I went to my fridge to-do list to see if there was anything I could do on it, but there isn't really. At least not at 3AM when I'm really tired but uncomfortable and my leg feels like somebody tried to break my shin in my sleep. Why does it hurt? I don't know.
There are about 9 million things on my "birthday list" on the fridge. It started as a birthday list, then became a wish list and now its down to little things that the house needs. You can see how I got less and less ambitious as the list goes on... It starts with normal, acceptable things like a waffle iron. How I'd love waffles. What lofty appliance attainment aspirations have I to celebrate the day of my birth. At the bottom of the list, I scribbled down shower curtain rings. How lame is that? Lets celebrate me being alive for 21 years by HOLDING UP MY SHOWER LINER PROPERLY! Rebellious. I guess if I really feel like treating myself I'll get a shower curtain too, but lets not get hasty here. I mean, I'm only turning 21, not like its the big 3-o or anything like that.
Since today was my due date everyone in the world called me. Which is nice, but I'm tired of people calling to say am I in labor already and why didn't I call and share the good news already don't you know I'm just anxiously waiting with my life on hold by the telephone here? I've been trying to tell everyone that I've still got forever to go, but apparently no one believed me. I ate Leanne Chin's with my friend Kari tonight and a lady in the restaurant said, "You won't go past tonight!" Thank you, lady, for effectively telling me that I look so huge and I waddle so much that surely there must be a baby's head in my crotch ready to fall out.
Well, I mean, there is but. Still. She didn't need to go around bringing that up. Especially not while I was trying to enjoy stale fortune cookie.
I'm glad that at least tonight is Friday so Jared doesn't have to get up early for school tomorrow. I guess school has started off well for him, but I don't usually hear much about his classes because they are always trumped in entertainment value by his stories about the 16 bus line. The 16 isn't the most savory of lines because it goes to the midtown area and thus attracts its share of weirdos and err... shall we say ethnic people. Today somebody tried to sell him drugs on the bus. Yesterday he was freaked out because he thinks a crack addicted prostitute accidentally bumped into him.
Now, while this very well could be true on the sixteen, it could also be a bit of an exaggeration. To me, Jared seems to think every person who looks in the least bit unkempt and/or has a backpack is homeless. Didn't brush your hair this morning? Decide to walk to class with your backpack on? HOMELESS! Also, as a couple, we are quick to assess strangers for possible mental disorders after all of the abnormal psych classes I took. So... between those two things, there really is no way of knowing whether or not the rider in question was a crack addicted prostitute or just an older chain smoker wearing clothing meant for someone 20 years her junior. It could really go either way. Midtown has its fair share of people in both categories I'm sure. I wish I had been there to see her for myself and make my own judgement. As it stands, I'll believe Jared because it makes for a much better story than "one time my boyfriend brushed up against a gross looking lady who dressed too young for her age."
(Since I've written that, approximately 80 percent of my readership will wonder if I am living in a shady 'hood filled with crack addicted prostitutes. I'm not, I swear. My area is really very nice excepting the occasional drunk college student on the weekends. Yes, I lock my doors. No, I don't take candy from strangers. But I do get into strange men's cars to help them look for their lost puppies, because only a soulless person could say no to lost puppies.)
(Now approximately 70 percent of my readership will believe that I truly do get into strange men's cars and will send me an estimated 13 email forwards on safe living as a vulnerable woman in the big, vicious city. Bring them on, baby, bring 'em.)