a bunchload of nothing

click to make bigger (the image, not my belly)

With only seven weeks to go, I find myself taking note of the 'last times' of even the most mundane activities, which with my exciting life, mostly revolves around shopping. Not shoe shopping either which, rats. Grocery shopping, which isn't technically a thrilling activity, but referring back to my exciting life, kind of is. (It gets me out the house, just like clubbing or party hopping would, but without the headfuck of shattering the dreams of the nineteen year old hell bent on picking his first older woman who he hopes can teach him 'things' (which obviously don't involve punctuation) ) Then there's ducking out to pick up a DVD. That'll never be the same either, nor will jumping in the car to take a quick trip to the beach to go for a walk.

Actually, even without packing the kid, the diaper bag, the sunscreen, the sunshades, the stroller, the sling, the god knows what else you need to go with a baby and the beach, those trips have changed already. The getting there is fine, and the packing is minimal. It's finding the appropriate attire that's presenting a problem because, for whatever reason, I feel almost pornographic, what with my rounded belly and all. Fortunately, I've been able to work through my inhibitions by chanting silently to myself "I'll never see these people again..." even though I probably will, given that each year, I see the same people at the beach that I saw the year before.

Speaking of pornographic, I was talking to Andy the other day. He's one of the members at one of the gyms I work, and after my shift finished, we set about gabbing about this and that for a good half an hour at the reception desk. When his training partner came to find him, he looked at my expandified girth, then winked at me and said "of course, he's only chatting you up because he knows you put out". Bwah! (or is that another of those 'had to be there' type stories?)

Speaking of putting out (neat segue, eh?), there's your next argument toward having a partner present during the whole pregnancy gig. I don't want to go into too much detail, so I'll just refer back to the shoe analogy, which is to say, if your partner does nothing else useful throughout your pregnancy, at least he can help you put on your shoes, except that analogy isn't working. How about this one? Pregnant, raging libido, aaaaaaargh.

Capiche?

At 33 weeks, I'm could hardly be described as sex-kitten-esque. I'm bordering on half-a-cow-esque actually, so if someone could inform my hormones of that fact, I'd be right appreciative, thankyou.

Actually, I had sex a couple of weeks ago. Bad sex, granted, but sex nonetheless (and if you ever needed one, there's your argument toward staying on good terms with your ex)(oh, and it wasn't Stef, because duh, we're not on good terms)(and aren't I the brazen hussy?), which given the state of NotGettingIttiness around here these past months, almost made it good sex-which brings me to the next bit of Way Too Much Information, but someone needs to say it because if I knew it earlier, I wouldn't have worried so much about being a freak now, and all you wimmen folk who have already had children, why didn't you warn me?!

I'm talking about undercarriages and changes in geographical formations, and that's all I have to say on that matter.

In totally unrelated news, my friend Ian, who I've known for like, fucking ever, volunteered to fix the holes in the ceiling in what is to become the baby's room. So last week, he came, he plastered (he left globs of plaster all over the house and random muddy foot rpints all over the floor) (honestly, this guy is a regular PigPen. I have no idea where he finds it, but whenever he visits, he always finds mud to traipse through my house) then he left. This week, he came, he neglected to shut the spare room door, then he sanded the living crap out of the dry plaster. Think white cloud, think all over the house. Think *banging head against (dusty) wall* I had to vacuuum the thick layer of dust off the vacuuum cleaner before I could use it to vacuum the thick layer of dust that covered my whole house. I've yet to vacuum the spare room, it being ground zero and all, so it still looks like a Christmas card in there, but without the sleighbells.

Which leds me to paint. Do we have any opinons?

The room was supposed to be painted a million years ago by my friend Dave, who I've also known for fucking ever (as an aside and to clarify, neither of these men are my exes, thankyou) and who volunteered to use his day off to revisit his old life as a painter and decorator. The logistics failed (read: while we've never had an affair, he's onto insanely jealous wife version 2 who, like ijw v1, has no idea Dave and I even know each other, so when his wife asked him to do some other shit on his day off, he couldn't say 'I'm painting aibee's house'. I've known him longer than both ijw v1 and 2, so as another aside, why do people confuse insane jealousy with love?) and Dave never made it.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, the spare room, in its pre white dust glory days:

That clean spot in the middle? Is for the baby.

Most of all, this entry comes care of the assessment I have on Tuesday, that I should be writing up today. Instead, I'm honing my avoidant personality skilz and am rambling on about this and that and other assorted stuff that the internet probably wishes it didn't know.