Me: What do we want to eat tonight?
Me: No, we can't just eat grapefruit.
Fetus: Grapefruit juice?
Me: That's grapefruit.
Fetus: Canned grapefruit?
Me: How about some pasta? Or some protein?
Fetus: Are those grapefruit?
Fetus: Then no.
Me: How about some veggies?
Fetus: I know...grapefruit soda!
Me: That's still grapefruit.
Fetus: ...so...grapefruit then?
Holy crap, dudes. Today I kept walking into rooms and forgetting why I had gone in there. Or forgetting what I was going to do next in general. And forgetting which word I wanted to use (tip-of-the-tongue stuff). And forgetting to eat.
I'm unsure if this is because of:
1. A lack of sleep (very possible)
2. An unusually long and complex to-do list with many things that required many steps
3. The fabled "pregnancy brain" (which I haven't really noticed so far in any independent instances not correlated with being very tired)
Or a combination of all three. I'm guessing since I also kept transposing numbers that it's most likely a lack of sleep. Those kinds of sloppy little brain mistakes creep up on me when I'm ultra-tired.
But I got lots of stuff done:
1. Quotes from piano tuners
2. Spreadsheets for baby names (regressions!) and announcements
3. Fixed my external storage drive
4. Photo transfer stuff/backups executed
5. Dad picked up about 1/4 of the photos I had scanned
6. Emails to relatives planning out holiday gatherings
7. Wedding gift shopping
8. Babystuff consolidated into one place
9. Trader Joe's for party snack
10. Paid bills
11. Sorted and shredded junk mail/credit card and bill stuff
12. Breached the pillow fort to visit D in the morning
13. Edited and returned a proposal
14. Scheduled out time off and holiday dates with work
15. Wrote out like 5 thank-you notes
I should have taken a nap, too. No time, no time!
Now party. So shower. And dressing up.
So this is the office that we're making into the nursery.
[The dresser is going to be raised a few inches and the changing pad will be put on top of it. My MIL got it for us and refinished it. It's a cool antique.]
The original plan was to cut the wood paneling in half, add a picture rail, cover the top half (removed) of the plaster with thin sheetrock, and paint it. So it wasn't SO MUCH WOOD, y'know.
[Why yes, that is a Pentium II processor computer. Yes, it is going away. Along with the desk and the chair.]
[And yeah, the other "stuff" is in the process of being cleaned out of the closet. Hence the mess.]
But then we discovered that it isn't thin veneer panel on top of plaster like we thought--it's VERY thick solid pine paneling with NO plaster behind it. So removing just part of it would be very difficult. It's all or nothing.
So it's just going to be how it is. D offered to try to do it (and I'm sure he could) but I'm in favor of the simple solution. (Bonus: It will make hanging stuff on the wall VERY easy! Unlike the rest of our plaster-walled house which crumbles if you LOOK at it funny with a nail in your hand.)
The rug might stay. I don't love it, but it was free and it fits. Or I might move it to our bedroom and get a bright green IKEA rug or something. We're also going to scrape the texturing off the ceiling and re-paint because popcorn ceilings are the work of the devil.
Here's the dilemma. There's so much wood-color! I like wood furniture, but I'm afraid without any pops of color that it will be very...wooden in there. But then what the heck colors do you use? Something that matches the rug (irrelevant if we get a new rug)? Should I consider a white or colored crib instead of the wooden (unfinished/just stained/sealed) crib?
It also needs a lamp and some new lighting that doesn't create dark-shadow corners.
Man. I managed to strain BOTH my groin muscles running yesterday and Monday. How does this even work? Dammit, I bought a fancy belly-support belt to prevent things like that from happening. If I'm in the same position for too long, I can barely move and walking is a painful adventure!
Doctor, at the appointment today: Um. Maybe you shouldn't run so hard.
I don't think she understands. I'm running 3 miles instead of almost 7! And at wuss-speed. That IS not so hard.
But apparently these things happen when you're carrying a bowling ball equivalent front-loaded in your abdomen. Aaaand all your joints and ligaments start to go, "Fuck this, hold your own damned self together."
