White Cloth Napkins

Jean Barton: Road rage story; beef research

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Something Different « NoemiCan

I was going to entitle this post “Forty-Tw… Just Kidding” but then I thought you might think I was just kidding about being 42 weeks pregnant, which I most certainly am not (or at least, I won’t be tomorrow, when I am officially 42 weeks, but at this point, who’s fucking counting).  No, no, I am still pregnant, and you can just imagine me over here, flailing my arms and gnashing my teeth in frustration, because I am running out of novel ways to complain about not being able to touch my toes, or bend over in any way.

No, I thought I’d try writing about something else entirely, which is the sort of technique I employ on the cats sometimes, when they are outside, and I want them inside… I open the door wide and studiously ignore them, hoping to trick them into thinking I couldn’t care less where they are, inside or outside or hanging by their collars from a fence somewhere, and sometimes it works- they come running in like I’ve hidden a mountain of catnip in the closet, or I’ve laid a filet of king salmon on the floor.

So, fetus, this is my metaphorical filet of salmon post, where I attempt to trick you into thinking I don’t care whether you stay in or come out.  Although by telling you, I have tipped my hand considerably, but you’re still inside… maybe you haven’t had the internet installed in there yet?

The question, of course, is what else to write about, since I am operating at about 10% brain capacity right now, the remaining 90% being mostly involved in the aforementioned gnashing of teeth, and plus I have done DICK-ALL since my due date, you know, since I did it all BEFORE, like sensible people do.  We’ve done some lovely day trips around Long Beach in an effort to vary the scenery, but I didn’t take any pictures, so that makes for a pretty boring travelogue.

So I’ll tell you this story, and then you can tell me your stories, and I’ll be distracted and entertained for at least the time it takes to read comments, and that’ll help.  So, the other night, J and I put on clean and relatively well-fitting clothes (well, for me anyways, since this bump precludes much of anything being actually FLATTERING), and went to a local fancy hotel restaurant for dinner.  This hotel is one of those modern boutique-y hotels (although apparently has been purchased by Hilton, but is trying to maintain that independent, hip vibe), and its restaurant is pretty fucking good for a hotel restaurant, and they certainly advertise it as such- upscale waterfront dining, fusion Mexican food with fresh, local ingredients, you get the idea.

Separate tables, two plays

A history of agriculture and prices in England, from ... 1259 to ... 1793. 7 vols. [in 8 pt. Vol. 7 is ed. by A.G.L. Rogers].

The Lutheran cyclopedia

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