That said, I don’t think I have anything to feel guilty about regarding the rant I just laid on the appliance repairman currently working in my laundry room. You tell me. Here’s the deal:

We have a relatively high end, European style all in one washer dryer that is meant to be energy efficient and very kind to clothes. It’s been great to us in the 13 or so months that we’ve had it, until, over the course of the last six weeks, it’s become increasingly less efficient. Clothes have required two (sometimes three) cycles to dry and now, they won’t dry at all. The machine will run for like 20 minutes (a typical dry cycle with this thing is 2 hours), then shut off… leaving the contents soaking wet. So today, faced with the reality that we cannot live without a dryer, we called a repair service. Being open to whatever time they chose, we were told they’d be here between 1 and 3pm. I am working from home this week anyway, so it wasn’t really an issue… beyond the fact that I did put off any heavy duty writing (choosing instead to watch a few episodes of Friday Night Lights — see title — for inspiration), simply because there is little I hate more than being interrupted when I’m in the flow.

How very zen of me, I know.

Point is, I organized my writing day (generally some variation on 12-7), around this service.

Anyway, 3pm rolls around and there’s no sign of the guy. I wait until 3:15 to call and I’m told that it’ll be another 20 minutes. 30 minutes later, the guy shows up and I’m totally nice… even though I get no apology. I lead him back to the washer dryer where he pulls it straight out and points for me to get the light for him. I would, except that I have a huge pregnant belly and can’t squeeze past him to reach it. He points again (did I mention the gruff Russian accent?), and I actually say “I would, but my belly won’t fit.” He looks up and notices that I’m pregnant. Gets the light himself with a grumble.

Now maybe it’s the fact that I’m used to people being nice to me (reminding me immediately of a song by a friend of mine called Pregnant Women Are Smug), but I’m already not loving the guy.

Anyway, at this point, I go to the room where the clothes that wouldn’t dry are hanging and bring him out a sample so as to show him what’s been going on (figuring that if he can see the result of a 20 minute dryer session, it may help). He doesn’t care to discuss it, but rather keeps asking me if there is heat when I turn the machine on (which I don’t really know since I am pretty sure that while there is heat involved, the mechanism actually sucks out the steam, which is part of the reason clothes that are dried in it show no signs of wear and tear). I try to explain this, but he’s too busy telling me repeatedly (as I stand there holding a wet tank top) that it’s not a dryer. Now I don’t give a damn about semantics, but apparently, more important than listening to me explain that the dryer function turns on but then shuts off after 20 minutes leaving the clothes soaking wet (this wet), it is imperative that he correct me — multiple times — for calling the thing we’re standing over a dryer. After going back and forth on this some more (Me: it’s always worked before, dried our clothes beautifully… Him: but it’s not a dryer!), I finally lose it.

“I’m 9 months pregnant!” I snap. “Don’t argue with me. I don’t care what the specifics are, it’s not drying clothes and I just want you to tell me what we have to do to fix it!”

You cannot imagine the shock on this guy’s face. I don’t even know what he mumbled at me, but it was some derisive “take it easy,” type comment, reserved I’m sure, only for women he believes are overly-emotional. For a moment, I felt guilty. Silly even (and I’m sure “silly idiot girl” is what he was thinking in his thick, Russian accented brain). Then I went back to my desk and took a breath. Within minutes, he was calling me to ask why the machine was turning on just fine, gesturing as if I was a moron for not realizing this was the case. “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I said, feeling slightly vindicated, but still seriously hormonal. I explained myself for the tenth time in as many minutes… going back to the nursery to fetch the wet clothes as a demonstration tool when he was sure that I was crazy and just didn’t know how to turn on the drying function.

In the end, when all was said and done (it’s nearing 5pm as I write this… the ONLY thing I’ve written all day), he witnessed a version of the problem (the computer went from saying it had two hours to saying it would be done in 5 minutes), and figured out (I hope) what needed to be done to fix it. But it wasn’t until that moment, when he was ready to explain what he’d have to do, that my guilt and embarrassment (both of which are generally monumental these days) were assuaged and I became certain that this problem was not in my head, or my seriously compromised endocrine system.

Rather than giving me the specifics (cost, time, etc.), he asked if I could get my husband on the phone.

Now this could have spelled disaster. However, the one upside to my constant self-analysis/judgment is that I am able to stop myself when I fear I’m going too far. So… I didn’t laugh, smirk or freak out in any way. Instead I simply (and sweetly) explained that said male person to whom I am married was in a meeting. Then I assured him I was authorized to… well… authorize any repairs made in my own house.

The dryer now seems to be working fine. The repairman was actually super nice for the rest of his stay (though he is on the phone speaking in Russian as I type this, so he could be putting a curse on my head), and I think the $250 it cost to have him essentially clean a filter will be worthwhile in that I will be able to dry my clothes again. Now if only I can dry my eyes so easily going forward through the rest of this pregnancy, we’ll have really made some progress.

PS — There was no late fee applied for my missed credit card payment (see previous post). In fact, I got a really nice note back that night assuring me it would all be taken care of. So apparently, the pregnant excuse can occasionally work.

Straight from the package...

