| ::: ::: ::: Journal entries: :::
::: Reading: Haunted, Chuck Palahniuk I didn't love this as much as, say, Fight Club, or Survivor, but if you missed the pool intake/colon story that appeared in Playboy a while back (what? It's a good magazine!), Haunted is worth your while for that little disgusting gem alone. What Was She Thinking? : Notes On A Scandal, Zoe Heller I just started this today and so far, it's damn near impossible to put down. Artifact:
More backyard birds - the fat, fluffy one on the right is a baby, apparently, because we watched it get fed time and time again by the tired-looking parent. Oh the joys we have to look forward to!
| Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Traveling by furniture dolly is sounding more and more like a solution for staying ambulatory lately, because over the last few days I've developed a worsening pain in the ass. No, really: it's a pain! In my ass! Technically, it's directly under my right butt cheek, and it zaps the living fuck out of me throughout the day when I stand up after sitting for a while, or sit down after standing for a while, or turn over in bed, or walk, or breathe, etfuckingcetera. My doctor suspects that my ballooning uterus is pressing on the sciatic nerve in my lower back. Apparently, for some people this happy condition can last UNTIL YOU GIVE BIRTH. Someone, I won't say who (hint: a certain husband who should know better than to freak my shit out, even if I do post embarrassing videos of him on the internet), told me about his coworker's wife who had to sleep in a recliner chair for the last 2 months of her pregnancy because it was the only position that offered any pain relief. Well, my uterus better step off the damn butt nerve, and soon, because we don't HAVE a Barcalounger. Also, if my sinues could unstuff just a little, so I could breathe without making a high-pitched whistle in my nostrils that scares neighborhood dogs? That'd be great too. Jesus, always yapping on and on about the pregnancy stuff. Let's wrap that up with a belly photo, what say.
(By the way, I've been wearing the same shirt and underwear in these photos just for comparison's sake. I mean, in case you were starting to get a little skeeved out, or something. And as a little product plug, may I recommend Victoria's Secret brand cotton boyshorts for all your midsection-expansion needs - so far, their stretching capacity shows no limits.) ::: JB's parents visited us this weekend, which for them now involves spending the night at a hotel since our guest bedroom has morphed into The Nursery (featuring this guy, who begs the question: friendly aquatic cephalopod? Or recently-burst-from-chest-cavity space creature? Choose your own adventure!). It made me feel a little like a crappy hostess, especially since they chose a nearby Econo Lodge (motto: "Less Bedspread Pubic Hairs Than Motel 6, Unless You Use a Magnifying Glass"), but there's not much I could do - well, other than sleep on the couch and offer up our bed. Which, ha ha ha HA HAR! We spent a lot of time running around trying to do Seattle-y things while staying ahead of the capricious weather - it's been perfectly schizophrenic lately (sun! rain! wind! swarm of locusts!) - and I'm glad that if I was going to succumb to a debilitating ass-nerve problem, it was after our busy weekend and not during. I wouldn't have received much sympathy, anyway, since JB was already filling in for the role of token invalid, having contracted a spectacular sort of cold that destroyed his larynx and made him sound like a dehydrated macaw. After a thwarted attempt at walking around Green Lake on Sunday (hail of toads), we decided to go to the top of the Space Needle, since JB's parents had never been. The 30-second elevator ride seemed enough to propel us out of the clouds and into a different sort of day - the view was sparkling, sunny and cold, the city spread out below us like something caught in a net and thrown. (I wished mightily for my camera, then decided I would settle for the ability to spit over the side, but alas, denied on both counts.) It was a good weekend, but I'm glad to have the house to ourselves again. Well, ourselves and the forty metric tons of fur Dog joyously released over the sheer pleasure of having other people pet her. I'd vacuum, but my ass! The pain therein! Really, I'm convinced the cure lies in ice cream. DO NOT JUDGE ME.
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