Maybe I'll just walk some instead.
Also, D has his very first migraine ever. I don't quite know how to help him. I told him to drink some caffeine.
We are a sorry, sorry, injured household tonight.
I shouldn't. I know. Read the comments. Ever. Goodlord. Everything is awful.
On Eric Garner's murder:
Random internet commenter 1: "There was no evidence that he couldn't breathe."
Random commenter 2: "He is dead, you moron. There is your evidence that he couldn't breathe--he is fucking dead."
All these, "Whelp, if you don't want the cops to do their job*, don't break the law**" comments drive me insane.
Let's just pretend for a moment that there's no element of "accident" or "defense" here. Someone steals $5 from a convenience store. Someone sells a pack of untaxed cigarettes. Why bother with a trial? Just kill them on the spot. Because that's cool now.
Hey, if they didn't want to be killed, they shouldn't have done anything wrong, right? Arrests take time. We've seen that execution is totally appropriate in the eyes of citizens.
Do they not see how this is a ridiculous argument?
"Oh, I'm sorry. Your meter expired so it's no longer legal to park here."
"Do I get a ticket, officer?"
"Nope. Shot to the head. Guess you should have fed the meter you law-breaking criminal."
I really just don't even have the words.
*Which is, apparently, flat-out killin'
**With a heaping helping of "But-but-but race isn't a factor!"
This is incredibly cute:
My thought process:
That is awesome.
Eh. I would like the chains/hanging mechanisms to be different.
I wonder how difficult that is to make?
Doable, but man It will probably take a lot of time and effort.
$60 is a splurge, but it's well-made.
I could probably make it. I've made small wood objects before. It's fun to accomplish Making Something like that.
But dude. I have about a zillion other projects. Seriously. DON'T DO THIS TO YOURSELF AGAIN*.
$60 isn't that much for a splurge. We haven't really gotten any splurgy thing for the (not even glanced-at yet) baby room at all. And it will probably last a while.
Okay. I should order it.
[Looks at page again]
Dude. Fuck that. Where are my dowels?
*On top of this, I already have patterns printed out and vintage fabric selected for a bird-mobile. So. It's not like I need to DO this.
Focusing on nice things to get myself out of this crappy mindset so I can sleep:
Today d and I had a pie bake off. It was lovely being in the kitchen together.
Both pies were excellent.
I watered and pruned and replanted some much neglected house plants. Plants are soothing.
I wrote out thank you cards for baby gifts we've gotten already.
One of these gifts was a car seat and extra base from my aunt and uncle in Tennessee. I don't see them often (or nearly enough), but they are truly lovely people and it makes me feel good to think about them. Also, man, they always go above and beyond. It makes me feel grateful and a little shy/embarrassed.
They are also coming to see the baby in the spring. I'm delighted by this.
I cut d's hair. This is always intimate and kind of non-sexually sexy.
Then we showered together.
We had a Thanksgiving with my parents and everything was wonderful and comfortable.
My sister and I were able to recall the exact way my grandma June's sisters called her "Junie".
D fixed the mashed potatoes and advised on the duck and attempted gravy and also made eggnog flavored whipped cream.
My nephew told the baby that he loved it and that when it got older they would have kicking contests and he would let the baby win.
D is fixing a friend's truck tomorrow. I'm very proud of how fixy D is. It makes it feel like things can't ever go too badly wrong.
And d never makes me feel silly when I'm being irrational. He doesn't always know what to do or say, but I always feel safe and loved.
So I've been cleaning at my grandma's forever.
We just clean stuff. And clean. And clean. And clean. If we (my sister and I) acquire things they're small or things specifically that were my dad's (i.e. his old wooden baby blocks and some other building blocks that he made). Nothing of the "estate" or "grandma's" unless it's truly insignificant (i.e. she had a buttload of sewing thread so we all took some...there was plenty to go around). We aren't really at the point of dividing up valuable stuff by kid or grandkid. None of the big furniture that's supposed to go one place or another has left the house.
