The Chronicles Of Jessica

Paul and I have been in the new place for a while now and so far we are infinitely happier than we were in the rental-that-must-not-be-named. No one has burst in on us while we've been sleeping or naked, in fact, no one has burst in on us at all. The first week we had a problem with the dishwasher and the property manager said that he would come by with the handyman a couple of days later, at 10 am. Then do you know what happened? Go on, guess! He showed up! He showed up at the appointed time and fixed the problem! It was a modern day miracle, like seeing the Virgin Mary in a toaster strudel.

By law the lunatic former landlady had 45 days to return our security deposit to us on the old place, and we knew there was absolutely no point looking for it before then. Why would she return our money before she absolutely had to? That would display qualities like consideration and normalcy. So on day 47, of course, it hadn't shown up yet. I sent a very polite email inquiring as to the status, whereupon she informed me rather tersely that she had mailed it the day before, "right on time". Fine. A week later, still no check. At this point I'm wondering how many times I'd have to poop in a paper bag to generate an amount suitable for setting it aflame on her doorstep. Finally the check arrived, postmarked the day before, which was nearly a week after she said she'd sent it, but that was probably to be expected. She deducted $75 from the total for "cleaning", even though we had a professional cleaning service come in the day after we moved out, but that was probably also to be expected. And as Paul points out, $75 is a small price to pay for being rid of her forever. Forever! We never have to go there again, we never have to have anything to do with the building (unless you count giving it the finger when we drive by, which we've decided is theraputic and not childish. La la lalalalalala I can't hear youuuuuu!) We're done! We're free and clear.

Apart from that, a lot's happened since I last deigned to actually post something to the blog. Congress took up healthcare reform, the new Harry Potter movie came out, Michael Jackson died, and I got bangs! Oh, and I'm having a baby. I guess that's really the biggie. Since I'm pretty sure I'm already intimately familiar with all 12 of my readers, this probably does not come as really earth-shattering news to most of you. And rest assured, I have no intention of blogging about all the ins and outs of pregnancy and childbirth. There will be no breastfeeding "how to" posts or snapshots of my lady area with a child emerging from it. This I vow. Some of you may be wondering if it's a girl or a boy (it's a boy), or when the baby is coming (Thanksgiving), but for the most part, I'm going to try to resist boring the snot out of people by sharing a lot of gestationing details. If you wanted that stuff you'd be watching Jon and Kate Plus Hate or having your own damn babies, right? That's what I thought.

Although I suppose it's unrealistic to expect that it won't come up now and then. For instance, my doctor gave me these special prenatal vitamins that include an Omega 3 fish oil capsule. I think it's for brain growth and stuff like that, so I try to remember to take it, because that seems like it would be important. I mean if he'd given me a scrip for some pill that's supposed to improve the kid's video game skills or sharpen his sense of sarcasm, well, those seem rather negligible. (Besides this is half Paul's kid so those areas are probably pretty much covered.) Anyway, these pills are so icky they've become the bane of my existence. Usually about 15 minutes after I take one, I can count on a series of burps that are - just foul. It tastes as though I went to a local seafood eatery, dug through their garbage until I found a half-eaten day old bass, and then blended it with some Clamato to make a smoothie. Oh, it's horrid. I suppose this is just the beginning of the suffering I will endure for my unborn child. Believe me, I plan on cataloging it all so I don't have to make anything up for future guilt trips. "Oh you don't like the meatloaf Mommy made for supper? Let me just get out my file of index cards, Mr. Thought-it-was-such-fun-to-punch-me-in-the-bladder-for-3-straight-months."

A couple of weeks ago James and Christine were over and I took out my vitamin when I remembered to take it, but instead I was just sort of fidgeting with it, procrastinating, because I knew as soon as I took it I'd be Salmon McBurpy and that is so not hospitable when you have other people around. Long story short, it exploded in my face. Yes. I exploded a fish-oil capsule into my own face. It was as disgusting as you might imagine. It went into my hair, onto my clothes, and in my eyes. And Paul thought it was so ridiculous that he just sat there and laughed at me and didn't even get me a tissue. This prompted serious angry glares from me, and then glee, when I realized I could legitimately claim to be giving him the fish eye.

The Michael Jackson thing, well, that was a drag. He made a lot of terrific music. Then I read somewhere that the week he died something like 30% of american news coverage was devoted to him and....um....I think that's just stupid. I've grown increasingly hacked off with the news. As a people we are just disgustingly uninformed about world news and events, and it's embarassing, and the death of a celebrity doesn't warrant 1/3 of our news coverage for a DAY, let alone an entire week (even though I loved him and was a fan and sent him a get-well card when he was in the hospital after his hair caught fire when he was making that Pepsi commerical.)

At least they're not leaving us in suspense about this. A million dollars for the bones of the Elephant Man? I hope they would have come to him fully assembled, or at least with some sort of commemorative carrying case. Sheesh.