Week 32! Already four and a half pounds (the baby- I weight a biiiiiit more), blood pressure great for both mom n' kid, extremely active baby with a superb heart rate and...OH YES, the kid is standing straight up, a.k.a. breech, a.k.a., I'm gonna need that part of my lung and ribcage back. We had evidence of this acrobatic acumen with our latest ultrasound- our child, on its belly, ankles up to the forehead, hands pushing on its face. Impressive, uncomfortable and kickier than a donkey. Nice trifecta. The baby is currently in a position called 'frank breech' ("Frankly, your kid is breech.") This is no big deal medically, excepting the fact that if the Bitsy doesn't turn on its own (15% chance) my team of doctors will try to TURN THE BABY at 37 weeks (40% chance and um, ow) and if nothing happens, c-section at 39 weeks. The week of P.J.'s birthday and perhaps on the day of his lucky 27. I smell conspiracy. (And bacon. Who's cooking bacon at 1pm? Halfsies!)
I've gotten some pretty helpful advice for "turning the child" and some even includes doing it "naturally." An example of "natural?" Leaning an IRONING BOARD against a couch and propping myself upside down on it- something I couldn't have done even had I NOT been entering my 8th month of pregnancy, mind you- and letting the child decide that s/he doesn't care for that position any longer. What could be more natural? How about frozen peas on the head? (The baby's, not mine.) Perhaps clothespins attached to the outside of my pinky toes? Acupuncture, acupressure, prenatal massage, jiu jitsu (not really) and my personal favorite: getting in a pool (okie doke! Where is this magical pool?) and doing a HANDSTAND. Never mind the fact that I also cannot do a handstand, pregnant or not, in water or otherwise, and my balance is already atrocious. Do I want to flip this child or terrify it into submission? Why not just go on a roller coaster? Enter a chili pepper-eating contest? Make a funny paper hat and place it in a scrapbook? Bizarre suggestions all, but more importantly- holistic. (And thanks, Kat, for sending me a website solely for the reason you commented- "They used the word "foetal.") Now, I know that a c-section wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but...I've read Macbeth. I know how this kinda thing turns out. (Gettin' a little literary up in here, no?)
But more importantly- last night was week 2 of Great Expectations. Epidural Night! (I asked people if it was anything like Taco Night- which I LOVE- and all I got for my trouble was a resounding "Ah, no.") And that's fine. Because it wasn't.
It was BETTER!
We began with a ten second clip from the movie 'Nine months" with Hugh Grant and Julianne Moore, in which Grant takes Moore to the hospital to have her baby. ("My water broke!" "Well, we'll get you another one!") Hijinks ensued, Robin Williams, M.D., produced an epidural needle the size of a small pachyderm and Julianne Moore's wheelchair got pushed down the hall and into an open elevator.
"That's how NOT to go into labor," our instructing R.N. told us.
I am not even joking.
We then saw a video with proper birthing positions (upright, seated, side-lying) to alleviate different kinds of labor pains. And the headbands! Ooh boy, last week's headbands had NOTHING on the bespangled creations this week, the kind that said "Out of my way, hair (and husbands), I GOT THIS ONE." And then there was a third video- obviously staged, as the best scene came when a 'laboring mom' huffed and screamed and sweated for a good while, looked up demurely and said "I think I'd like an epidural," and then when the attending physician came by, asked "Will it hurt?" Well, no more than the water buffalo you were apparently trying to dislodge! And then P.J.'s favorite part; after the placement of the epidural, the doctor and patient smiled at each other, the doctor signed off on a chart, left the room, LOOKED UP AT THE CAMERA and, still smiling, assured us "She'll be fine." Please continue to walk us through this hard-hitting slice of reality television! Is this Sesame Street? Can we now see a llama getting its teeth cleaned?
And lest you think that the husbands were not represented as well this week- oh no- we had a guy whose mustache would put Magnum, P.I.'s to shame who continuously pushed his wife's bangs out of her face (for she did not have a headband) and muttered like Rain Man "You're doing good. You're doing real good." (She asked for the epidural reeeally early on.)
Best yet, we got to practice what we saw! Balancing on yoga balls, bent over chairs, on all fours and purring like cats (okay, so she didn't SAY to purr like cats) and getting to breathe deeply while looking in each others' eyes. Turns out, if I hafta breathe deeply and look into P.J.'s eyes during labor, it may not work out. He is really, really funny. Even if (and might I add- especially) when he is TRYING to be SERIOUS. And when he had to massage out my "back labor," he really went for the gold. He destroyed that contraction. Also a hip joint. But he was SERIOUS.