So my aunt came in the other day. Not to clean, but to acquire things. Because she doesn't clean. She just fucks everything up.
There's this lamp. It sits (no, SAT) on top of the piano. It's brass with an amber glass shade. It's not particularly valuable, I don't think. But all along I've stated that *that* is the thing in the house that I really kind of want. I mean--if my dad or my aunt wanted it, they would totally get dibs, of course. They're the kids. They get first dibs. It's pretty and I remember climbing up on the chair by the piano to turn it on and being bathed in this warm amber light. It's a nostalgic thing for me.
I mentioned my interest in the lamp to my brother and sister, my dad (though he didn't remember), and even my aunt (clearly she didn't remember or care).
Of course I didn't TAKE the lamp. 1. We're still cleaning over there and WE NEED LIGHT TO SEE. 2. It didn't feel appropriate to remove an actually valuable object without consent. 3. I was not aware that we were at the "dividing up" stage of things.
Well, my aunt took the lamp because my cousin mentioned she wanted it to my aunt. My dad feels horrible because he didn't remember me mentioning that I wanted it and he acquiesced to my aunt. If he had "known" he wouldn't have let her take it.
It's just a lamp. I shouldn't feel as badly about it as I do--but it bothers me.
Let me be clear: I don't feel "entitled" to anything there. It is all just stuff. But the method bugs me a LOT. It bugs me that we still have to clean and the living room is short its major light source. It bugs me that we've done a lot of work (a lot of it pretty not-fun) and they just come in to grab stuff that they want.
I don't know if I should try to fix it (cue my cousin being a martyr about it until infinity), or if I should concentrate on letting it go. It seems that, when it comes to my aunt and her family, I am forever letting things go because it just doesn't seem worth it in the long run. Perhaps it's time to just burn all the bridges, though.
But it is just a lamp after all. Why do I feel so shitty about it?
Do I raise a fuss or let it go?
I feel STUPID feeling this bothered by it. It's petty. But it *does* bother me.
ETA: We are going over to clean tomorrow. I know that I'm going to see the spot where the lamp was and burst into tears. This is also stupid. Dammit, Missy, it is just a thing.
I find it super-funny that Minnesotans are getting really upset (mostly facetiously or mildly) about the New York Times declaring grape salad to be our "traditional" state-representing Thanksgiving food. Most people haven't heard of this grape salad--and if they have, it's certainly not a Thanksgiving thing. But it's all ridiculous, really.
(FWIW: They gave wild rice to WISCONSIN, so WTF?)
Oh, Minnesota. We get indignant about the *important* things.
We'll be known for #grapegate and #pointergate.
Last night I was trying on some FancyDresses that I thought might still fit me. Out of curiosity, mostly. My expectations were very low. I have two sparkly dresses that are stretch-fabric that might work if I don't get TOO enormous between now and the party the dress is intended for.
Oh look, here is a pictoral representation of that:
Actually...it was more like this:
I look rather like an overly-fabulous snake who has swallowed an egg and is in the process of digesting.
This anaconda don't want none when the bun's in the oven, hun. Okay, that made no sense. I'll stop trying to be hip now.
I had four dreams last night:
1. Miscarriage/lost the baby.
2. Was carjacked and murdered.
3. Was brutally raped and then when I was running away to get help, the stranger who was going to help me happened to be in with the rapist. Was going to be murdered when I woke up.
4. Was having cocktails with Jessica Lange in my grandmother's living room (clean, 60s version of the living room), chatting about her new book and her new role as The Doctor's new companion. Matt Smith, David Tennant, and Billie Piper (Rose Tyler) were also there, and Billie was confused about the conversation since she had missed the last few seasons of Doctor Who.
One of these dreams was significantly more awesome than the other three.
Let's see. How easy would it have been for me to commit voter fraud considering my little old lady poll volunteer squealed, "Oh! You have a BUMP this time!" when she saw me and flipped to my name without me telling her?
Not. Easy. At. All.
I'm just not sure how anyone would gamble with that for one vote. How can you be sure that you don't get an overly-interested old lady with candy where YOU are?
