Well, it's a good thing “I've decided to stop bitching” about my job on my blog, as now I no longer have one, and imagine not only losing your job, but your material. I mean, really, the double whammy? No way, LBJ.

There is thunder, but no lightening, and the air is as sticky as blood.

Isn't it interesting how all of those yellow “support our troops” ribbon magnets have faded to white?

So, one kind of nice thing about pregnancy is I'm getting my psychic dreams back. Yes, “back.” In high school, I used to know when I was on an even keel because I would dream about what would happen the next day. Deja vu was never a weird feeling for me, because I knew that I'd been there before, just the night before.

It never worked when I was upset or stressed out, though, and I haven't had a prophetic dream worth noting since I moved away from Allerton Street.

Apparently, though, the progesterone in my body has whacked me back into shape. Psychic shape, that is. Except now, I'm dreaming about what's going on with other people, which frankly is a bit more interesting.

It started a few months ago. I had this dream that our store manager and her sister couldn't get a taxi home after working late on Saturday night, so they walked to my place instead. We piled into my car (in my dream) and I was driving them home, but on the way there was a riot and we had to ditch my car and travel through the storm tunnels. I finally got them to where they needed to be, and then realized that I was totally screwed, as I had to get back through the tunnels to find my car.

The next day, I talked to Roni. “How'd it go last night?”

“Pretty well,” she replied, “but the taxis weren't running after 1 a.m. so my sister and I had to walk home.”

Doo dee doo doo, doo dee doo doo… My boss chalked it up to mother's intuition, but I knew in my heart it was more than that.

And then last Tuesday, I dreamt about my dear friend Katherine, who I haven't seen since my wedding although we've kept in touch. Katherine's pretty cool, but I was surprised in my dream when she showed me her tattoo, which was the size of my hand and located on the front of her calf, near the bone.

“Geez, Katherine, that must have hurt!” I said.

“You think that hurt? Look at this,” she said, lifting up her shirt, pulling down the left cup of her bra and exposing another tattoo, this one of scars and barbed wire that spoked out from the tip of her nipple and radiated along her breast over her heart.

The image was so grotesque that it woke me up. I called her the next night, out of fear that her heart had been broken. Instead, I spoke with her housesitter — Katherine often travels for business, and was in Switzerland that week. I think I freaked the guy out a little bit, letting him know I'd had a dream about her and to let her know that I called and I love her.

(Katherine's comment later: “yeah, he was kind of freaked out, but, you know, he's a guy.”)

Katherine called me this morning and left a message — I was too asleep to answer the phone, but I called her back immediately after listening to her voicemail, which said that it was “kind of freaky” that I'd had a weird dream about her.

Freaky, indeed: on her flight to Frankfurt, Katherine had to hook herself up to an oxygen bottle, after nearly passing out.

“I'm going to the doctor on Wednesday, and all I have to say is, if I have to have heart surgery, I don't care if you're in labor, you need to be there for me, because you called it,” she said.

Further updates as bulletins and prophecy warrants. Cue “Twilight Zone” theme again… and… out.

So it's Thursday, another day off, didn't do any writing on Liz Estrada, my musical, but tomorrow! For certain! And work on Friday night and Saturday night and Sunday night. We're doing Show Tune Sunday again on Sunday night and it is going to be a bright spot of my week. I need to learn a song from “Avenue Q,” and “State Fair,” and I need to learn a couple more lines from “Springtime for Hitler.”

You know, how sometimes you think your life is a drag and then you read something like this?

Exactly. Thanks Becky for posting the link. And I loooooove your new photo on your blog. Looks like you've been adorable from day one.

Oh, and I got new books from Katie yesterday, who was going to take them to the book pound. I rescued “The Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency,” “Reading Lolita in Tehran,” and “The Partly Cloudy Patriot.” The detective book was as fluffy as Katie had promised. I'm looking forward to “Tehran,” especially because once we conjoined our libraries, Brian and I learned that between us, we had three copies of “Lolita.” I saw Sarah Vowell, author of “Patriot” speak at SJSU, and she's hilarious. I think she was also the voice of the daughter in “The Incredibles.”

Did I mention that another reason why I'm not bitching about work anymore is that I'm 99% certain that lucsious works for me? And no, honey, you can't be my daddy. Already have one.

First day off in a week today. DH and I celebrated by going to see Batman Begins, which was FABULOUS and inspired a glee reaction in me the likes of which I haven't experienced since my wedding day. In other news, I've decided to stop bitching about work on my blog. DH asked why, and I replied, “Because it's like kissing a pig.” He cocked his head at me, and I explained, “it doesn't accomplish anything, it's not that fun to begin with, and besides, it annoys the pig.” He told me he loves my barnyard metaphors. Funny, but that's the only one I think I have. 🙂

Well honey, even though you opened your card three days early (I thought the “daddy” on the envelope would hinder that), I wish you a wonderful Father's day. Next year, may it be marked with sticky little handprints!

And happy Father's Day to all the rest of you out there, too!

So usually I'm a big fan of the folks in the nursing profession. My auntie, for whom I am named, directed a nursing school for many decades. I see a lot of nurses where I work and they're always friendly and kind. Even one of the moms of a couple of our crew members is a nurse, and we had a nice talk about it this week. So usually I'm all like, “yay, nurses!”

And then I went to the midwife on Friday and got the evil nurse from hell.

Maybe she just didn't have her coffee that morning, or had a fight with her husband, or on the way to work her broom wouldn't start. Beats me. All I know is, when I got on the scale, telling her SPECIFICALLY “I don't want to know what I weigh,” the bitch told me what I weigh. Down to the half pound.

“I told you, I don't want to know that,” I said. “There's no reason for me to know. There's nothing I can do about it.”

“Not right now,” she said, as if the minute I birth my son I need to be getting my fat ass on the treadmill, stat.

I'm convinced she's not even good at her job. It took her two times to get my blood pressure right.

Truly, she's the second most evil person I've had contact with this month.

Thunderous pussy ass balls!!!!!

Darling Husband and I just returned from taking My Favorite Mother ™ to the airport. She arrived Sunday night — very late after being delayed by thunderstorms in Atlanta — and we had a great time squiring her around. Monday was Old Deerfield and the ubiquitous Yankee Candle. Brian can't go without taking an out-of-town visitor to the chapel of kitsch.

Tuesday we had breakfast at Sylvester's. Mom resisted buying an official “Northampton: where the coffee is strong, and the women are stronger” coffee mug. Then she and I took off for the mall, only to learn that the JC Penney's in the Hampshire Mall doesn't have a maternity section. No matter — we went to see a movie (“The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” — not exactly the fluffy romp we were expecting) and then cruised through Target for gallon-sized food storage bags, a few pair of maternity shorts, and a father's day card for Brian from the baby.

Wednesday I had to work, so Brian showed Mom around UMass-Amherst and we met for lunch at 2:30 at the restaurant formerly known as Fresh Pasta. Ate way too much food, and were too full to join Katie and Don for a pre-theater picnic before catching the final dress rehearsal of New Century Theater's summer production of “The Underpants,” which was hilarious and now I'm going to have to keep myself from blurting “thunderous pussy ass balls” at inappropriate places, i.e. everywhere.

The cats enjoyed her visit, and Mom even played fetch with Jasmine, who kept her feet warm at night.

All in all, a great visit. But now it's over. But I think we've convinced her to come for Thanksgiving, which with any luck will also be near my Nov. 23 birthday.

I'm too tired to sleep.

It's too hot to screw.

Now what???