It takes us like an hour to fill in the gaps of all the stuff we wanted to buy but didn't at Ikea. This includes the unprecedented: I will pee twice at Target in one day. Additionally, I will go to Target three times, which includes a trip over state lines.
We fill an entire room of our house with cardboard boxes, a playground for the cats who are getting exceedingly curious about all of the big changes. I keep expecting to find Hal squatting over a pool of urine he's unleashed on a box holding a vibrating chair. A wicked grin on his face that seems to say: "Oh, yeah? I'll see your 'Getting rid of the coffee table' and raise you a new cat toilet.'"
(Orin is less outwardly disturbed by the constant motion, the boxes, the trips to the dump and Goodwill. He's a much more internally emotional. He's probably scratching poetry into the basement beams).
We take a spontaneous trip to a restaurant that has never interested me. I've got a fever for Gelato, thanks to some Instagramming by S'Fire and VNick. We end up eating an entire poorly balanced, albeit delicious meal: Artichoke Dip with bread, focaccia bread with oil, BLTs on bread and Gelato.
All the while, the woman at a neighboring table glares at us as we talk about the early years when we thought we were down-ramping alcohol intake but were actually still drinking plenty. Either that or she was looking over my shoulder at the lake view and has a sour resting position for her face.
Then Chuck paints and paints and paints. He emerges occasionally in a baggy T-shirt and stained jeans. I try to do things that will also improve our living situation, but none of it seems as massive and productive as painting. So the spices are alphabetized. So the floor is washed. It doesn't seem, comparatively, to be enough.
We're keeping me from the fume-y room so that hopefully someday the PBG can teach us both how to do Math.
Today I don't even pretend to work. I lie around and act like I'm on bed rest. I read, I stare at social networking. I will take two trips to Menards, buying and re-buying.
At one point I stand in front of a display of colorful rubber boots and consider buying a pair. It's been so rainy here, see, and I keep seeing cute women in skinny jeans and tall rain boots and thinking "That's a clever look."
I pick a pair up off the shelf and the smell knocks me out. It's like waiting in the lobby while your tires are rotated. This snaps me from the reverie that I might find fashion at Menards.
Dinner is at a diner in an unfamiliar neighborhood. It has a Wall of Fame for big eaters who consume a designated mount of meat, probably within a time limit. The burger flipper is wearing a shirt that suggests his burgers are big, but not as big as Jesus. Chuck's burger has a refrigerator-worth of ingredients: Avocado, mushrooms, cheese and more. The Flipper breaks the fourth wall to ask Chuck how he likes his food.
"That's my favorite burger," Flipper admits.
Mine is just a plain old cheese burger and it's super delish.
Still, I have some opinions on people who make things and then approach you for your opinion about what they have made. Awkward.
Chuck assembles. I caddy. But first I start crying when I realize it isn't comfortable to sit cross legged, or not cross legged, on the floor and that basically my options are limited to not standing for too long, not sitting for too long, trying to sleep in between pee breaks and taking a time out after ascending staircases.
Chuck's handling-of-the-crying-woman has really gotten good. This no longer shocks or scares him. He efficiently talks me off of a ledge and resumes cursing the makers of the changing table.
We go to dinner in our favorite hotel lobby. A waitress sets wine lists atop our menus as we're sitting down. She notices my belly and rips the drink menu off the table apologizing twice when she slides it under her arm.
This gets me thinking: What if I, very obviously pregnant, ordered a glass of wine with my dinner. Would they give it to me or would they refuse service? Wine. So controversial.
A: They'll serve a preggo. At least at this restaurant. I asked our waitress, not the one who ripped away the wine list like I was being punished. It would be discrimination to not serve a glass of wine to a pregnant woman, she said. She had a friend who was fired when she refused to serve wine to a preggo.
Mostly, though, the waitress seems disappointed that the stiffest thing I wanted was flourless chocolate cake and decaffeinated coffee.