Also I met my new neighbors at the polling place! They seem really nice!
I <3 election day.
Today I got a text at 7 a.m. from a friend. It was a picture of his new (last, for a while) calf. Said calf will be raised nicely, will have--by all definitions--a comfortable bovine-life*, and will eventually become hamburger or steaks.
I told him to name the calf Sir Winston the Delicious.
Another friend was raised near his grandfather's dairy farm. He was telling me how his grandfather had mostly black and white dairy cows, but one was brown and white. His grandfather used to insist that that was the cow that gave the chocolate milk. So what he would do for my young friend was put a little chocolate drink mix powder in the bottom of the tin milking-drink cup (unbeknownst to the child, of course). Lo, the milk would "come out" chocolate. That's such a fantastically weird grandfatherly thing to do.
*Well, except on what is known as "the worst day of his life"...which is castration day. But the cattle don't ever seem to be too bothered by that, oddly enough.
Why is it that being pregnant is suddenly license for anyone--absolutely anyone--to comment on one's body?
Every damned day. EVERY single day SOMEONE (co-worker, family, friend, stranger, etc.) makes some comment about my body. Why is this okay?
Most are well-meaning, and some comments are even welcomed (family, friends). But I can't think of any other situation where this would be appropriate.
I was watching more Julia Child last night--she helps me get to sleep when I'm impossibly tired, but can't. Maybe I'll even subconsciously absorb some cooking technique.
So I was listening to the soup episode (yes, there are SOUP EPISODES!) wherein Julia was preparing leeks for French Leek Soup. She was perfectly chipper and matter-o-fact as she explained her choice of kitchen knife:
This is a Japanese knife I got from my sister in law. You use it for hara-kiri or it works perfectly well for chopping vegetables. It really depends on what sort of mood you're in.
She then looks at the camera with a kind of mischievous half-smile. I had to replay it to make sure I heard her right. I did. You know--because sometimes you're in the mood to chop veg, and sometimes you're in the mood for ritual suicide. Oh, the perils of being the 60s housewife.
Upon reflection--though it was meant innocently enough--it was also sort of vaguely racist in the 60s I-don't-really-understand-the-Japanese kind of way.
That's also the episode where she makes watercress soup and finishes it with two egg yolks, cream, and a shit-ton of butter. That doesn't even sound like it would be remotely good. Though, you know...butter. So. Maybe?
My dad thinks I should take some old blankets from my grandma's house to keep in my car. Crummy ones. Because:
You never know when you'll come by an accident and you don't want to get blood on the good blankets. But you have to wrap the body in something and you won't want to use that blanket again.
Oh dad. Clearly he's put thought into this. I think I'll just risk my one good car blanket, thanks, and leave the occasional body pickup to the medical professionals.
Pregnancy board lady: OMG, my doctor is trying to pressure me into getting a flu shot!
Me: OMG, if you're not going to listen to your doctor, why aren't you just getting pregnancy advice by holding a conch shell up to your ear and doing whatever the ocean sounds tell you to do?
Sometimes I just snap, man.
Seriously, though. You can NOT take your doctor's advice or get a second opinion, or whatever...but it's pretty much their job to "pressure" you into doing what's best for your health. If she had sky-high cholesterol, they would probably try to "pressure" her into fixing the issue through diet or meds.
Today I learned: Bob Fosse wasn't gay.
However, co-workers are not laughing at me about that one. We're ALL kind of surprised by that one.
All these musical assumptions, man.
I'm trying to remain upright after eating, and have taken to watching Tom Lehrer's Copenhagen concert from 1967. He was (is, because, as I Wikipedia-learned through click-holage, he is still alive) brilliant.
For instance. SMUT!
The actor that we work with is not known for his tact.
Today I spent an overly-long time having to convince him that, when you're telling someone, "You look really good!" it is NOT necessary to (and in fact, you should NOT) add "for your age!"
The debate raged: He thought that without the caveat it wouldn't be sincere. I argued that if your first impulse is to tell someone they look good, it's not necessary to add caveats.