No plumber.
No Oprah.
No baby.

Ok, the plumber came, but he did nothing.
And, really, Oprah might’ve been by, but I’m not sure.
And the baby, well, let me tell you, she tried.

Is it weird that I don’t want my baby coming out of an unshowered me?
My feet are unacceptable.

“Now just put your feet up here,” they might say.


“Excuse me? Honey, put your feet up here,” an emphatic clap on the stirrup.


“But it’s time to push,” incredulous.

“That’s great, I haven’t showered in two days, I haven’t been wearing shoes and I have dry wall dust gummed up between my toes.”

The plumber is coming at 8. I figure I’ll take a sort of bus stop bath in the downstairs bathroom with the aid of a dish towel and Aveeno baby wash. I’ll then drink several cups of supercharged coffee to make up for the dirt hued hot water I made with the 73 microscopic grounds of coffee that were sitting pathetically in the bottom of the canister this morning.

My hope is to make it through the day to see the completion of the upstairs bathroom, the breaking of Avery’s fever, the return of my doctor and the gloriously timed commencement of labor.

Did I mention I truly believed each year that I was away at college that Ed McMahon would pull up to my apartment to make me the first normal looking person to ever win the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes? Seriously, I wouldn’t leave all day.

We’ll know if the Democratic nominee is Hillary or Barrack before I birth this child.