Sunday, June 30, 2013

Bologna sandwich from a real, live pregnant woman ...

I started the day so fresh-faced and full of life. By midday I had pizza sauce
on my shirt, ankles the size of a thigh, and a soul that had been trampled. 
Saturday was the busiest day I've had in 100 years and just happened to coincide with having ankles that have bled into my calves, which have bled into my thighs. None of these body parts are distinguishable from the other. And while I'm exaggerating, it's still real live body horror and I've Googled "Swollen Ankles 37 weeks pregnant" so many times that I'm surprised the search engine hasn't redirected me to a screen where giant CGI eyes roll in annoyance.

There was dropping Chuck's car off at a shop.
There was a retirement party, where I spent 3 minutes with the retiree and 25 minutes with plate after plate after plate of meatballs.
There was picking Chuck's car up from the shop after a $15 fix.
There was keg pickup.

There was me standing next to an open hatchback, waiting for Chuck and The Great Archivist to return with a dolly, when a woman and her children walked past.

"That's what I like to see," she said. "A pregnant lady with a keg."

At one point I had an embarrassing case of road rage at a tourist who didn't understand the concept of a four-way stop. The guy let seven cars go in front of him while he waited, blinker blinking. "It's a Four-Way Stop!" I probably yelled too violently out my window. He indicated for me to pass him on the right. I took advantage of this to tell him that he was an idiot.

Then I collapsed in social shame for the next four hours. I made Chuck tell me over and over and over that I was justified.

I've got to get this baby out of me so I can hopefully resume some semblance of self control.

Chuck directs website fans to the soiree. 
There was a birthday party for the website Chuck and his friends have kept interesting for the past 10 years. Geo Grrl and I worked the prize table: She manned the prize wheel and passed out collections of naughty verse, concert tickets, T-shirts and vinyl; I made bologna sandwiches for the fortunate 7 who landed on that piece of the pie.

Yummy in your tummy.
JCrew practices a life with this chair. 
JCrew lingered near the prize table, hoping proximity to it would help her chances at winning a sexy Adirondack chair, valued at $600. "I just got married," she told people, angling for the sympathy vote. "I just moved in to a new house," she said. "We don't have any deck furniture yet." In the end she was one of five people who had scored an entry in the drawing and ... she didn't get it. She would have rigged it for me, she said, if things had been different. "When did you get ethics?" she asked.

Chuck talks about the internet. 
The Great Archivist talks about what it means to be a Grand Poobah. 
Chuck and The Great Archivist ended up on getting interviewed on by two TV news stations.

After the party I had the kind of social fatigue that requires sensory deprivation. I laid in The Seahorse and Orin kept his little paw on my arm and stared into my eyes. My ankles relaxed, my mood improved and within two hours we were walking into Bayfront Festival Park for Atmosphere-Trampled.

Some people watch concerts at Bayfront Festival Park from here.
While standing in line for the Biffy, The Great Archivist presented the most horrific visual: What if I had the baby in the porta-potty. What if she fell down the hole. What if she floundered in the muck.

"Call the paramedics," he said. "SHE ALREADY HAS A NAME!"

It was a nice night. Either the entire city was hamboned or someone turned up the gravity on the day. Chuck and I left early for Round 2 of the retirement party but didn't last long. There were too many bodies in one room. And blah, blah, ankles.

We came home and watched four episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" and let the rest of the air deflate from our pores. I elevated my legs on an exercise ball; Chuck hid under a blanket.

No comments: