I know lots of things, actually

Another warm day in the library. My big clue was when a guy came in wearing shortshorts and a mesh muscle shirt. I think the armpit holes had been enlarged even more, so it was pretty much like he was wearing one of those mesh pinnies with the flags that you wear during 4th-grade PE. (Remember that game where you try to run across the field without getting your flags torn off or your teeth elbowed out? Good times.)

But I digress.

I have decided that there probably needs to be a patron dress code for the library. I would settle for a simple sign that reads, "Unless you're feeding a baby with it, I shouldn't be able to see your nipple. Thank you."

Because that's what was right in my line of sight the entire time I was helping this gentleman. He was trying to track down what turned out to be an out-of-print cd by Wings.

Him: Are you sure you can't find it? It's by Wings. That's Paul McCartney's band. Do you know who Paul McCartney is? Or the Beatles?

Me: Dude, I know enough to keep my boobs covered in public, so yeah, I know who the Beatles are.

Except that last part was maybe my head.

Also, we have tickets to see Paul McCartney when he comes to Salt Lake City in July (not that we know who he is or anything). Please pray that Sir Paul doesn't die or get maimed or snagged by a(nother) gold-digger or any other bad thing before the concert, because if something were to go wrong then I'm pretty sure GH would never recover and I'd just be married to a broken shell of a person who will then be useless as a birthing partner.

You can see how straight my priorities are here.

Now that my vision has cleared

On Saturday we moved into a different apartment. (Same complex, but different apartment.) This was not one of my absolute first choices under Ways to Resolve This Smoking Situation. Higher-ranking items included.

1. Get steel-toed boots and take up kitchen-floor clogging.
2. Start playing Beatles Rock Band at 2am on regular basis.
3. Flood downstairs neighbors out in some supersneaky way.
4. File a public nuisance lawsuit as provided for in the 1997 Utah Code.
5. Wait till one of us developed smoke-related health issues, then sue.
6. Wait to give birth to flippered baby, then sue.

See how good all my ideas were? Unfortunately none of them would offer any sort of timely resolution to the problem. And I was kind of needing the timely. I already have sexy genetically built-in shadows under my eyes, much in the manner of one of those Cullen kids, but once they start getting even shadowier then we're in dangerous territory. I don't need that kind of storage space.

So we decided to transfer to a different unit and just wait out the 4 remaining months of our lease. And yes, it did suck having to move. What did not suck were all the people who showed up to help out. They were angels straight from heaven. And the part where they had to duck under smoke clouds and then go exerting themselves with heavy lifting will, I hope, make them even more blessed for their service. I'm also very sorry about the part where GH called and left frantic messages on all of their phones a few hours later because a box containing the Tivo, Blu-Ray player, and Wii equipment had gone missing. I'm really sorry about that, guys. Turns out I'd set it on the washing machine--and then closed the sliding "laundry area" door over it and forgot. Woops.

Last night we finished cleaning the old apartment, not that it SHOULD be cleaned on account of its stench means it's never going to be inhabitable by humans again. I probably should have just pooped in the middle of the living room and called it good. Except it turns out that you don't really get to move your bowels any more once you're pregnant. So your ability to make dramatic scatalogical statements is somewhat diminished. I did, though, leave the black widow I found in the window there. I might have even whispered to her that there was a really good party downstairs that she might want to check out.

Turns out malasadas ARE good enough to get you pregnant

I found out I was pregnant on St. Patrick's Day, which I am taking as a sign that I will have a red-headed child (although not, it should be made clear here, a red-headed step-child).

This was kind of a surprise to me, since February had been the month of spouse-less Hawaii trips and crippled GHs and various other not-conducive-to-fertility things. I only took the test, eyes rolling all the way, so I could stop wondering about the late period and get on with my life. So when I glanced over to the bathroom counter and saw WHAT THE HOLY CRAP TWO LINES it took a minute to register that my brain was not, in fact, falling out and affecting my eyes.

