Everyone’s sleepy except the one who should be napping. “It’s NOT time to go to sleep,” she has declared.
I am on spring break. Aside from the money and the fame, spring break is one of the perks of being a teacher. I am holding myself back from sticking my head out of the car window and screaming, “Spring break! WHOOO HOOOO!” at all times, because Odie works in a different district, and his break is next week. The only spring break we’ve ever had together was last year when I wasn’t working. I feel that for his sake, I need to be subdued about my euphoria. But between you and me, I am so excited. And he gets to spend his spring break drunk, so fuck him.
Ahhhh, a week off right as the weather turns delightful, and my pregnancy enters its third trimester. V is still in day care this week, so I get to do things like spend the afternoon reading, get a pedicure, swim at the YMCA, and watch MY shows on TV instead of that same damn episode of “The Wonder Pets Save the Pigeon” over and over and over.
I’ve been reading Heather Armstrong’s first book, “It Sucked, and Then I Cried” on my Nook Color. The first few chapters I have read are about her pregnancy complaints. I know they are supposed to be funny, but I don’t have a ton of patience for people’s barf and poop stories. I understand the temptation to blog about one’s bowels, I do. My digestive travails are very much on the forefront of my mind these days. But I have never been one for scatological humor. Some people think poop is HILARIOUS, and I’m just not one of them. I guess that’s why she calls herself “Dooce.”
Pregnancy is a pain, however. And it’s tough not to complain. The last week, I have literally felt my pubic bone separating. No one has ever said, “Oooh, I want to know what that feels like!” Because you don’t. Neither do I. And while I think there can be cathartic release and perhaps even humor in the “pregnancy sucks” genre, I guess I’m just not in the mood. I’m kind of loving being pregnant, knowing it’s my last one. And as far as complaints go, mine are relatively few. Knock on wood.
I heard on the radio yesterday that close to half of women hate their Facebook friends, and one of the reasons is the endless status updates about and pictures of their damn kids. I’ll bet my Facebook friends hate me. Especially the ones who get drunk and take pictures of themselves making duck faces at the camera.
One of the drawbacks of writing a blog that my friends read is I can’t gossip about my friends. Not that I want to gossip about my good friends, but I have some acquaintances I’d like to gossip about and they may just one day stumble across my blog, and then it would be awkward. And if I’ve learned anything from Dooce, other than how often she poops in a given week, it’s that I should NEVER bitch about my bosses on my blog. Not that I would. I work for the most amazing people who have ever walked on water. And so good-looking, all of them. Just stunning.
Maybe I’ll save it for the book. Because the people I wish I could gossip about are the same ones who secretly hate me on Facebook, and they would never buy my book because of that whole secretly hating me thing.
But not YOU. I’m not talking about YOU. We’re cool, you and I.