I have The Sick. Oh, it's just a cold, but I'm in the final tired-all-the-time stages of pregnancy, and I can't just sleep whenever I feel like it. I wake up six times a night and spend so much time trying to get out of bed without having an accident (really, body, why can't you wake me up to use the restroom before the contraction starts?) that I'm wide awake by the time I get back.
Grace wakes up at 8:30 or 9 and needs love and attention, and I just lie on the living room floor, feeling guilty and wishing she'd just COME over HERE, already, if she wants me to read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? for the 46th time that day (who says stay-at-home-motherhood isn't intellectually stimulating? I have memorized no less than 14 books, cover to cover, and I've gotten waaay better at imitating animal noises, especially the sheep; my sheep is masterful). I have also developed a cough, which was to be expected. I get these nasty seal-bark coughs near the end of every cold. The last one only stuck around for a couple of days, but usually they stay for weeks. Goody!
James and I had a babysitter on Saturday. A nice couple from church came over and watched us while The Child went out boozing.
Actually, James and I went to dinner and a movie. In a freakish turn of good luck, Grace didn't even peep when we walked out the door. This is odd because when she's left with more familiar people, she screams like they're attempting to decapitate her with a dull steak knife (ten minutes after we leave, of course, she's completely forgotten she even has parents). Unfortunately, this does not mean she is finally letting go of her separation anxiety; on Monday my mom came to babysit, and The Child began freaking out before I'd even left. Good times!
So, we were going to see Sherlock Holmes. I can't stand Jude Law (I used to think he was gorgeous, but now he just grosses me out), but since Iron Man my affection for Robert Downey Jr. overshadows just about any objections I might have to his costars.
Well, we got there only to find that either the website had the movie times wrong, or James had read a "6" where there was really a "7." Our babysitters are very nice people, but we didn't they'd appreciate us showing up at 10 when we told them we'd be back around 9.
So we saw The Book of Eli instead. Still not sure what I think of it. It definitely wasn't what I expected. I think I liked it, but I'm not sure. My love for Denzel Washington and movies about the end of civilization may be coloring my opinion. I think I could watch Denzel Washington stare into a styrofoam cup for two hours straight. Anyway, if you're thinking of going to see that movie, it's not really the action-packed adventure it appears to be, and it's really violent in parts (not graphic or gory, which I hate). Just so you know.
The whole point of this post is to complain about my fellow moviegoers.
First, popcorn. I'm assuming all the popcorn is edible, so what is wrong with just taking one or two pieces off the top at a time. What compels people to DIGDIGDIGDIGDIG? Are they rats? Or puppies? And it's always during the heavy, thoughtful, quiet moments of the movie that this happens. I know this because I watch people. They sit, slack-jawed during the noisy parts, and then the minute dialogue starts again, they dive their fists into the popcorn bin with such eagerness that I assume they're trying to make up for the eating time they lost during the action.
(don't get me started on candy wrappers and boxes)
Then, the people who arrive late. I sit near the end of the aisle because I can count on one hand the number of times I've made it through an entire movie without getting up to go to the bathroom at least once. When the seats are filling up, I do understand that I'll have to pay for my choice to sit on the end. But a couple of guys arrived several minutes late at a kind of crucial point in the movie, and choose our row to sit in the middle when there were, oh, 35 others completely empty.
And THEN! Ten minutes later, a lady arrived with all their snacks. Two crinkly bags of popcorn and 43 crinkly candy boxes. She stood in front of their row to hand them off, then came around and climbed over us, AGAIN at a kind of crucial point. This would have been annoying enough if I were actually able to stand up and allow them to go past quickly. But I'm as big around as a yoga ball these days, and even if I could get up out of my seat quickly, standing up wouldn't help at all; they'd probably bounce off me and go hurtling down and over the seat in front of me.
On second thought...
Does anyone else get terribly dry skin during pregnancy? I'm not talking just itchy, dry skin. This is... weird. Freakish. Like, I think I belong in a circus. Most winters I get scaly skin, but if I exfoliate and drink lots of water and apply lotion every morning and evening, it's not so bad.
Well, this winter it's like I'm metamorphosing into Godzilla. The worst part is that I can't shave my legs in the condition they're in. And we're almost to that most delightful part of pregnancy: the weekly pelvic exam. Also known as Super Awesome Fun Time.
I know my OBs have seen in all. They probably don't even notice grotesqueries that I can't even imagine. This is totally my hangup.
But I must go to my appointments with shaved legs. This is very important to me. Because the first thing someone will notice when faced with a reptilian leg is the tiny hairs sprouting out of it.
(I did ask my OB about it at my last appointment. I was a little embarrassed; I mean, he's not a dermatologist, and seriously? dry skin? Should we call the waaaaambulance? But I think he's had this question before because he suggested some lotion with lactic acid in it. Now I just have to find the stuff.)
I got a bonus ultrasound at my last visit. High amniotic fluid. Well, it was normal this time, and she is no longer breech! Goody! Not goody: the hour every day she spends burrowing her way toward my toes.
I'd also lost a pound, so I decided to stop at McDonald's for a cheeseburger on the way home. Shut up. I did it for the baby.
The guy who took my order was really cheerful. And super nice about me delivering my order in a very confusing manner. When I pulled up to the window, I saw that he was very good-looking. Like a 17-year-old version of this guy, minus the gigantic earring:
He sincerely wished me a nice day. And smiled.
Then I got to the window to get my food, and there was another one! Cheerful! Good-looking! He, too, looked like some kind of famous person, but I can't remember who.
I had to pull ahead to wait for my fries (which were so hot they burnt my fingers, and I almost injured myself trying to snarf them down fast enough), and the girl who brought them out looked like this:
She thanked me for waited. And there was more smiling.
It was eerie.
Don't take this the wrong way. I worked food service a long time. I hated the assumption that just because I worked a job that didn't require an education, I must be surly and unhappy. But this was like Stepford.
They did forget my straw. So there is that. But I think that might have been done intentionally, just so I wouldn't suspect anything.