honestly, miss manners doesn't have this stuff.
You remember to pay your rent, right? You bathe, you stop at stoplights, you go to the dentist, you file your tax return more or less on time? Sorry, but if this is your major problem, you haven't been getting in enough trouble.
I am so out of it, I haven't the slightest idea what's going on out there in the world.
I do know I'm a Diarist.Net Legacy Award Site Award Finalist. Vote early, vote often. (Well, if you also have an online journal.)
Basically, this baby can never be born. The house won't be ready.
On Saturday Carole and I went out to look for blinds for the baby's room. I discovered there is a wealth of window dressing opportunities out there, beyond the flimsy metal blinds I'm used to. The best ones were fabric blinds that are white on the side facing the street and any color you want on the inside, so sunlight filtering through the blind colors the room.
I'm thinking a light pink would be nice--not 'cause it's a girl, but because it would be a soothing color for Mommy as she stretches out next to the baby and begs it to stop crying. (I've been feeling like crying a lot lately. Mostly because my house is such a wasteland and the baby will crawl into a pile of stuff and we'll never be able to find her and I already know I'm going to end up on the FBI's Worst Parents of the Year list.)
I've made a list of some other major things that need to be done around here. How does one get rid of furniture? Is donating it to a charitable organization really the best solution? (I suppose we can't have too many tax deductions.)
In the past two weeks, my stomach has doubled in size. Darin enjoys patting it. He also enjoys pointing it out to people. Today's tip, for all you guys out there: Don't point out the size of her stomach unless she's also pointing out the size of her stomach. Otherwise you will have a grumpy female on your hands. This has been a public service announcement.
I mean, I guess I should be happy--I'm at six months and most people would probably still hesitate before asking me, "Are you pregnant?" But it's hard dealing with the fact that my body is doing its own thing. I'm entering the realm of "You don't exist anymore, except as a vehicle for your co-pilot" and "No one is interested in you, only in what you're making."
On Wednesday Mary came over with Grace and we went for a walk along Ventura. I discovered that there are more baby stuff resale shops than I was aware of. There is so much baby stuff. It's overwhelming. It's downright terrifying.
Mary told me the key to finding baby clothes and accessories is to hit the garage sales in the Hollywood Hills behind our house. They found a high chair for 10 bucks. Baby caps for 10 cents. They set out early in the morning and just drive around looking for sales. There's so much disposable income in this area that new parents stock up on stuff for their tot and then when they don't need it anymore practically give it away.
Of course, this is probably true with non-baby stuff too. I guess Darin and I could have a yard sale with all the junk we have to get rid of, but it's just easier and less time-consuming to simply call up Goodwill, have them haul it away, and take a tax deduction at the same time.
Today's other tip: drive to affluent areas and visit garage sales.
Last night's X-Files premiere redefined annoying. Even more so than last year's premiere. Honest to God, any episode that Chris Carter writes is a waste of great cinematography and an hour of my life. I swear to you this happened: the episode started, once again, with Scully doing narration, and both Darin and I said, "Oh God no!"
However, last night's Futurama, or at least half of it, was hysterical. Definitely the funniest that show's ever been. I've been lukewarm on it, but I'm a much bigger fan now.
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Copyright 1999 Diane Patterson
Send comments and questions to diane@spies.com