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Elvis the Robocat!


Heartburn and reflux and acid indigestion;
Sneezing and snoring and nasal congestion;
Tucks medicated pads for certain...things;
These are some joys my pregnancy briiiiiings!

Wednesday, August 17, 2005


• Did you happen to catch the cringeworthy-yet-riveting Pamela Anderson roast on Comedy Central? First of all: Bea Arthur = genius. But jeeeeesus christ I had to cover my face each time Courtney Love lurched into frame. "I've been shober for a year!" she kept cawing, while staggering off stages and repeatedly yanking up her skirt to display her crotch. Mmm, trainwrecky celebrities. See also: Andy Dick.

• I just discovered, via Netflix's helpful "For Thu: your movie!" email notification, that my husband has rented this. In retaliation, I am totally going to force him to watch TiVo'd Maternity Ward episodes all weekend. The extra goopy ones with Trauma Happening To Massive Hairy Vaginas, even.

Hey, babe! Juliana Hatfield, bless her little indie heart, has a new album out.

• This Sunday will be the last Six Feet Under episode ever. O, the sorrow! I watched the 2001-2005 special the other night and it made me ridiculously sad that the show is coming to an end. Not that I wanted it to drag on into suckdom, but man, I will miss Sunday nights with the Fishers. Yes, I probably SHOULD get out more often, why do you ask?


Once upon a time, one of Workplace's benefits was a free housecleaning service every two weeks. All good things must come to an end, though, and eventually that perk was dissolved. I couldn't convince JB that we should pony up the cash ourselves, so that was the end of our happy relationship with Maid Brigade.

Well, as it turns out, I am a spectacularly shitty housekeeper. Over the months, our house has been slowly accumulating a patina of crud on its more easily-ignored surfaces, and recently the general grime started to completely freak me out. I started attacking things randomly: swiping the coating of dust from the base of toilets, spraying the tub with Scrubbing Bubbles, vacuuming giant drifts of pet fur from the kitchen floor. This behavior, being embarrassingly out of the norm for me, somewhat frightened JB.

"Are you nesting?" he asked nervously last week. "I don't know," I replied. "Why?" He spoke to me very gently, the way you do a small child or easily startled forest animal, "Babe, it's 11:30 at night, and you are on your hands and knees crawling around the living room with a spray can of Spot Magic." "There are stains," I moaned. "Staaaaaiiiiiiins."

"Hey," said JB slowly. "I have an idea. What say we pack that hospital bag - like, right fucking now?"

The next day, mid-Swiffering, it occurred to me that just like those makeup ad women, I was Worth It, so I called the housecleaners. They came by on Monday, and call it 'nesting', or call it 'a belated awareness of just what sort of filthy hovel I had allowed my house to become', I now have toilets you could eat out of, if you were some kind of reverse bulimic, and that makes me ridiculously happy. If I continue to experience bursts of OCD-like sanitation efforts ("must...clean....sink! it is the beating of his hideous heart!") between now and Riley's arrival, at least I'm starting with a, ha ha haaaa, clean slate.

In other news of self-indulgence, I decided I needed new pillowcases. Specifically, the satiny kind, because I reasoned that 1) they would be cooler at night and thus make a tiny contribution to my neverending quest for a decent night's sleep, and 2) they would be slippery, and therefore not get so tangled in the bedsheets when I heave my rotundity from one side to another.

Apparently, our collective national obsession with cotton thread count has made synthetic satin bed linens a thing of the past. Despite a thorough search in both Bed Bath & Beyond and Fred Meyer, all I could unearth pillowcase-wise was an unbelievably cheesy bright red pair marked 75% off, either designed for mustachioed wannabe porn stars, or excess inventory from Valentine's Day.

I have to say, I like the way those suckers feel, even if they would napalm to my face in the event of a housefire, but I was so humiliated by the prospect of the cleaning people seeing them, I slid them under the bed. Where they retrieved them and placed them lovingly on my bureau, along with, oh my god, oh my god, the product brochure for, a, um, "Liberator® Sex Wedge", which had been lying not-so-innocently under the bed as well.

Well, the house is clean, even if we, apparently, are not.


The Preggo page has been updated with a 35-week belly photo. Soon, I will require a wide angle lens.

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