moving day...

Yes. We found a place.

It's so sad to pack up the old blue and grey mac. For weeks perhaps, since we found our new place only yesterday, and haven't had a chance to turn off/on services like the internets. Our hope is G's laptop will pick up a neighbor's wifi. There's a Starbucks on the corner, they have the internets, I hear.

So until, until.

Thanks for all the house hunting mojo. It worked quite well.

Is that a light I see? Or am I about to faint?

Our troubles will resolve themeslves, one way or the other, by the weekend. And that's a good thing if you look at it the right way. Let me know how to do that if you know. Looking at things the 'right' way, I mean.

So until I have a second to reflect and share, I'll leave you with this: Two solid weeks of real estate brokers, rental agents, and their cohorts and minons is a level of Hell Dante himself couldn't have imagined. Even if he'd missed the announcement and ate a whole fucking sheet of the brown acid, as it were.

No phone, no pool, no pets. I ain't got no cigarettes.

Yeah, quiet. I know. But see, we're about a week away from being homeless, and all the "What the fuck are we gonna do?"'s is taking up the time we'd normally spend blogging. And then there's the trying to get anything in between the sobs, which is hard.

So. Until...soon.

The backstory: Part one

So I woke up at four in the morning for no apparent reason one day back in February. No loud noise, no bad dream, G wasn't snoring, the dog hadn't barked. Just sat up in bed and gazed into the dark and listened to a quiet little voice whisper, "Girl, you are SO pregnant" inside my head.

I didn't go to bed worried about being pregnant. I wasn't 'late' yet, we hadn't had a big, memorable contraception ut-oh or drunken whoops lately. But apparently something found it necessary to drag my ass out of a sound sleep to tell me lies. There was no going back to sleep afterward, certainly. Not with the voice. I remembered we had a pregnancy test laying around somewhere, the second of a two-pack from ages ago when I had been a few days late. My plan: I'd get up, take the test, it'd be negative (like last time), I'd laugh at my neurotic night terror self and then down a few celebratory/sleep inducing fingers of red wine and go back to bed. In five minutes life would return to normal. G and I would laugh about it over breakfast, which--to cure the near-miss shit-scareds--would be whiskey and cigarettes.

Instead, five minutes later I was online looking up accuracy statistics for the brand of test I had used, since the one reading positive in the bathroom was obviously faulty or had expired. G woke for work, I handed him the test, we did the "is this?" "yep" "this means you're..." "uh-huh," and then he retraced my steps online for another hour or so. Because there was no doubt the test was wrong. The only way to be sure, however, was to run to the store for another test, which we did, which was also positive, like we knew it would be.

99% accurate times two, eight am.

It's been pretty quiet around here, I know. It's just that I've been preoccupied with my new full-time job, being a crazy pregnant lady, and can never get a whole thought down before bodily calamity steps in and makes it impossible. Just one of the billions of things no one tells you about pregnancy. Well, they tell you, they hint. Kinda like your dentist saying, "You may feel a slight pinch..." a few seconds before he jabs a four foot needle in your soft palate and you literally lose your sight from the pain. The baby books glibly refer to things like "morning sickness" and "slight cramping" and "gas and bloating." What they don't say is passing that gas will be a painful all-morning endeavor and you'll need a three hour nap to recuperate. One tends to lose their train of bloggy thought after such a trial.

So yeah. Preggers. Me. The ignominy. I'd thought long and hard about whether or not I would talk about it here because let's be frank...God love all the breeders of the world, but seriously, no one except grandma-to-be wants to hear about your body functions for nine months, the grizzly details of each doctor visit, see pictures of your reproductive organs and be forced to endure an account (or good grief! actual footage!) of your labor and delivery. And they don't want a minute by minute update of what the little munchkin is doing after it's born either. They're just not that into you. Or your baby. Call grandma.

But then there's those damn billions of things no one talks about. I've spent the past three months looking for a single resource on pregnancy written for woman who haven't spent every waking moment since their own birth planning on having a baby, and you know what? They don't exist. Most of the literature and information out there not only pre-supposes that your heterosexual and married, but start from the assumption that you actually wanted to get pregnant in the first place. That you've been trying to conceive. Like on purpose. It's been your life's goal. And your delighted. What about the rest of us? The one's who weren't trying, who didn't know for weeks? Whose first response to the positive test result was not "Yippie! I'm pregnant!" but "OH FUCK I'M PREGNANT!" What about the long weeks of decision making and worry and, dare we speak of it? deep depression?

I'd though of writing such a book myself, something like, "The Guide to a Courtney Love Pregnancy," or, "Whoops!" but then I'd have to not only eat crow about my lifelong zero-population pushing and constant declarations that I would never, ever 'make' a baby, but would also have to take back all the mean things I've said about hack bloggers who think they can parlay their talentless drivel into a book deal. Cuz I'm not taking any of that back.

The good news is that I've crossed over into the delighted camp during this recent quiet time. The bad news is that I'm going to blather on about being pregnant from here on out, most likely.

Fucking weather pigeons indeed.

"Psycho Spring." I said aloud to a passing man who, like me, was dressed for the near seventy degree temps of yesterday instead of for today's snowstorm, and who, like me, was visually displeased about it.

"No global warming my ASS." He answered buttoning up his coat, retrieving a wooly hat from an inner pocket. We were simpatico.

"Well don't put your summer stuff away yet, it'll probably be eighty tomorrow." I said sourly as we passed each other.

"No shit! Probably will be." he called back, adding, "Fucking pigeons, fucking weather pigeons! I gotta go to court. That bitch be after my car."

With that, we parted ways.