They also snuck in a video about c-sections, which was NOT COOL TO DO. If I have to get a c-section (no) I'm fairly certain all I have to do is show up. The less I know about that needle and the clamps FOR MY SKIN the better. In fact, let's pretend we didn't see what happens on the other side of the curtain, lalalalalalala. (This goes double for episiotomies, bodily fluids and functions during labor, and gowns that fail to cover one's body adequately- none of this EVER happened.) Found out video taping during labor isn't allowed- aw, shucks!- but we're allowed to take as many pictures of our child AFTER the fact as we'd like. Thanks! You're sure we don't have to sign a waiver?
I think that getting pregnant is the best thing that has EVER happened to my writing career. Lamaze class is coming in at a close second. I plan to live-blog my labor and delivery. Or maybe I'll let P.J., if he's not too busy.
I'll bring a backup headband, just in case.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
P.J., get my coat.
I think we've stayed at this party too long.
a.k.a., That natural childbirth video made me yuke.
Last night was our first "Great Expectations" class at Northwestern (do they mean for the class? For my Expectations are only Meh) and what a time was had by all! Eight to ten couples eyeing the other eight to ten couples with these actual inner monologues: Guys- Does he make more money than me? Is he younger than me?/ Gals- She best be delivering after me. She is ridiculously tiny. I don't think she's really pregnant.
We started off by arranging ourselves by due date, this after I'd already propped my knees up on a yoga ball and paged through my info packet (actual info for the Transition stage of Labor: "Tell her how great she's doing! Tell her that the baby will soon be here!" And P.J.'s reply: "You're fiiiiiiiiine." After which I mentally swapped my Support Person.) We found ourselves in the middle of the group, with due dates ranging from the end of December (See? Hardly pregnant) to OCTOBER FIFTH. Yep. That girl is giving birth in a MONTH. We have four classes in this session. P.J. and I are wondering if she's gonna make it to the end. (Of the session, that is. I doubt that missing the last class will cause something terrible to happen in the actual birthing of the child. Maybe they give out magic potions?)
Then we got to go around the room and announce our birth plans. The girls who chose to go natural smiled smugly at those of us who like drugs (yum) and the rest of the girls looked at the 'au naturale' gals like they were missing a screw or seven. It was a tender moment.
Then, oh THEN, we got to see a video with FOUR ACTUAL LABORING MOMS who- get this- delivered babies without drugs (even when they mentioned that they wanted them. That bit was towards the end. Apparently women in this stage are HILARIOUS!) Speaking of not making it 'til the end, there was a featured woman that P.J. and I seriously wanted to poke in the eye. For real. I realize that no one was having a grand time, but this gal was moaning from the second the lights were being hung in the video. It didn't stop her from eating chips n' salsa, oh no! (Now, I'm no "doctor," but maybe eating spicy food as your water is breaking is NOT gonna feel good in a couple of hours. Different strokes, I guess.) And THEN, she got to the hospital! And donned a HEADBAND. You know the kind of headband I'm talking about. The Down To Business Headband. Not a hair was to touch her forehead- she was in Active Labor. (And her husband was kind of a dope- staring wide-eyed and kinda drunkenly throughout the entire ordeal.) And may God forgive me for saying this, but hers was an ORDEAL. Plus, she had this whiny "pain face" really early on- terribly mean of me, yes, but you can TOTALLY tell that it's also her face for when her husband's running late. It was hard to build any sense of caring for her character and the arc of her story line.
And MY GOODNESS, did some of these women realize they were going to be filmed? I will say no more. (Except that it was a sight to behold. I'm sure you really don't care at that point, but REALLY, shouldn't it have crossed one or two minds beforehand? Film is forever!) We both felt badly for the featured Asian lady who barely spoke any English and had a vacant look on her face the entire time- while she labored ALONE- who probably didn't understand that a camera crew was to be present...and that an epidural wasn't.
Next week- epidural videos! Woot!
My favorite part of class came when we had to visualize labor and use our Bag of Tools (I keep mine in a toolbox, thankyouverymuch) to send ourselves to our favorite strip of beach. Our Support Person (P.J. was still holding this title) had to squeeze an appendage of ours tighter and tighter for fifteen seconds, loosening their grip for the next fifteen. Our jobs were to BREATHE THROUGH THE PAIN. Most husbands chose an arm. Mine grabbed my inner thigh. I am very ticklish on my inner thigh. He also started the count with a KUNG FU GRIP and tightened from there. I'm sure my reaction had the teacher putting Child Services on speed dial for the Schoeny household.
