Because I am suddenly and totally addicted to LA Ink. Man do I ever want another tattoo. It’s killing me almost as much as the desire for salmon sashimi and a Hoegaarden and prosciutto and the fact that we are no closer to having a name for this child than we were 6 months ago. My grandmother has suggested Mansfield. The FIL has popped out with Ashford Jerome (he’s the only one who is kidding, BTW.) The MIL? Intimated we might want to name the kid after either Paul McCartney or Bruce Springsteen (no offense to Springsteen/McCartney fans, but are you kidding me?) Lucy now wants to name him Luca. This is how bad it’s gotten. We’re rapidly approaching desperation.
I woke up this morning in absolutely excruciating pain. Had to try to propel my bigness onto my left side because of leg cramps, and was about halfway there when I realized that I might be stuck in this position forever. There were tears. I don’t know what I’m going to do about farm share next week. It may just be too far for me to walk without destroying my hips and pelvis. I seem to be better now that I’ve gotten up, though, so we’ll see. I was thrilled beyond expectation to get the food, and joyously washed and prepped the leafies for a ready-made salad immediately after we got home. The pumpkin is on the dining room tableau, and, for once, we do not have a single expired fruit/veg in the refrigerator. However, I’m hoping Lucy develops a sudden love for plums because we have a crapload and I hate the things.
Crunchy Chicken has been going through a beyond-incredibly-difficult time lately, so I’ve kind of given the whole blogging about how I wipe my arse thing a rest, but I wanted to do a proper wrap-up of the Cloth TP Challenge just so there aren’t any loose ends, so to speak. Don’t worry, this will be brief because nothing much has changed. I am still using the toilet cloth, at least part of the time. I have two varieties–the cut-up washcloths which need stitched but are far more comfy, and the cut-up pillowcases which do not fray but are not as decadent. I far prefer the former, but due to constraints on storage and the fact that I spend most of my day in the bathroom, keep running out before I get down to the laundry to get ’em washed (in addition to the fraying issue, which is mostly just a pain in the ass when it comes to picking little strings off of whatever I wash them with.) I do plan on continuing and eventually getting to the point where I am using TC consistently, but at this stage of pregnancy I just have to cheat with TP sometimes. I was going to start Lucy as well, but getting massively behind on laundry put the kibosh on that. Baby steps, so to speak. I do, overall, find TC more comfortable and really not a huge commitment in the grand scheme of things. I do think that this final month of pregnancy is making everything seem like a far bigger deal than it actually is, and I’m trying to be more mindful of that so as to keep from throwing the proverbial baby out with the bath water (in this case would it be bath water out with the baby?)
The Salvation Army is due today to pick up the mountain of stuff in the foyer and I cannot wait. We ended up with 8 boxes, 7 bags and a suitcase full of stuff (not counting the linens and bottlefeeding stuff they won’t take which I’ll have to Freecycle before too long.) I couldn’t be happier to get this crap out of here. I pulled it all out of my closet last night and, miracle of miracles, could walk into my walk-in closet*! It was a beautiful experience. Once I get the Freecycle stuff out of here, I’ll have even more space! I love space!
What, did you think I was going to talk about my feelings? Wait, I got one. Last night my husband stopped at the grocery store on his way home from class to pick up milk and walked through the front door carrying…one of the reusable bags I bought him to keep in his bag! No plastic bags entered this home yesterday for the first time in I don’t know how long. That, my friends, made me as melty as if he came home with a dozen damn roses.
*this sounds so decadent, doesn’t it? It is unfortunate to note that ‘my walk-in closet’ is code for the place where I hang my clothes which also houses old baby toys Lucy has outgrown, pictures we have no place to hang right now, previous years’ filing, C’s train board games, and pretty much anything else I need to keep away from kid or cat. It’s like one rack of my stuff and then a shitload of overflow. If anyone ever asks you what to get me, it’s one of those glorious custom designed built-in closet systems and a spouse/child who can bear to part with old belongings.