails. It wouldn't even have to be a bizarrely contorted pose.

Which is not to imply that I sit around with a penis in my hand more often than hand weights. Because I don't. Sorry, Nick.

And I guess you wouldn't necessarily be just sitting around, really. Even if you were feeling patriotic next to a serviceman. Because that in itself would be odd. But you know what I mean.

You also know that if I had my own, I'd totally be waving it around all the damn time. So we can all agree that it's better that I'm a woman.

There is, of course, the awkwardness of the ad being centered around a penis. I suppose it could only run in porn magazines. And how many people looking at porn are likely to notice the nail polish and want to buy it?

Maybe if you had celebrities wearing the nail polish, so guys would then be prompted to buy the color for their partner and then fantasize about, I don't know, Alyssa Milano or somebody giving them a hand job. So you wouldn't want Justin Bieber advertising his own stuff. I mean, not in straight markets, anyway.

But would men actually be paying attention to how the nails were painted?

And no, I don't know why I spend my time on this kind of thing. I really don't.

I've got a fieber and the only prescription is more, uh, cowBieber?

I don't know if I'd be as horrified about my attraction to Justin Bieber's nail polish if I didn't get hung up on grammar.

Although I probably would. Wouldn't I?

Also, I know my hand looks kind of deformed and clenchy, but it's kind of hard to take a normal looking photo of your own hand while trying to show your nails. You try it. I'm not kidding.

So I was in Target all by myself and just that fact alone felt like magic and then I didn't have time pressure and so I headed over to the nail polish section. And driven by my love of all things shiny and sparkly, I immediately noticed this clear nail polish with large silver sparkles. Exactly what I neeeeeeed.

Upon inspection, it was Justin Bieber for OPI. His One Less Lonely Girl collection.

Did you know about this? I didn't. Which was OK with me, really.

One Less Lonely Girl. Naturally, I was all: It really should be "One Fewer Lonely Girl." Girls, as we all know, are nouns you can count. In which case, fewer is appropriate. Not less. Unless, of course, she's just less lonely when she's with you. But still lonely. In which case, you're still an idiot.

An idiot whose nail polish I really like.

The specific name of the concoction I chose is Make U Smile. From the Justin Bieber One Less Lonely Girl collection.

Puke.

But...it was so...full of prettyshinysparkly! I put it in my basket. I carried it around the store. I liked it, and yet, it was so stupid.

I texted a friend. He said to walk away. I walked away...

And when I returned, it was gone. There was only one bottle to start with.

I thought about it for a whole week. Yes. Because I have nothing better to think about like my family, my job, pregnancy, nutrition, etc. I mean, intermittently. Not solidly.

But still. I spent a week of my life, time I will never get back, thinking about Justin Fucking Bieber and his glittery nail polish.

And then, when I dashed into Target to get snacks for the ride home from Thanksgiving, I minced by the nail polish aisle. And there it was! One of two bottles!

Made Me Smile!

My nails, they are less lonely now.

Weird science. Not what teacher said to do.

At this point in my life, I don't actually think there's anything available in a drug or grocery store that I'd be embarrassed to take to the register.

Seriously. I've bought plenty of things that might make people twitchy: Condoms. Dipping tobacco. Ovulation tests. Pregnancy tests. Sperm-friendly lube. Fiber powders. Laxatives. Stool softeners. Preparation H.

I just can't think of other products that might embarrass me. In fact, the last time I can remember being embarrassed checking out of a store was a couple years ago at a Trader Joe's.

And along these lines, it wouldn't have occurred to me that anything could shock me at the register either.

So last week, I found myself standing behind a man buying three cartons of Marlboros. And two giant bottles of Pepto Bismol.

The cashier said, "$210.37."

At which point I got really interested. Seriously? That much? And who knew they made Pepto Bismol in what practically look like liter bottles?

The man pulled out a large wad of cash. His hands were shaking severely, but he managed to give her two $100 bills. And then, pile of cash in hand, he kept checking his various pockets for the rest of the money.

It was a long process. I was starting to think I was going to be there all day. But I was also rather interested in the scene.

Does he always carry big wads of cash? Does he really smoke that much? What's the deal with the Pepto Bismol?

She eventually reached across the counter and took a $10 bill and a $1 bill out of his hand, telling him as she was doing so. I was so grateful. It was painful to watch him struggle. I couldn't imagine him counting out 37 cents.

She double-bagged his purchase, and then he kept asking for more and more bags. I think he had at least four or five by the time she turned her attention to me.

What does he need with all those bags?

He was still puttering around as I was getting ready to walk out.

I told Nick about this very heavy smoker. He said not to be naive; the man clearly does crack, and crack tears up your stomach and gives you instant diarrhea.

The cigarettes? Probably to calm him and his cronies. The bags? No speculation.

He said it so authoritatively that I totally believed him. Even though I know for a fact that his only real-life experience with crack is watching David do crack with the crazy hitchhiker on Six Feet Under.

But I don't have a better theory.

Maybe if I were the Georgia O'Keefe of vegetables. And here we are at 17 weeks. With news!

This week the kid is the size of a turnip. And if I wasn't willing to draw an avocado with toenails, I'm damn sure not drawing this one out.

So we had the amnio and we were supposed to get early results in 48-72 hours.

The genetic counselor we met with was very nice. When she called the following week she said, "The preliminary results look good. No Downs, no Trisomy 13 or 18. [Thank God] And it's a girl. [What?] BUT..."

BUT is not what you want to hear in this circumstance. I sucked in my breath.

Turned out it wasn't a punch in the face but. It was this kind of but:

"But they got some maternal cells in with the sample."

"What does this mean?"

"It means that at this point, they can't be certain that these are the results from the fetal cells. The odds are that they are, but..."

"In other words, it could be a healthy girl..."

"Yes."

"OR they've verified that I don't have Downs, or Trisomy 13 or 18. And I'm a girl."

"Well...yes."

So we had to wait for the culture to grow for 10-14 days. Apparently they feed those little suckers something that only promotes the growth of the fetal cells. So they really really know by the end.

And then the cells were slow growing. Which I took as a very bad sign. Slow growing? Slow? They assured me this had nothing to do with the cells. It could just be lab conditions.

Nick called for updates twice a day. Just to see if they'd gotten results. He was very polite. Just, you know, persistent.

I am sure they were sick of him. He was fine with this. He wanted them to be tired of him to the point where they'd give us results the minute they had them just to stop the calls.

This is not something I can do. But I am so grateful he can.

He said, "I don't care if I annoy them. We're paying them a lot of money - and it's not like we're going to invite them to dinner next week and it's going to be so awkward."

And they called - the minute the lab reported the results. In fact, the genetic counselor spoke with the head of the lab to get his assurances that there were no concerns about maternal cells.

And so...

It's a GIRL! A little vagina-having turnip!

And she doesn't have Downs, Trisomy 13 or 18, or any of a host of other potential genetic things they test for!

And neither do I.

Sh*t Jordan's dad says

In response to me asking him to make sure I'm in bed by 9:30, because if I go to sleep any later, I'm barely functional the next morning:

"Absolutely. Even if I have to drag you up the stairs in a headlock every night."

Talking about dealing with a particularly not-bright judge in a trial:

"I've realized that the line between dumb and fairly sharp is extremely thin."

When I said that Sibley is going to send my labor and delivery and operating room reports to the midwife group:

"OH ARE they?"