Then I started laughing. And couldn't stop. So P.J. grabbed my thigh between two fingers and proceeded to walk me through the gentlest contraction ever, through which I almost hyperventilated. The combination of Deep Cleansing Breathes, an ant-like contraction on one's thigh and a mortified husband does that to me, apparently.
I hope the teacher's getting paid well.
But I really can't complain- P.J.'s a pretty fun guy, he's promised me SUSHI if I do a GOOD JOB, and I have a lovely home with a couch newly on the floor of the actual living room in the house where the baby will live (see last eight posts). I'm certainly better off than the video gal whose husband blathered about how hard labor was for HIM. During the actual labor! Sit back down, son!
Although, in their interviews, I couldn't help but notice that THEY had a finished stairwell leading to their first floor.
I'm just saying.
a.k.a., That natural childbirth video made me yuke.
Last night was our first "Great Expectations" class at Northwestern (do they mean for the class? For my Expectations are only Meh) and what a time was had by all! Eight to ten couples eyeing the other eight to ten couples with these actual inner monologues: Guys- Does he make more money than me? Is he younger than me?/ Gals- She best be delivering after me. She is ridiculously tiny. I don't think she's really pregnant.
We started off by arranging ourselves by due date, this after I'd already propped my knees up on a yoga ball and paged through my info packet (actual info for the Transition stage of Labor: "Tell her how great she's doing! Tell her that the baby will soon be here!" And P.J.'s reply: "You're fiiiiiiiiine." After which I mentally swapped my Support Person.) We found ourselves in the middle of the group, with due dates ranging from the end of December (See? Hardly pregnant) to OCTOBER FIFTH. Yep. That girl is giving birth in a MONTH. We have four classes in this session. P.J. and I are wondering if she's gonna make it to the end. (Of the session, that is. I doubt that missing the last class will cause something terrible to happen in the actual birthing of the child. Maybe they give out magic potions?)
Then we got to go around the room and announce our birth plans. The girls who chose to go natural smiled smugly at those of us who like drugs (yum) and the rest of the girls looked at the 'au naturale' gals like they were missing a screw or seven. It was a tender moment.
Then, oh THEN, we got to see a video with FOUR ACTUAL LABORING MOMS who- get this- delivered babies without drugs (even when they mentioned that they wanted them. That bit was towards the end. Apparently women in this stage are HILARIOUS!) Speaking of not making it 'til the end, there was a featured woman that P.J. and I seriously wanted to poke in the eye. For real. I realize that no one was having a grand time, but this gal was moaning from the second the lights were being hung in the video. It didn't stop her from eating chips n' salsa, oh no! (Now, I'm no "doctor," but maybe eating spicy food as your water is breaking is NOT gonna feel good in a couple of hours. Different strokes, I guess.) And THEN, she got to the hospital! And donned a HEADBAND. You know the kind of headband I'm talking about. The Down To Business Headband. Not a hair was to touch her forehead- she was in Active Labor. (And her husband was kind of a dope- staring wide-eyed and kinda drunkenly throughout the entire ordeal.) And may God forgive me for saying this, but hers was an ORDEAL. Plus, she had this whiny "pain face" really early on- terribly mean of me, yes, but you can TOTALLY tell that it's also her face for when her husband's running late. It was hard to build any sense of caring for her character and the arc of her story line.
And MY GOODNESS, did some of these women realize they were going to be filmed? I will say no more. (Except that it was a sight to behold. I'm sure you really don't care at that point, but REALLY, shouldn't it have crossed one or two minds beforehand? Film is forever!) We both felt badly for the featured Asian lady who barely spoke any English and had a vacant look on her face the entire time- while she labored ALONE- who probably didn't understand that a camera crew was to be present...and that an epidural wasn't.
Next week- epidural videos! Woot!
My favorite part of class came when we had to visualize labor and use our Bag of Tools (I keep mine in a toolbox, thankyouverymuch) to send ourselves to our favorite strip of beach. Our Support Person (P.J. was still holding this title) had to squeeze an appendage of ours tighter and tighter for fifteen seconds, loosening their grip for the next fifteen. Our jobs were to BREATHE THROUGH THE PAIN. Most husbands chose an arm. Mine grabbed my inner thigh. I am very ticklish on my inner thigh. He also started the count with a KUNG FU GRIP and tightened from there. I'm sure my reaction had the teacher putting Child Services on speed dial for the Schoeny household.