Granted, who knows how I’ll feel in an hour (nevermind next Thursday), but you get the point: I liked this enough to post a less than flattering cell phone self-portrait. If you’re not familiar, Isabella Oliver’s clothes are fantastic looking and not outrageous. Not cheap, but if this dress is any indicator (in terms of fit and feel), worth it! Though it’s hard to tell with my master photography, the material (”caviar black” is the color… ooh, la la!) is slightly shiny and super soft with built-in side pockets (a favorite attribute of mine when it comes to evening wear). Plus, it has adjustable panels that mean it can be worn in multiple ways: around the arms to form cap sleeves, over one shoulder for an uber-current feel or, as I have it here, wrapped below the bust to create a strapless! Obviously I have yet to dress it up/form a look around it (I just wanted to see if it fit), but I think it’s going to be a keeper. And if nothing else, I can tell myself it’s three dresses for the price of one. Translation: J will just have to take me out two more times, to places fancy enough to wear it… before I pop.

Now, onto more pressing matters. Or not, as you’ll soon see…

Having spent the last two days feeling considerably better than the two before, I find myself faced with a dilemma: what the hell am I supposed to blog about? After all, it’s no wonder that the great books, movies and songs are about inner conflict and doubt, heartbreak and disappointment… albeit sometimes linked to finding faith despite them.  Nobody cares about someone who is getting along quite nicely, thanks. And that’s where I am today. Reasoned. Relaxed. Absent of judgment or self loathing. Not too worried about accomplishing anything. Aware that there are things to do, but willing to let them slide for the day. Content. I guess you could say that I’m giving over to the master, who in this case happens to be all of 4lbs, 13 oz (or was as of Monday),  and resides in my belly.

Trouble is, that leaves me with nothing to say here. Not only is drama more interesting to read, dear reader, it’s a hell of a lot easier to write about, too! Whenever I’m struggling at whatever level (whether in a really dramatic or impossibly comedic sense – both of which seem to strike my life relatively often), the urge to wax philosophical takes hold. When I’m not in crisis however (a rare state, I must admit), well… what is there for me to ramble on about? At the moment, I can sum it up pretty simply: I’m fat. I’m tired. My hips hurt… Who cares?

Though it’s taken me 32 weeks, 5 days to figure it out, I can finally see that there is no rhyme or reason to growing a human being. Some days are good, some days are bad, some days vacillate back and forth. I’ve just got to learn to relinquish control.

Easier said than done, no doubt, especially for someone like me. Yet, though I know this seemingly sane state of mind can’t last for long, for the moment, I’m going to try my best to enjoy it. How, you ask? For starters, there’s a stack of Netflix on the dining room table with my name on it!

Getting under the fence is just the beginning!

Ever since I entered my third trimester, J and I have been reading to Dash at night. But what initially began as something we thought we should do for our child (if for no other reason than to further familiarize him with our voices), for me at least has evolved into a revisiting of my own youth (and a little bit of psychosis).

It all began with Frog and Toad Are Friends, which was followed by a series of baby books gifted to us by a colleague of J’s and then, happily, Oh, The Places You’ll Go. Though the longer books take us a few nights to read (in part because J loses interest and secondarily because I run out of breath after about three pages), the morals are always the same. Be good to your friends. Clean your room. A is for Apple… you get the idea. None of them has made me cry… or think about anything deeper than iambic pentameter.

Or at least that was the case… until last night’s foray into Beatrix Potter.

Being that my favorite bedtime stories as a child were those of Hans Christian Anderson, I was aware that children’s tales could have a darker side, but with all the paint by numbers vanilla entertainment that dominates our culture (let’s face it, I live around the corner from The Grove), I think I’d blocked out just how complex they could be. Indeed, while I don’t exactly remember The Tinder Box (or the original, non-Disney version of The Ugly Duckling), I knew that they weren’t sweet stories. Still, that wasn’t enough to prepare me for The Tale of Peter, that poor little bunny, who loses his blue jacket (with the button!) and is forced to hide in a watering can half filled with water, all the while fearing for his very life. Admittedly, we got only about half way through before my lungs ceased function, but from where I left off, I was unable to tell whether Peter’s was a cautionary tale or an adventure. Really, it was a little bit of both… just like life.

Which is a lot for a volatile pregnant woman (or at least this volatile pregnant woman) to handle. Keep in mind that on my last two visits to the doctor, I’ve taken to nuzzling pictures of babies dressed up for Halloween in the waiting room magazines.

So I admit it. I’m sensitive. I’m reading into things. I’m seeing meaning where there is none… unless, in fact, that’s actually the point. I’ve underestimated this whole experience of pregnancy and parenthood and Peter Rabbit may have just been the turning point in my perspective. As December approaches (and little Petey runs for his life), I’m realizing just how big this thing is I’m getting into…. And what a game changer it is.

Up until now it’s been easy to think of Dash as a helpless infant… what I haven’t thought about is the little man that he’ll grow into and how quickly that transformation will happen. Before I know it, he’ll cease being the object of all my hopes (or, as I intend him to be at first, my personal billboard) and instead become a living breathing little being, capable of critical thinking. My desire to protect him will be forced to compromise with reality and he’ll have to make choices of his own. Though I suspect he’ll never have to fear that he’s actually going to be eaten (unless The Road is an actual prediction of the future – or he’s really freaked out by my proclivity for biting), he will have hopes and dreams and dilemmas and fears and scariest of all, free will! And there will be nothing I can do to stop any of it!

Here I thought reading was for him. Instead, it’s clearly been for me. A career-driven A-type by nature, there were many things I expected to have a huge impact on my life. None of them – not any of my few accomplishments or many failures – has even compared to this.