The Media Speaks To Me.

This morning, P.J. almost threw out what was- easily- the best part of today's Tribune. It was the circular for the Grand Opening of Five Below, my new favorite five-bucks-and-under store (to which I have never been). It's almost like Peej doesn't even care about The Issues or Extreme Savings. Weird. 

Let's review.

Let's do a close-up on that front cover, shall we? Okay, generically pretty girl, perhaps college-aged, happily wearing a Snuggie. Now, I can suspend my disbelief as well as anyone...but do you really think a girl like this is EVER going to willingly wear something proclaiming her to be an XXL? 

Cheap posters? Fabulous! I've always wanted that awesome wall triumvirate of Adele, Justin Bieber, and...Angry Birds. On my wall. As a poster. Of Angry Birds. 

I love a good snap bracelet- and at a buck, this is a good snap bracelet. But aren't these things still illegal in most states? I should know. I was around the first time that they were rendered unsuitable for school. I'm not saying I played a part in it...but there was a fourth grade dude named Chad who did NOT know how to back off and maybe he needed a little reinforcement from my leopard print suede-wrapped metal shiv of death.  (But a dollar, you say?) 

This is easily my favorite page in the circular. It's the College Kid Necessities page. And absolutely, hampers and that ilk are clutch (for the demographic that oh-so-rarely does laundry), but WHEN was the last time you heard someone say how imperative it was that they bring their own lava lamp? (Because, like, if the roomie is using their desk lava lamp, don't even think about ganking that action. Get your own, mooch.) 

And the bottom left hand corner features the finest in funky, polka dotted cleaning supplies like plungers. For college. A college polka dot plunger. Welcome, Freshman!

Back cover. But don't be sad...because you could possibly score a free shirt imploring you to Chill Out! Still not planning to jaunt by the Grand Opening? Would a 5 cent hot dog change one's mind?

Even though you need to Limit 3.

Which is probably just plain ol' good life advice.

Unless your name is Kobayashi.

Or you have a really exceptional polka dotted plunger.

Before And After.

S.U.B.L.I.M.E. times infinity to the moon and back.

Squalor No More! (Until Next Week!)

Her house is actually cleaner.

Okay, the baby can come any time now.

Well, actually, give me about an hour, Baby Monkey- for you see, our home is being cleaned. And- this is the kicker- by people who know what they're doing.

They are vacuuming the couch.They are scrubbing and disinfecting the tubs as opposed to just, like, vaguely wiping/spraying them down with an after-shower spray. [P.J.: You only wipe them down? Keely: Yes. I didn't want you to have to find out this way.] Also, Big Household Tip...that after-shower spray only works if one actually deeply cleans said shower more than once a season. It's not a magic mist. "No Scrub" means "You Don't Need To Scrub...This Week. But Maybe Give Next Week A Go."

Regardless, this is not that week.

I think I particularly embrace and revel in having my home cleaned because- way back at the beginning of my nanny gigs- I also cleaned homes. It was not a pretty time in my life (for my wardrobe, self-esteem, or those residing with me and my frequent bouts of sobbing). 'Cause guess what? People are gross. Horrific, really. Even relatively clean people have bathroom and kitchen habits that make one question the future of humanity.

That said- it's my grossness that is being dealt with this week!

"Oh, good for you," I hear over the interwebz. "Now you can be the bougie elite having someone else steam the drapes."

Firstly, don't say "drapes." It's gauche. Secondly- ohnonononononononono. We can most certainly not afford to have someone clean our house. Hah, not in the LEAST! (Need a visual? P.J. is currently having a coronary at work, man-crying into his computer screen and attempting to budget things like- oh- food, gas, and electricity.) But three times a year, I love to have this amazing woman and her team of efficient (and oddly silent) Polish gals make short work of my home in an hour. For the same price as what I used to pay (in a former life, roughly two years back) for a pair of Converse and some consignment shop Kenneth Cole black slingbacks. For example. (Sigh.)

However- worth it. Even though I'm typing this while wearing Target kicks from The Village Discount. (That's two uncomfortable visuals for you today, now isn't it?)

It's especially worth it these days. When I can no longer bend. This is embarrassingly true. Peej has been attempting to put me on something that I call Forced And Mean Confinement and that he terms Go Lay Down, Already, You're Really Starting To Tick Me Off.

Just last night, in fact, immediately after I disregarded GLDA,YRSTTMO, I stood up from bed where I had been filing/reading/stenciling birthday cards (Guess which one isn't true? Trick question- they're ALL true!) and found myself short of breath. Which kind of proved his point. But also proved mine that he's turning me into an invalid who needs to be wheeled down to the seaside in a plaid blanket.

The stencils are lovely, however.

Obviously.

Someone Bring Me A Dustmop. Or A Pillow.

Putting on brass knuckles.

I should not be left to my own devices.

This includes all of the times where Nora is napping, I am caught up on household dirtiness, writing deadlines are breezed through, and P.J. is off doing something P.J.-like (i.e., watching Mad Men, showering, or building a door frame).

What, you ask? There are times when all of these forces align and you find yourself with free pockets of the day, gaps of the afternoon and/or early evening where you should go rest/shower and instead you fill in the blanks with the busywork of the insane?

Yep.

For I am in that final stretch of pregnancy. Even though I'm crazily floppy-headed exhausted, I get these bizarre and fleeting bursts of energy...and they're devious. They whisper things to me like- Launder The Bassinet Bedding. Again.

Do The Laundry Even Though There Are Only Four Pairs Of Socks And Some Pajama Pants In The Hamper.

Stack The Tupperware- Even Though It'll Make No Difference By Tomorrow Evening, As You Are The Only One Who Even Realizes Tupperware Can (And Should) Be Stacked.

Revise Your Will And Leave Heartfelt Notes For Your Husband/Daughter/Unborn Child. (Oh, that's right. It just got real.)

Nowhere on these mental lists o' crazy is the ever-popular Go To Bed Early or Read A Chapter Of That Dashiell Hammett Collection You've Been Digging. Because those would be nice, relaxing things for me, the orca of a pregnant woman. No no, the tasks that will be completed are for the people who will have to show up when I go into labor at 3am. Or passersby peeking through the window and judging the state of affairs. Perhaps the panel of judges who will apparently be white-gloving my mantel. WHICH I DO NOT YET HAVE. (Peej- this weekend? Build us a mantel. Put it somewhere the judges will see it.)

And I do realize- in a very small part of my rational being- that alllll of this stuff is aversion to the mind-numbing fear I have that, even though I successfully did all this before and am well on my way to raising an actual member of society, I shall fail to do so this time around. Or fail to do it as well. I am not sure which would be worse.

There's also a good chance that I am feeling feelings about each and every twinge, pop, twist, kick, and parry currently going on from the region beginning mid-thigh and ending juuust below my clavicle. As I have never been in labor (true) and have no such plans to do so any time in the near future (double true), each instance that indicates any sort of progress towards any sort of active birth sends me running for the Swiffer.

And before anyone feels the need to triple reassure me that I am fine, the baby will be fine, and the house will be fine...I really do know this. I do. That's what makes my insanity all the more funny. Cognizance.

And on THAT note, anyone wanna place your bets on this kid? I'm going to start it off with 20lbs flat, with a length of at least 37 inches- per octopus leg. As we're fairly certain that this child will be delivered on the morning of October 4th, you really don't have to feel compelled to guess a date. And I can't promise anything to the winner except for perhaps AN AWESOME SHOUT-OUT and/or a pack of Mickey Mouse stickers.

If Nora's cool with sharing.

On second thought, she might suggest that the warm, contented glow of victory should be enough for you.

She really digs her stickers.