Then I started laughing. And couldn't stop. So P.J. grabbed my thigh between two fingers and proceeded to walk me through the gentlest contraction ever, through which I almost hyperventilated. The combination of Deep Cleansing Breathes, an ant-like contraction on one's thigh and a mortified husband does that to me, apparently.
I hope the teacher's getting paid well.
But I really can't complain- P.J.'s a pretty fun guy, he's promised me SUSHI if I do a GOOD JOB, and I have a lovely home with a couch newly on the floor of the actual living room in the house where the baby will live (see last eight posts). I'm certainly better off than the video gal whose husband blathered about how hard labor was for HIM. During the actual labor! Sit back down, son!
Although, in their interviews, I couldn't help but notice that THEY had a finished stairwell leading to their first floor.
I'm just saying.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thirty weeks! That sounds close.
It kinda feels like I'm in the "official" part of my pregnancy- like, now that it's ten weeks or less 'til Baby Central, this means that I actually have to HAVE THE KID. And other such fun.
I'm thoroughly NOT enjoying the every two weeks appointments. The constant poking, prodding and weigh-ins make me feel less Earth Mother and more Rocky Post-Retirement. Or like a science experiment gone horribly awry. ("Why are you still gaining weight?" "Well, until the kid starts shrinking, it may become a necessary evil.")
I'm rather done with caring about weight gain at this point. (*Rather*, mind you. I will always be enough of an actress to wonder how close or off the mark I am to the weight listed on my theatre resume. 125lbs. Shut up.) Besides, if my doctors really wanted me to obsess about my weight, they're about nine years late to the party. We don't do that here anymore. And if they really wanted me to count calories (yep, there they are!) then tomorrow I'll just get off at the floor hosting the Weight Watchers meeting and skip the blood draw altogether. If I'm humongously overweight when the kid hits middle school (and still blaming the pregnancy), then yes, get my bum to step aerobics. Until then, pass the pumpernickel.
We start our childbirth classes next Tuesday, a blend of Lamaze and Bradley techniques: half 'Oh, this is gonna hurt, so breathe rhythmically like they do in the movies' and half 'Oh, pain is totally cool. Visualize a cloud. Don't you like CLOUDS?' I hope they offer snacks with the informative videos. I hope I can record P.J.'s face whilst watching the informative videos.
Yesterday I finished up a one-act play about biological clocks- seems to be a bit on the brain- except that my female protagonist can't find hers and desperately wishes to. Ha! It's funny, 'cause it's a myth! Like people who gain seven pounds during pregnancy! Because what woman DOESN'T hear her clock chirping in the middle of the night like a Tourette's-afflicted cockatiel with ADD on a sugar high? Wearing little finger cymbals and an umbrella hat? (The umbrella hat doesn't make noise, it's strictly a sight-gag.)
Oh, for real?
You don't find that this is GENERALLY the case? Oh.
That's weird.
So, tonight may be the night that a "guy" comes over and "saws our couch in half." And we're paying him cash money to do this! At this point I'd give him one of the cats if he could unwedge the sectional from the stairwell. I find that I'm losing my ability to notice large, out-of-place objects in my daily life. Totally walked into a filing cabinet two days ago- it COULD have belonged in the family room...who am I to argue with the laws of spatial relations? (On a positive note, we still have a homeless box spring blocking the storage area, rendering it officially Not My Problem. There's clutter back there? Prove it.)
But for now, murder, mayhem and diamond theft. For at least three more scenes. And then perhaps elevated ankles, strategically-placed pillows and a snore or two.
For at least twenty more minutes.
I'm thoroughly NOT enjoying the every two weeks appointments. The constant poking, prodding and weigh-ins make me feel less Earth Mother and more Rocky Post-Retirement. Or like a science experiment gone horribly awry. ("Why are you still gaining weight?" "Well, until the kid starts shrinking, it may become a necessary evil.")
I'm rather done with caring about weight gain at this point. (*Rather*, mind you. I will always be enough of an actress to wonder how close or off the mark I am to the weight listed on my theatre resume. 125lbs. Shut up.) Besides, if my doctors really wanted me to obsess about my weight, they're about nine years late to the party. We don't do that here anymore. And if they really wanted me to count calories (yep, there they are!) then tomorrow I'll just get off at the floor hosting the Weight Watchers meeting and skip the blood draw altogether. If I'm humongously overweight when the kid hits middle school (and still blaming the pregnancy), then yes, get my bum to step aerobics. Until then, pass the pumpernickel.
