The sleeping, thanks for asking, was torturous. But any night not spent pacing the house is better than a night spent pacing the house, so I'll keep my complaints minimal.
I receive a package from Motherhood Maternity. I've become addicted to their nursing tank tops and plan to build a summer wardrobe around this signature piece. Toward that end, I've ordered the complete collection. The package comes with samples of butt paste and includes a gift card for an "Udder Cover" modeled by a sexy woman with bedroom eyes whose bracelet matches the apron-like spread. She seems to be saying: "You can't tell by looking at me, but my breasts are bared beneath this material."
A few nights ago on my way to McDonald's, I heard this song -- "Please Come to Boston" by Dave Loggins -- on Adult Contemporary Radio that I recognized from a deep, deep place in my subconscious, but couldn't quite recall. Still, I found the storyline intriguing. Rambling man moves all around the country, tries to get his artist lady friend to join him, she repeatedly says, basically, "No. You should bring your fool ass back to Tennessee." I'd have to know more about the couple to understand its circumstances, but I don't really get why they can't find some sort of compromise. It certainly feels like there is something broken within me that I secretly side with the guy: Why won't she just join him? She can paint anywhere! And why wouldn't she want to live in Los Angeles? FOOL!
I play the song for Chuck, tossing out some of my theories about this fictitious couple. Then, hearing my own voice in my head, I admit: "I've been spending too much time alone. Thinking." He nods. He reminds me that I can go outside today.
"Happy Friday," I say to Chuck as he walks out the front door. "Happy Due Date! ... Think it'll happen today? While you're at work?" I raise my eyebrows. "No," he says.
A few days ago Tuska sent me a text asking if I'd taken the huge cleansing crap that seems to indicate labor is looming. No, there had been nothing cleansing about my time in the bathroom yet. But now every day I wonder: Will I take the huge, cleansing crap? And will I know I'm taking it when I take it? This is just part of the birth canon I didn't know about.
Chuck sends a text that the heat has broken, so I wander to the porch glider. Two doors down, my favorite neighbors make frowny faces when they see me. They dang-near boo. I'm glad we all feel the same way about me lugging around this lugga-lugga.
I read a graphic novel in its entirety and am completely charmed. But when I go to review it, I find myself ranting about how everything from the 1990s sounds the same. Must be crabby.
I worry that I will do the unprecedented, at least in the sober era: Eat an entire frozen pizza.
We finish watching "Orange is the New Black." Except we don't call it "Orange is the New Black," we refer to it simply as "Jail." Or, when being more enthusiastic about making the switch from the constant stream of "How I Met Your Mother" to the weightier show, "Jail! Jail! Jail! Jail!" Verdict: Totally loved it. Thanks, Netflix, for again justifying the time we quit cable.