Weekends

Adam just did a rather becoming (and eerily accurate!) reenactment of the Many Personalities of Jonna’s Pregnancy. I get the sense, however comical, that I’ve been a little bit of a challenge, and I can’t say I disagree. Up! Down! Morose! Serious! Wait, what do you mean? I AM PERKY, GODDAMMIT. I have a sense of humor about myself one minute and I SO DO NOT FIND IT FUNNY MISTER, I AM YOUR WIFE, the next.

I gotta say, even at my most irrational, I feel for the guy. I am not a joyful, mellow, even-keeled pregnant lady, I’m just NOT. I’ve totally done what Emily talks about here and had one of those insane pregnancy meltdowns wherein I ask him repeatedly if he still loves me and spend far too much time wondering if he’s secretly plotting divorce. And worse? I can’t say I’d blame him if he were, although he isn’t. (OR IS HE OMG WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITHOUT HIM DON’T LEAVE ME.)

Of course, I feel better five whole minutes later and can’t remember what I was so upset about mere moments before. Do you want to come visit? Hang out? I can promise it won’t be boring!

(For the record, no matter how deep the moody trough, I usually end up finding it all very funny. Because it is, in that ridiculous, irrational, hormonal way.)

Anyway, it was a good weekend, mood swings aside, and one of the things about our new home that I failed to mention is OMG IT HAS A DISHWASHER. I realize this is a luxury that many of you take for granted — and one short year ago, I was among you — but for those of us who haven’t had one for ages or, in many cases, ever, it is a MODERN MARVEL. This machine! It washes dishes FOR YOU, cutting cleanup time in HALF. HALF. And it sanitizes them! And look! YOU MERELY LOAD IT AND WALK AWAY.

I don’t think my awe at this miraculous machine can be overstated. Seriously.

And finally, since I’m exhausted and hungry and anxiously awaiting the next hormonal dip, three things of no particular consequence or relationship:

– Miley Cyrus. If my daughter were beyond the fetus stage at this point, I would be VERY WARY of allowing any Hannah Montana anything into her life and our house, because, uh, holy inappropriate, Miley? SHE IS SIXTEEN. AND GYRATING ALL UP IN THIS PIECE ON THE AMAs OMG. And dating a 20-year-old. And I’m old and a total fuddy duddy and am one step away from forcing my daughter into becoming the spokesperson for modesty wear. It’s all about the high necks, my friends!

(Beyonce, however? SO HOT. Dude, I’d hit that. Is there anyone who wouldn’t, male or female? Seriously?)

– I can’t believe I have to wait until Jan. 21 for Lost. There are fewer greater pop culture injustices in this world, other than the cancellation of Eli Stone, Pushing Daisies and Dirty Sexy Money, because now we will NEVER KNOW who killed Dutch George. Ever. UP YOURS, ABC. ALL AROUND.

– It’s pickled carrot time, now that I’m back into brined items again, and if you haven’t tried them before, I urge you to do so. So easy! So briny and delicious! SO CARROTY.

Happy Monday!

*The Perishers. Sent to me sometime ago by my friend TwoBusy.

26 comments November 23rd, 2008