We start our childbirth classes next Tuesday, a blend of Lamaze and Bradley techniques: half 'Oh, this is gonna hurt, so breathe rhythmically like they do in the movies' and half 'Oh, pain is totally cool. Visualize a cloud. Don't you like CLOUDS?' I hope they offer snacks with the informative videos. I hope I can record P.J.'s face whilst watching the informative videos.
Yesterday I finished up a one-act play about biological clocks- seems to be a bit on the brain- except that my female protagonist can't find hers and desperately wishes to. Ha! It's funny, 'cause it's a myth! Like people who gain seven pounds during pregnancy! Because what woman DOESN'T hear her clock chirping in the middle of the night like a Tourette's-afflicted cockatiel with ADD on a sugar high? Wearing little finger cymbals and an umbrella hat? (The umbrella hat doesn't make noise, it's strictly a sight-gag.)
Oh, for real?
You don't find that this is GENERALLY the case? Oh.
That's weird.
So, tonight may be the night that a "guy" comes over and "saws our couch in half." And we're paying him cash money to do this! At this point I'd give him one of the cats if he could unwedge the sectional from the stairwell. I find that I'm losing my ability to notice large, out-of-place objects in my daily life. Totally walked into a filing cabinet two days ago- it COULD have belonged in the family room...who am I to argue with the laws of spatial relations? (On a positive note, we still have a homeless box spring blocking the storage area, rendering it officially Not My Problem. There's clutter back there? Prove it.)
But for now, murder, mayhem and diamond theft. For at least three more scenes. And then perhaps elevated ankles, strategically-placed pillows and a snore or two.
For at least twenty more minutes.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wanna come see my MacLaren?
This past weekend Peej and I headed to Pittsfield to be showered with baby...think 'It's Raining Men,' but with pastels. Delicious food, adorable [teensy] presents and a couple dozen of the East Coasters I like best. Also- more than five instances of "I cannot believe how HUGE you are," to which I reply: a) Believe it. I am carrying another PERSON, and b) that is something extraordinarily obvious to say and (more likely than not) the expectant mother is walking around at the time thinking to herself "I hope I don't look HUGE in this." Which she does. Because she is almost seven months pregnant.
Public service announcement aside, it was a lovely trip and party thrown by my sibs and mother, WAAAAY too short (all Massachusetts jaunts feel about five hours long these days) and complicated with rain delays at the airport. To paraphrase P.J., we've got centuries of advancements that can get hampered...by water droplets falling from the sky. Nice. My sciatic nerve thanks you, O'Hare.
In other news, our doorbell still doesn't "ring" the way it's "supposed to." (It's in a pile on the kitchen counter called P.J., CAN YOU FIX THIS TONIGHT? (Marriage is fun.) This lack of doorbell was made quite clear the other day when the FedEx gal came to our door with a package needing signing. (Two things: WOW! A FedEX package? This NEVER happens. And secondly, I was upstairs in the master bedroom, where apparently one can hear door pounding through the FLOOR'S VIBRATION. Awesome and kinda not-so-awesome.) Regardless, sensitive soul that I am, I heeded the door pounding and found a bored looking FedEX employee waiting to thrust one of those electronic signing devices in my hands (that never looks like my signature anyhow and cuts off the first half of my name- so has this 'technology' really advanced modern mail? Let's put our energies into waterproof airports.)
"Violet Bodillo?" She asked [boredly], thus crushing my dreams of signing for a FedEx(!) package.
"Nope."
Raising an eyebrow she [boredly] repeated, "No?"
I assured her that, while I may have many names, Violet Bodillo (which, I'm sorry- is NOT even a real name) is not one of them.
Bored gave way to irate.
"4330 N. Troy?"
"4338."
She looked around angrily for the house numbers, which, believe it or not, had been attached to our brick wall weeks before. (Side note- Peej. Apparently our numbers are missing.)
"Sorry," I lamely apologized. "It's a foreclosure."
She did not accept, and instead marched down past my mailbox (which had the correct numbers AND non-Violet Bodillo-names on it- plus, I'm sorry, we're still between 4336 and 4340 which are labeled largely. 4330? I feel no sympathy) without so much as a howdy-do.
I think a howdy-do would've made that day so much better.
Later I picked (stole) some plum tomatoes and carrots from my previous garden. My rationale was that I had planted them, it wasn't MY fault that the wonky weather had made it a late season, and besides, they wouldn't have survived the transplant. I was doing everyone a favor, see?
