Like a Badword


Today I had jury duty and completely forgot all about it. COMPLETELY. I have been looking at the slip of paper for over a week, which is sitting on my computer desk as a reminder to NOT FORGET to call and let them know that I’m not coming, they can’t make me, so THERE. Though I must admit, I feel the need to confess. A little part of me was actually kind of intrigued by it all. They want me? ME? I must be special or something. Maybe it would be a big interesting murder trial or something. While I realize that it’s not very nice to fantasize about a person being murdered and the need of a murder trial to inject a bit of interest into my boring life, I can’t say that I didn’t have a moment or two where I actually considered doing everything within my power to ditch the kidlets with an unsuspecting relative in order to fulfill my civic duty. (Award for best run-on sentence ever goes to… (wait for it)… ME!)

I was reminded that I had somewhere to be as I talked on the phone with a friend of mine, and she said something about a county clerk (some sort of clerk, I don’t know) in a book she’s reading. Clerk? Jury DUTY! Expletive, expletive! Then I got off of the phone and called the court, where I sat on hold for no less than twenty minutes before my phone abruptly hung up. Needs charging, read the caller-id. Niiiice. I’m going to go TO JAIL to be beaten with sticks because you are a needy shithead who needs to be charged CONSTANTLY, lest you just give up and die. Hate, hate, red-hot HATE you, cheap stupid VTech phone.

So I haven’t talked to anyone from the court yet, and I honestly don’t know what to do. Call and beg? Be honest and tell them that I read the paper extensively doing the one-eyed mom speed-read? Feed them my excuses? Plead for a break because MY KIDS, they make me insane and my HUSBAND, he worked every day last week except Sunday and it’s his fault I don’t know what day it is and my PHONE, wouldn’t let me call if I even really, really wanted to? Blech. Blah. Wretch. Help?

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As my due date draws closer and closer, I get more and more determined to clean everything we have ever owned, organize it, and then sit down and bemoan the fact that I had to DO something, my GAWD. I am pregnant and should be laying down with a layer cake right now. Today I decided I should get out all the Big Stuff and make it shiny and clean. BIG MISTAKE. Not only do I have a newfound loathing for my husband, but I also had to vanquish an unusually large, unusually hardy spider that had taken up residence in the baby swing. I tried spraying it with bathroom cleaner, because I know I would die if I was in a pool of bleach and other various stinky chemicals. It curled up and felt sorry for itself for a minute, then marched out of the cleanser puddle as if nothing had happened. So I plucked up some courage and let Mr. Spider meet the underside of Mr. Shoe. Then threw the shoe onto the back porch for good measure. Can you tell I have a slight spider phobia?

I collected the baby gear from the garage and dragged it into the house, toddler in tow. Curious about everything, and she probably didn’t understand why I kept telling her NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING, ew DIRTY. The only thing I couldn’t find was the infant car seat. Which? GREAT. I sort of (really) need that. I found it mocking me from the recesses of the over-stuffed under-the-stairs closet. Superb.

I also decided that I needed my maternity clothes out of the under-the-stairs closet, because dammit, I am 32 weeks pregnant and have been surviving with a remarkably small wardrobe thus far due to lack of husbandly willingness to unearth my maternity clothes. So I dug everything out of that closet, my maternity clothes are now in the washer, and the infant seat is ready for scouring. My dining room is also a horrible, terrible mess now, and my back hurts like a mother. Oh, the joys of pregnancy.

I’m nearing 31 weeks pregnant now, with so much to do that I can barely wrap my brain around the daunting list I’ve written out. It also doesn’t help that I keep thinking of things that need to be added to the list. You know, I think that it won’t hurt my feelings too badly to realize that while I would love to scour the stair rails before baby number two arrives, it’s really more important that I get that pedicure I keep fantasizing about. I mean, people are going to have to see my feet, and I don’t want that it’s winter, I’m pregnant, and I don’t remember what my feet even LOOK like thing going on. Because… eww. There are PLENTY of other less than savory things going on in a delivery room, I don’t need that ever so natural shade of I-stopped-caring nail polish to be one of them. Maybe it will make me feel more human and less aquatic mammalian. In any case, after nine months of gestation with one hell of a finale on the agenda, I think that (just maybe) I deserve it.

Especially after a string of recent events that makes me feel bitter, oh SO BITTER. Last weekend was Alaina’s second birthday party, which was mostly fun. The not so fun part was when I put Alaina down for her regular noon nap, before the party guests had arrived… well, all except the in-laws (dun dun dunnnn). I scheduled the party for noon, assuming people would be at least an hour or so late. Everyone was, except for my in-laws, who were right on time, and my sister-in-law and her boyfriend, who were damn near two hours late. Which, you know, was fine, considering that I had planned around all the late-comers. That is until I hear that mom-in-law and sis-in-law are having a shit-talking pow wow all hush-hush like in the room adjacent to the party. I’m upstairs, curling my hair and listening for an awake party girl, since she was due to wake up any minute. Why did she have us come if Alaina’s not even awake? You know? If it’s that big of a deal to be at your niece’s birthday party, don’t come. No big deal, because instead of enjoying your company, I was pissed at you. How can someone have the audacity to be almost TWO EFFING HOURS late to a party, and then think they have room to bitch? GAH. Thennnn mom-in-law comes upstairs to tell me that, you know, I should really wake up Alaina now because people are upset and saying that they’re going to have to leave soon. Which was a big fat lie. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell that woman that Laina is only two years old, she still really, really needs her nap, and she is a cranky devil child if I wake her up early. Then later that day, she let me know that I look so much cuter from the back than from the front. Wow. Thanks a BUNCH. If that woman gets any more tactful, I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself. Honestly, I’m not exactly exempt from having my foot in my mouth, but I don’t try to make people feel like crap about themselves. Ladies and gentlemen, Marie Barone is my mother-in-law.

Then? Andrew got sick. Closely followed by Alaina. For a minute, I thought I was going to get away without it, and then I would do some sort of goofy, triumphant I-got-a-flu-shot-aren’t-I-fabulous dance. So of course, I am now sick as a dog, praying I don’t get bronchitis because how much fun would THAT be?

To top off the best week ever, my car broke down today. It’s probably the starter. Wooooo.

Universe: 365168735139
Jennie: Goose Egg