the pieces of my life

I’m covered in food, because I’m clumsy and apparently Lean Cuisines are hard to eat. I’ve hit my belly with doors three times today, because I don’t have an sense of my girth anymore. My back hurts, my belly hurts, my heartburn hurts, my feet are sore, I’m tired. But this does not–does not, I emphasize–give you leave to ask me in that simpering tone (or any tone, for that matter), “How are you feeling?” I’m so sick of people asking me how I feel. I’m still standing, right? Then I’m fine. It’s hard to keep the snarl out of my voice when answering. Adam is trying to deal with Ikea because the stupid twits gave us the wrong dresser (keep in mind the nearest Ikea is four hours away, so it’s not like we can just go exchange it). We said we wanted the Malm five-drawer dresser in birch. And in fairness, we watched the guy type in, “MALM, 5-draw, bch” (or something like that), not realizing that “bch” is actually beech. A color that works not at all in our nursery. Luckily, the Malm three-drawer dresser was in the correct color (we picked that one off the shelves ourselves), so we do have some place to put the clothes. Anyway, the point is, I’m tempted to tell Adam that I’m the one who should call Ikea because I am just cranky enough to go absolute nuts on them, as I’m now itching for a fight. Which, I suppose, is all the more reason for Adam to be dealing with it. Best bet for all of you is to keep a wide berth. And the first a-hole who e-mails/calls to ask “How am I doing?” just to be cute is the first one to receive a string of obscenities back from me. That’s only if I’m feeling nice. If I’m not feeling nice, it could be worse. Like dead-horse-in-your-bed worse. Don’t try me.

Forget not telling you people Brown Brown’s real name: I can’t seem to remember it myself! Adam and I were setting things up in the nursery and we were debating where to put all our wonderful new books. “We could get those cute book ends that are letters,” I said, “and put the books on top of the table. You know”–and I’m sticking with Xavier as a first name here (no people, not the real name!)–“an X and a B.” Adam looked at me, smiling. “And what would that stand for?” he asked. I looked at him strangely. “You know. Xavier Brow– Oh. Um, I mean an X and an M.” I think not remembering my own son’s name could cause some serious psychological damage. But considering that the damage has to be done in some way, I guess that one’s not too bad.

(Does RIF still use that big dog? What was his name?) You know what the best thing about working with writers and editors is? They all love to read. My fantastic office threw me and Brown Brown a book shower and now Brown Brown has a library extraordinaire. At lunch time on Wednesday, we had pizza and chocolate cake with extra frosting (mmm, frosting! In fact, when my boss ordered the cake, the store said to her, “We can put plastic booties on the cake,” and she told them, “You better make them out of frosting.” Anyone who’s ever eaten cake within a mile radius of me knows that frosting makes me weak in the knees. Chocolate cake with vanilla frosting is just about the best thing ever invented). My boss said lots of nice things about me (the shower also doubled as my going-away party as my last day–Aug. 22–happens when a few folks will be on their vacations), and she gave me a gift certificate for a pedicure. And then everyone gave us lots of books! Some great classics (such as Dr. Seuss, Curious George, Mother Goose) and some I’d never heard of but now think are just fabulous (Five Minutes’ Peace and Henry Hikes to Fitchburg, to name two)! I got home on Wednesday night with my pile of books to discover that our glider came in, so now I not only have lots of books to read to Brown Brown, but I have a place to read to him!

On Wednesday I went to the hospital for a “Meet the Doctors.” Our OB is part of a call group, which means they each are on call one day a week and someone else covers their patients on other days. I was quite impressed with the group as a whole (six of the eight doctors were there. All but one is female. Just my luck, I’ll end up with the only male. Not that I have anything against male OBs. I just don’t want one coming anywhere near me), and they had an hour-long question-and-answer period. It was interesting and I learned a few new things, but they kept saying, over and over and over, not just the procedure that shall not be named, but it’s natural corollary. They spent a good three hourse on the topic! (Okay, well it felt like three hours. Whatever!) Happily, I was not the only person in the room turning green. I have to say, as much as I’m not crazy about the idea of a c-section, I’d be very happy to avoid that other thing that shall not be named. Oh, I feel queasy even just remembering the lecture.