The only trouble was that I happened to glance into the back window where my office used to be- and it was full of dolls and toys for the new little girl who lived there. (Or, let's be honest, another 29-year old who cannot let go of possessions.) This sight filled me with so much sadness that I had to go to the Taco & Burrito King on Addison and Western to drown my sorrows in a small horchata and some nachos. (To be fair, I was also waiting to pick up my mother-in-law at the Enterprise so it wasn't just a binge. It was a 'killing time' kinda...binge.)
However, the nachos- which had one purpose in life then and there, to make everything OKAY- were stale. And soggy. Yes, stale AND soggy.
I am not ashamed to admit that I cried. Yep, I sat there in the parking lot of the Enterprise, amidst people who had trouble parking compact cars in diagonal spaces and employees taking inappropriately loud cellphone breaks and cried. I don't know if it was the stress of the move, the renovations of the new house, the travel and visitors, the inability to finish up two plays before August 1st or simply the failure of my favorite comfort food.
I'm gonna go with the last option. And you hafta agree with me, folks, because remember- she's pregnant. And always right.
And maybe a smallish bit big. But not from nachos.
At least not that day.
Public service announcement aside, it was a lovely trip and party thrown by my sibs and mother, WAAAAY too short (all Massachusetts jaunts feel about five hours long these days) and complicated with rain delays at the airport. To paraphrase P.J., we've got centuries of advancements that can get hampered...by water droplets falling from the sky. Nice. My sciatic nerve thanks you, O'Hare.
In other news, our doorbell still doesn't "ring" the way it's "supposed to." (It's in a pile on the kitchen counter called P.J., CAN YOU FIX THIS TONIGHT? (Marriage is fun.) This lack of doorbell was made quite clear the other day when the FedEx gal came to our door with a package needing signing. (Two things: WOW! A FedEX package? This NEVER happens. And secondly, I was upstairs in the master bedroom, where apparently one can hear door pounding through the FLOOR'S VIBRATION. Awesome and kinda not-so-awesome.) Regardless, sensitive soul that I am, I heeded the door pounding and found a bored looking FedEX employee waiting to thrust one of those electronic signing devices in my hands (that never looks like my signature anyhow and cuts off the first half of my name- so has this 'technology' really advanced modern mail? Let's put our energies into waterproof airports.)
"Violet Bodillo?" She asked [boredly], thus crushing my dreams of signing for a FedEx(!) package.
"Nope."
Raising an eyebrow she [boredly] repeated, "No?"
I assured her that, while I may have many names, Violet Bodillo (which, I'm sorry- is NOT even a real name) is not one of them.
Bored gave way to irate.
"4330 N. Troy?"
"4338."
She looked around angrily for the house numbers, which, believe it or not, had been attached to our brick wall weeks before. (Side note- Peej. Apparently our numbers are missing.)
"Sorry," I lamely apologized. "It's a foreclosure."
She did not accept, and instead marched down past my mailbox (which had the correct numbers AND non-Violet Bodillo-names on it- plus, I'm sorry, we're still between 4336 and 4340 which are labeled largely. 4330? I feel no sympathy) without so much as a howdy-do.
I think a howdy-do would've made that day so much better.
Later I picked (stole) some plum tomatoes and carrots from my previous garden. My rationale was that I had planted them, it wasn't MY fault that the wonky weather had made it a late season, and besides, they wouldn't have survived the transplant. I was doing everyone a favor, see?
The only trouble was that I happened to glance into the back window where my office used to be- and it was full of dolls and toys for the new little girl who lived there. (Or, let's be honest, another 29-year old who cannot let go of possessions.) This sight filled me with so much sadness that I had to go to the Taco & Burrito King on Addison and Western to drown my sorrows in a small horchata and some nachos. (To be fair, I was also waiting to pick up my mother-in-law at the Enterprise so it wasn't just a binge. It was a 'killing time' kinda...binge.)
However, the nachos- which had one purpose in life then and there, to make everything OKAY- were stale. And soggy. Yes, stale AND soggy.
I am not ashamed to admit that I cried. Yep, I sat there in the parking lot of the Enterprise, amidst people who had trouble parking compact cars in diagonal spaces and employees taking inappropriately loud cellphone breaks and cried. I don't know if it was the stress of the move, the renovations of the new house, the travel and visitors, the inability to finish up two plays before August 1st or simply the failure of my favorite comfort food.
I'm gonna go with the last option. And you hafta agree with me, folks, because remember- she's pregnant. And always right.
And maybe a smallish bit big. But not from nachos.
At least not that day.
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