Last up, then off to bed. This list is a goodie.
1. Trusted Google Maps when I had to be somewhere important on time. It should’ve been fine: input the two addresses, look at the results, drive accordingly. Amazingly, the directions landed me in Evensmallerthanmytown, USA, instead of Resortville, USA, where I was expected for a business conference. I found myself pulling over in front of a nice neighborhood, staring at my laptop in disappointment and saying, “Oh Google,” as though it were a puppy that just pooed on the carpet.
2. Proceeded to look for new directions (on Google maps, natch), in front of a home. So I’m sitting in my car in a town so small it has a traffic circle instead of a light, and of course Junior comes flying in the driveway, home from high school. So you say, no big deal?
When you are an observant Jew, head scarf and all, the uneducated folk of Nowheresville often take you to be a terrorist. Yeah, so the little monkey called the cops on me. Anyhoo. All straightened out in the better part of 30 minutes.
3. Whistled along to my favorite hip hop music while shopping at Seven Mile Market. The kind African-American workers there gave me quite the looks. Took me about an hour into my drive home to realize why.
4. POAS on Friday, just to get my heart stomped on. Actually, peed into a cup. I’m more of a dipper. FRED or not, ain’t no way that test was picking up a positive 7 days after theoretical ovulation. I’ll try again Thursday assuming the painters don’t show up in the meanwhile.
5. Volunteered to do a blog for a newspaper if I actually get pregnant. Don’t. Even. Ask. Maybe I was drunk.
6. Got my hopes up all high about having a large family again. I blame all the IFers who are spontaneously conceiving after years of treatment. That said, I’m exceptionally happy for all of them and wish them happy, healthy pregnancies.
Lucky number 7: Asked our Rabbi what they are naming their beautiful baby girl (B”H Ima and Baby are doing well). For those of you not in the know about Chabadniks, there is only one likely answer for the first girl in the family: Chaya Mushka, natch.
And one for good measure:
8. As I’m loading my groceries at Seven Mile, I ask another woman if it’s okay to pull my car up to the cart corral to load the trunk. Although I meant to say “I’m not from here,” it came out just “I’m not from,” or as she likely took it: “I’m not frum.” She was kind enough not to run away or tell her children not to talk to the crazy woman. You too can be batshit insane.
Edited to add: Dammit. Just drank a bug. Landed in my wine. Didn’t even notice. Guess that says something about the Petite Syrah, eh? Must. Get. Sleep.