I took the test out to the living room to show GH.

GH: So . . . what does that mean?

Me: It means I'm pregnant.

GH: Pshh . . . no you're naaaat . . .

I know. Magical, right? Two additional tests and an ultrasound containing a small fuzzy bay shrimp later, he was mostly convinced.

Awhile later I got to go to my first official midwife appointment. I checked in and sat down with a nurse who proceeded to ask what I assume are the standard questions about my, ahem, menses and such. Which she then used to come up with a completely wacked-out due date that was 4 weeks off. Whatever.

Then we start getting to the fun questions. My sister Jenny told me all about how when she was pregnant with Savvy in Alaska and went to her first prenatal appointment they asked her all kinds of questions like:

1. Which street drugs have you taken, and how many days ago did you take them?
2. How many sexual partners have you had?
3. How many sexual partners do you have currently?
4. How many people have you had sex with in exchange for street drugs?

And when she answered them honestly, they told her she could have her "husband" wait outside while she finished answering them if that would make her more comfortable.

I was really excited to have this experience. The nurse handed me papers with columns of symptoms and genetic background stuff and I was supposed to go down the list and tell her if any of those applied to me. So I did that, and then there was the column that read like this:

Drugs
Alcohol
Smoking
Sexual Activity
Exercise
Seat Belt
Etc.

I asked her how she wanted me to do this column.

Nurse: Do you take drugs, drink, or smoke?

Me: Oh. Okay, no drugs, no alcohol, no smoking . . . Sexual activity? Enh, sometimes . . .

Aaaaand she typed something onto her screen and asked, "Do you exercise?" So . . . that was the end of the question about my sexual history and activity. Seriously.

I guess that must be the difference between Anchorage and Utah County. Except what did she even type? I didn't tell her anything! Does my chart really say "Sometimes" on it?

I'm not dead yet!

Except it's not for my chain-smoking new neighbors' lack of trying.

When I realized I was making people wonder about my safety and or life-status I figured I'd better post a quick update. I am alive, yay!

But I am also living through the reeking cigarette fog that is poisoning our apartment and our very lives. We wake up every morning (this time it was at 1:00am, yesterday it was at 4:45am, etc.) to the overwhelming stench of smoke. Aaaand then we keep smelling it. All day, every day, inside and out, everywhere, and it's getting stronger. It has been very discouraging to learn that neither the management nor the law is on our side in this matter.

Wanna know what makes this whole thing extra fun? I'm twelve weeks pregnant. Which, yes, is very exciting, but it makes this particular situation . . . well . . . also exciting. Like the time yesterday morning when I got the management on the phone and screamed with my hoarse second-hand smoker voice the words of, "I AM PREGNANT AND SO HELP ME I AM NOT GOING TO GIVE BIRTH TO A STUNTED STUBBY-ARMED BABY!!!!" at her.

(I mean, unless I am, of course. But it had better not be because of this. That's all I'm saying.)

I even went downstairs this morning and tried politely to explain my predicament to the new neighbor. ("Hi, welcome to the complex, please feel free to come on up and borrow eggs any time and oh speaking of eggs YOU ARE KILLING ME AND MY PRECIOUS TINY BABY.") She didn't really seem moved by my request that she maybe try to do the majority of her smoking on her balcony for the next couple of months (until our lease ends). Or possibly the blank stare was because there just aren't that many cells left, you know, up there.

The complex is giving me a list of available units that we can transfer into. You know, since WE'RE the one causing this situation, it's totally fitting that WE should be the ones to suddenly have to pack up all of our stuff and haul it into a different apartment this weekend, what with GH's (still) bad back and my (now-flippered) fetus. But not being able to sleep has sort of knocked a lot of the fight out of me. As have the perpetual headaches we get every time we walk into our home.

On the positive side, the baby seems to be doing well, we got to hear the heartbeat last week, and I'm feeling good (or, you know, was). I'll try to post another update soon, now that I can actually tell some of the stories I've been sitting on for the last little while.